<– (That’s what I looked like while I was writing my synopsis)

So, after much angsting on my part (ok, that isn’t a word, but it should be) I’ve decided to enter the “Put Your Heart In A Book” contest through the NJ Romance Writers.   The finalists in the category I’m entering are judged by people that I would love LOVE to work with.   While it is presumptuous to think I’ll even make it that far, I figured now’s as good of a time as any to get myself started.  So, I decided to dive in.

The only problem with this decision is that I had to write a synopsis.

Ugh.

The mere thought of writing a synopsis has filled me with terror.  I’m writing a book that will end up somewhere between 90-100K long.  How in the name of all that is good in the world am I going to condense that into a few pages and still make sense?

*shudder*

But, the deadline for the contest is June 15 so I needed to get going on it.

What does one do when they are faced with a task so enormous they don’t feel they can do it on their own?  Why, of course!  I checked the internet!

Here are a few websites I found useful, for your future synopsis writing needs:

1)      http://lirw.org/synopsis.html - This site was by far the most beneficial to me.  The author broke down the synopsis writing process into an exercise in answering 10 questions (hey, I can even answer 10 questions).  Then, the darling person gave me an example using “Beauty and the Beast.”  Ten easy questions and an example from a children’s movie?  That’s right!  It was as if they were writing right at me!  I went through and answered the questions and though it gave me a bare bare bones outline of my story, it was a great beginning. 

2)       http://www.writing-world.com/publish/synopsis.shtml - This site suggested creating an outline first, then instilling the outline with more enthusiastic description.   It also contains a list of don’t dos that helped me.

3)      http://www.fictionwriters.com/tips-synopsis.html  - This site included a checklist that helped me out and some basic guidelines.  It was a short article which I found beneficial because I get ADD when I read how-to stuff

After reading through these sites, I had some direction and started plugging away.  But, my first draft was, well, boring.  Really boring.  Then, one of my darling pirate wenches told me that my voice was one of my strengths and I should try to add that in there.

What, my synopsis should reflect me?  Revolutionary, I say!

But, it definitely helped, though I think I should check it out again, now that a day has gone by since I read it last.

It has helped that I started writing the thing a week ago.  Giving myself some time to leave it and come back a few times has helped me because I keep finding places to revise.

My last suggestion for you all is to check the contest website for any scoresheet/guidelines they give you.  I know that sounds self-explanatory but the PYHIAB contest has a part of their scoresheet devoted to the synopsis.  Referencing it helped me to focus my synopsis.

Have you written a synopsis?  If so, how was the process?  Any suggestions you can add to mine?  Any websites you found particularly helpful?  Did you just read my post and stick your fingers in your ears mumbling, “la la la, I can’t hear you, la la la!!”?

 I squinted my eyes in the dim light. My fingers were tired, bruised, darkened by pen marks.

“No. No. No.” I thought, scribbling out the last sentence. This assignment was going to kill me. I hated English class. I absolutely couldn’t stand it. Anyone who thought they could make me write, was sorely wrong. I pushed it off. A week to come up with a story about high school life as a final. It had to be 8-10 pages, front to back on college rule. I mean, who really writes 8-10 pages for an English assignment? Kiss asses, that’s who. Screw it. It wasn’t going to be me. I didn’t need it. I didn’t want it. I just wanted this year to be over with and it was only May.

That was… until I woke up.

The rain beat against the patio glass. The wind beat against the old metal siding of the trailer. My ass was asleep, tingling shooting down my legs and into my feet- that could tell you how long I’d been sitting there. My right arm ached. I tried to rub the feeling back into my fingers and hand. I could hear this girl crying. It wasn’t the soft, pretty crying you watch in movies where the heroine’s eyes get misty and her face turns a blushing pink; but that sad, painful cry that hurt your chest and makes you sob like a grieving widow. It made you want to hide away until it was over. In some ways I knew that that felt like. I had an inkling of how it felt. I rolled over and beat my pillow. It was only a dream, I told myself. Go to sleep. You have a Spanish final in the morning and you suck. Get a grip.

But her cries grew more gut-wrenching. I could hear her in my mind saying how she couldn’t go on. How it was her fault. Then I could feel something wet and sticky on her hands. They became my hands. I was sitting in the middle of the road. The truck was a mangled mess of metal in the ditch. I told him not to drive home. I told him not to get behind that wheel. His head was cradled in my lap, his lips turned into towards my inner thigh. His blood was on my hands, soaked through my shirt and jeans. It coated my arms. It coated my hair. It coated my very heart. His eyes stared up at me, a black soulless void that left me pleading.  I trembled as I heard the sirens racing up the road. The breeze fluttered through my hair. Through his hair. And I touched his face so very softly. His cheek was cold underneath my fingertips. “Please,” I said brokenly. “Please don’t leave me here.” And in the distance, over the hill, I could see sirens. The colors blurred together. The blues. The yellows. The reds. Tears clung to my lower lashes even as I wiped them away. My heart hurt so bad. My chest was crushing it. I couldn’t breathe.

I lowered my hand back down to the notebook page and dropped the pen. I sat my elbows on the table and rubbed my hands over my face. It was the middle of the night. I’d been at this for a little over an hour and I still couldn’t get her echoing cries out of my head. Not to mention the tears that smeared my pen marks on the page. I tried to blot them out. Make them go away. But I couldn’t. It was shameful to be so out of control. It was only a story.

I picked my pen up and moved on. The girl’s cries only got louder as I moved through my story. As she struggled to move on after his death. After she went back to school and everyone looked at her differently. She moved through the motions. She didn’t speak. She didn’t trust. She didn’t love. She started to wither away, withdraw. The only saving grace was her best friend, the only person who knew her for her. He tried being nice. He tried giving her space. And then finally he lost his cool and gave her a dose of reality. And then he kissed her. Made her realize that she wasn’t living and from that moment on, she didn’t take anything for granted.

That was how I ended it. I closed my notebook, laid my head down on the table and cried my eyes out.

I turned the paper in the next day and didn’t think about it. It was over the required page limit. It ended up being 20 pages. The longest story I’d ever taken the time to write for class. When I handed it in, the teacher looked surprised and I was quick to duck out. My best friend came up behind me and leaned against the locker beside mine. He asked me what was up with the paper. I shrugged. “Nothing.” I told him.

I didn’t think about it anymore. It was done. It was over with.

The weekend was a blur. Every night was the same for me. A repeat of a broken record playing the same damn tune, with the same words. I hated this life. It was empty. Hollow. Joyless. I went through the motions just wanting to get through it.

Monday in class, the English teacher droned on about some of the papers. She never named names. She didn’t have to. There was a quartet of nerds that always did well. They sat in the front left side. I sat in the back right corner where I could read my novels without interruption. One paper was beyond her expectations. I snorted softly to myself and thought, “And I bet I know who that is.”

When we received grade notes on our papers at the top of mine was “See me after class.” Not the first time I’d gotten one of those. I was an easy target. It was well known I couldn’t stand to write. Anything that had to do with it pissed me off. I remained in my seat after the bell rang; my best friend put his hand on my shoulder before walking down the aisle and out the door. I chewed the inside of my lip and got up. I leaned against her desk and tossed down the note. “You wanna see me?” I asked.

She glanced up at me. My paper was in her hand, red marks scattered all over it like pixy dust. “Did you write this?”

I huffed and leaned away from the desk. Great. “It’s got my name at the top, doesn’t it?”

She gave me the “your dumber than a rock” look and I shrugged my shoulder. I started to feel really uncomfortable. My stomach was flip-flopping like a stormy sea and the inside of my lower lip was becoming bloody.

“Look. I know I shouldn’t have turned this in. I’ll take an F. I don’t care.”

“No,” she pushed the paper in front of me and tapped her finger on the top of it. “This was the best paper in the class. In both classes. A little inappropriate, but… Where did this come from?”

I shrugged my shoulder and scuffed my foot on the floor. I dropped my eyes to the desk top.

“Well when you’re ready to talk-“

I turned and walked out of the class as fast as I could. I didn’t speak for the rest of the week. Not even when she handed back my paper with the A at the top. I swallowed hard when I got into my vehicle and drove home. I hated writing. I hated what had compelled me to write that. And I hated the way it made me feel.

Years ago, I struggled to put words on the page. The demands of high school English to write a light and fluffy paper would stress me out. My voice, I didn’t know then that’s what it was called, wasn’t light and fluffy about puppies and happy endings. It was dark. I had dark undertones and dark imagery. There was always an undertone of sadness, death, destruction, loneliness. I struggled to take it out, but when I thought about it, the undertone became more pronounced. It’s noted several times in red. Trust me. Along with notes on, I couldn’t master the third person. I struggled to stay in one POV. My sentence structuring was horrific. Imagery was surprising. I loved imagery. I once waxed poetic about a bench in the park for two written pages (which back in the day was a lot of words for someone who hated writing). But I gave up on writing because I couldn’t write what I wanted.

So for years and years, I didn’t write. Things change. Sometimes things just sit in the back of your mind and stew about. It’s not always about the voices you hear. Or the POV you’re striving to get across. The characters you build. Or that plot never seen. It’s about the writer’s voice you put into the story. The person behind the story. And it took me years to see that.

How did you learn what kind of voice you had? Can you hear different writer’s voices as your reading?

FYI: This is a RANT.

I will grant you that I’m probably the least qualified to tell you how to write a series, being that I have only completed two manuscripts and they are not related to each other at all. But I am an avid reader and collector of series, and I do have an opinion about it. I can tell you what irks me as a reader…and some of the writer stuff that I see going on that totally boggles my mind.

Here’s a list of the crap that irks me most.

1.)  Authors who don’t know when to stop—or their publisher doesn’t. Whoever…one of them can’t say no to the cash cow series and the author begins rehashing scenes she used in the first books, hoping no one notices. Believe me, everyone notices. And you know who I’m talking about.

2.)  All the beloved characters keep doing the same stupid crap. I mean, these are real people, and real people do keep doing the same stupid crap, like the rat that doesn’t learn if it keeps pushing the lever, it’ll keep getting shock therapy. After all, once upon a time, it got a pellet…maybe there will be another pellet. There hasn’t been a pellet since book one. At book 16, it ceases to be amusing. Let the rat die already. Surely somebody learned the Big Lesson by book 16. Give us and the character some credit. Again, you know who I’m talking about.

3.)  Clearly ending a series at the right place is damned tricky and few people manage it. The ones who do manage it are ones who pull it off within the first three to four books. By the time you make it to book ten, the expectations are so high, it’s practically impossible to exit now without major damage. Do you really want a Seinfeld fiasco? St. Elsewhere? LOST? No. No one wants that. And yet some authors who have let their series slide into some I-70 tractor trailer accident, where four ambulances and two fire trucks couldn’t save it, continue to beat their dead horse of a series and then end the series on a whimper…or worse, an infuriated yell from the reader who has burnt the entire series in a fit of rage and vows never to buy this author’s books again. Again, you know who I’m talking about.

So I think the golden rule of writing papers applies with series. The Magic 3. Three is the ideal number for a series. Most people can commit to a threesome, and it fits nicely on their shelves. Committing to a “twenty-some” (as some of my beloved series are rapidly speeding towards) is becoming unwieldy and I find myself becoming more and more disgruntled with some of the stories within the series. “This is ridiculous! This was obvious filler! This told me nothing about the overall plot!”

Frankly, if I’m noticing that, I wasn’t that keen about the characters starring either.

I might even be willing to commit to four or five in a series. Still doable; still likely to be satisfying. Author is still apt to tie up loose ends and keep the character arcs going so we can see the true growth of the characters throughout the books. Not so much in the “twenty-some”, especially if we’re dealing with one main character, rather than switching off to another main character but in the same “world”. Usually around book 7 or so, I start getting twitchy because the character is purposely not growing…and I have to read her same goofy madcap bullcrap for another 300 pages. And it looks like it’s been lifted straight out of the first books. I feel like I’ve paid another $5 for a Happy Meal that I already ate. Hello. My memory is bad but it’s not that bad.

So I’m saying this to all my would-be series writers and those authors (you know who you are): Too much of a good thing is quite, quite possible. Don’t let us gorge on ALL the double-stuff, triple-chocolate ice cream cupcakes for as long as we want. Cut us off because there will come a point that we go: “This doesn’t taste as good as the first cupcake.” Of course it doesn’t. Go to a Weight Watchers meeting and the first thing you learn is nothing tastes as good as the first bite. No cigarette tastes as good as the first drag. And Pepsi tastes good only for the first long draw—after that, it kinda coats your tongue and makes you wish you’d gotten water instead.

Stick with the rule of three. Maybe five. (Hell, if you’re as good as J.K. Rowling, you could even do a seven!) But don’t do a twenty. No one wants to participate in that orgy.

What irks you most about series books? What do you enjoy most about them? What is your favorite series of books to read? What new series book are you most anticipating?

We here on the Romance Writer’s Revenge are proud to welcome, once again, Erotic Romance author, Toni Blake.  Toni is a favorite here on the ship and definitely a total pirate.  No one could create heroes the way she does and not be a pirate.  Without further ado, the lights are up and the cameras are rolling, and here’s Toni.

If you’re young, you might not know that the above is a paraphrased line spoken by a character named Norma Desmond in the 1950 movie, Sunset Boulevard.  And now that you know that, you might be thinking:  Hey, I thought this was a blog about writing, so what does a movie have to do with writing? 

Lots, actually.  In fact, so much that I couldn’t begin to cover it all in one tiny blog post.  So in this blog post I just want to talk about “writing as acting.”

Now I myself am a victim of severe stage fright.  I’m pretty sure this links back to some bad elementary school experiences, but whatever the cause, I’m not comfortable “performing” in front of others, be it on a stage or in front of a video camera.  (Although I do these things from time to time anyway, because a girl’s gotta confront her fears, right?)  Anyway, despite my dislike of being on a stage, when I’m writing a book, I feel I’m every bit as much an actress as Julia Roberts or Reese Witherspoon.  (Okay, not really, but bear with me.) 

I may not be up on a stage or screen, but I’m still performing a role – in my head.  And then I’m putting it on paper.  At any given moment, I am my book’s heroine, hero, or a secondary character to whom I’ve given a point of view.  Because if reading a book can be equated to watching a movie, then writing a book is like making the movie.  And the best movies and books hinge on emotion.    

My main job, when I’m at the keyboard, is to be deep inside my point-of-view character’s head at all times and make sure I’m conveying their world, experiences, thoughts, and emotions in a way that the reader will feel.  I can’t leave anything out if I want the character to be complete, and by the time I finish a book, I want the reader to feel they know my characters so well that they could probably tell you, (within reason, of course,) what that character would do in almost any situation.  I want the reader to completely relate to the heroine and be totally in love with the hero. 

And how do I try to accomplish this?  I “get inside their skin.”  (The characters’, not the readers’. )  Actors do this, too.  I’ve read that Johnny Depp spends time preparing for roles by dressing as his character dresses or doing things his character might do.  And as many of you probably know, Daniel Day Lewis stays “in character” on the set for the duration of every movie he shoots.  Like these guys, I spend a lot of time with my characters up front, in my head, before I ever write a word of their story, and when I do finally sit down to start writing, I am “in their skin” and I see myself as acting their roles. 

In my new book, LETTERS TO A SECRET LOVER, my main characters have very diverse backgrounds and differing personalities.  Rob’s past is a difficult one, and seeing myself as “acting” his role when I wrote his point of view gave me a sense of connection to him that I don’t think I could achieve otherwise.  Writing Lindsey was easier – I’m actually a lot like Lindsey, at heart – but writing her role was still just as much a job of acting to me, (figuring out her lines, her facial expressions, her reactions,) as it was writing.

There are probably as many methods for characterization as there are writers, but the “writing as acting” analogy works for me, thus I consider it a big part of my process.  So how do you get close to your characters?  Does the idea of being an actor when you sit down to write work in your mind?  Why or why not?  And for readers, how do you liken books to movies?  Do you see the book you’re reading like a movie in your head?  Do you imagine your favorite stars in the “roles”?

And of course, I’m happy to chat about pretty much anything – craft, industry, other stuff writers can learn from movies, LETTERS TO A SECRET LOVER (now available in a bookstore near you ), or whatever else floats your boat – or, I should say, your pirate ship. J

I don’t think we have enough sport here on the ship.  Yes, yes, I know what you all are saying.  What the hell has she been smoking now?  But stay with me here.  I believe you’ll see the pay off by the end. 

It’s redundant to say we’re a lazy lot.  We are pirates after all.  But physical activity, exertion if you will, is a great way to get the mind working.  Get the juices flowing.  (Don’t get ahead of me now.)  Get the imagination working to get words down on paper.  So, I’ve decided we need to add a trainer of sorts to the crew.  Ladies, meet Murphy.

As you can see, Murphy is a Rugby player.  (Or perhaps you haven’t found the Rugby ball in this picture which is totally understandable.)  This may seem like an odd sport with which to start, but have you ever watched Rugby?  There are no helmets.  No shoulder pads.  No whining over something silly like a broken finger or severed leg.  No, these players are tough.  Just like Pirates.

So this week we’ll begin learning the Rugby ropes from Murphy and by fall we should be ready to hit the field for real.  (Side note: I have no idea what time of year Rugby is played but for the sake of eye candy like Murphy, I’m willing to learn.)

Now, everyone please be ready on the top deck by noon and we’ll get started fulfilling every wenches goal of being an athletic supporter.

I am super excited to announce The Romance Writer’s Revenge is kicking June off with a bang.  Tomorrow, Toni Blake will be joining us once again and this time she’s talking writing as acting.  Be sure to be here and give Toni another warm, Pirate welcome, and don’t forget to pick up her latest release, Letters to a Secret Lover.

Also this month, we’ll be welcoming Loucinda McGary on Friday the 13^th.  *cue eerie music*  Loucinda’s first novel, The Wild Sight, will be hitting shelves Oct 1^st and who better to have on Friday the 13^th than an author who writes about second sight and wonderful Irish folklore?! For your own introduction to Loucinda’s work and the hero of her first book, Donovan O’Shea, whom I have totally called dibs on, check out her website today.