I’m going to keep this short and relatively not sweet. Because I’m not much for sweet. And inspiration is only everywhere when you’re actually paying attention which isn’t easy when horns are blaring, A/C units are busting, Medicare is screwing you, accounts payable is sucking wind, jet lag is wrapped around you like a wet blanket on a hot day.

I’ve spent the last month unable to get any words out. I’ve relied on my trust old paper notebook, and have written some things but nothing comes to me when I’m on the computer. The pressure of the keyboard- the wicked, wicked keyboard. The blank page with the blinking cursor. Mocking you for your ignorance. Your inability to be creative. The laptop is not my friend.

So I ask you today-

What do you write for when you don’t want to write anymore? When inspiration has flown the coup, who picks up the emotional pieces left behind?

As a writer, I pick up my own pieces and move on quietly. I’m still banging out the word count. I’m about 20k behind now. But the trick is to not panic. No head games mean I can get back on track. So tell me what games you play with yourself to keep you going?  And if nothing else, let’s talk about lack of inspiration. Or strippers. Whichever is better.

Or what I like to call pantsing it when you have no idea what’s going on.

 

 

Inspired by a Sunday morning impromptu dance off, I come to you live from my living room where Mattycakes is busting a move. I’m filling in for the Bo’sun today and you will have to bear with my crazy weekend antics. This is why they don’t let me blog Mondays.

 

We like to dance. Every Sunday morning, Mattycakes and I schedule a little dancing time. It’s our way of spending time with one another since we don’t see much of each other on the weekdays. I stay up extremely late on Saturday nights to write and then get up all goofified from lack of sleep. This is when the dancing gets wild.

 

We’ve spent a lot of time thinking up specialty moves that are unique to us. We turn on the radio in the kitchen and bust a move. We have something we call the lawn mower and the row boat with a little of the offset arm action to compliment each other. Then we go our own ways. Usually this is the moonwalk from me and the booty shake from Mattycakes before we move back to do a little of the freak boy made popular mostly by Too Short in the ‘90’s. You know, where the girl does the freak against the boy and the boy’s got his hand in the air like he’s a pimp or maybe that’s more popular now since the Lil Jon era. Anyways, then we go straight into interpretive dance. I call this my pantsing. This gets my brain warmed up. I love to dance. I’m not exactly the most graceful person in the room.

 

Mattycakes is good at the pansting. He’s actually quite creative. Today’s dance off was inspired by “So You Think You Can Dance”. I make Mattycakes suffer through this two hour affair every Wednesday night. What he calls his interpretive dance number is mostly moves he’s seen in movies. Which to watch a man who’s every bit of 6’4” and looks like a tank, try to move like a dancer is hilarious. But we have a different kind of humor here. Mostly us just jumping around like ballerinas and twiggy cheerleaders. Not a pretty sight.

 

I bet you’re wondering what this has to do with writing. I know Hellion is sitting on her treasure chest, chewing on the end of her dagger and trying to rationalize throwing it at me.

 

Just so you know, daggers hurt, babe. That’s why we’ve got a life size poster of Capt’n Jack. That’s supposed to be for target practice not me.

 

I went to the school of pantsing. Well, I did until I got tired of going and made up excuses not to go. For me, knowing the story before it unfolds on the page is boring. I like to go in several different directions when I write and if I’m set to one thing, it’s certain I’ll go another. The road less traveled is the one I enjoy the most.

 

Mattycakes and the dancing have really taught me a lot about writing. And no that’s not the lack of sleep talking.

 

I get an idea in my mind and I go somewhere with it. Just when I think I know what’s going to happen next, I throw a screwball in there and change it up. Dancing is just like that. You have to anticipate your partner’s moves and think up your next one.  It flows together even when you had no idea what was coming next. And if it doesn’t you move forward and interpret what to do next.

 

Just like dancing with a partner, you have to know your characters in order to pants. I’ve always thought pantsing is more of a character driven way of writing. You let the characters tell you what direction to head in next. Let them tell the story the way it was meant to be told. Sometimes, they aren’t sure either but that’s when you throw the screwball in, the kidnapping attempt. The phone threat. The stalker. The ex-girlfriend. The baby. Whatever.

 

Do what’s best for your story and you’re the only one who knows that. Learn to rely on instinct. It’s like an adrenaline rush each time you open a new page.

 

 

So today let’s discuss methods of writing. What crazy thing do you do to get into the mood to write? And if you’re a reader, do you have a method to your wicked reading ways?

“I’ve gotta go home and dig through my box.”

I hear quiet. Then a laugh. “I’d like to hear more about this box.”

There was lots of laughter as I walked down the stairs.

“You! You should write about me and a box.”

I flopped down in my old, wore-out blue tweed chair and flipped an annoyed look his way.

“A box?”

“You know. A box. How I like to dig around in the box. Me and a box and adventures about me playing with the box. You know-”  He made the motions with his hands like he was digging around in the sandbox looking for buried cat treasure. “You never know what you can find inside of the box.”

I had to have a mental moment with myself. Was I actually awake? Or was I dreaming this insanity. I look back over at him and he’s grinning. I think I might have rubbed off on him accidently. Can you get insanity by osmosis?

I can’t go any further with that conversation without taking it straight down the gutter into perv land. But you get the point. I bet you can guess who had this conversation and what day it was on too. Hellion had a similar conversation. Almost a mirror of a conversation Matt and I had months earlier about the ability to swallowing large things.

Yeah. Scratch that. We can’t go there today. I’m talking about writing.

I’m pretty sure I used this title, probably early on in my blogging career with the pirates. But I couldn’t resist to use it again after a suggestion from Hellion on Saturday. Once a month Hellion and I get together to discuss *okay, we pretend to discuss* writing goals, critiquing, brainstorming, books, anything that has to do with writing. This gives us an idea what we need to work on for the next month. Gives us an opportunity to have a face to face brainstorm session or bitch session about scenes that aren’t being wrote the way you want to write them. *raising hand sheepishly*

Like every monthly Saturday, Hellion and I found ourselves gossiping like two old bitties out front at the local hot spot- C&S (formally known as Price’s. I still call it that.) Of course, we mostly gossip about books and were sitting at the B&N while I drank some coffee, but those are just minor details. So see, I can stay on task… sometimes. We actually did more than we think we did. I mean, I did share notes about something I’m planning on working on. I’m making progress on DV (not as good of progress as I wanted to make by now but still, I’ve got until Labor Day to finish). Hellion is making headway with her WIP’s. Especially Lucy and Elizabeth. Love them. We talked out some ideas and had more than a few laughs.

I stiff armed the idea of going into a critique group. I just didn’t feel like it was the path for me. I’m a soltary creature by nature. I do well on my own and don’t normally play well with others (I guess that truly makes me a pirate, huhzah!) but there are times that I’m really grateful for the critique groups and critique partners I have. It’s important to have that backing when things are going wrong and the end of the road is nowhere in sight.

So, for me to write with a partner, it pushes me outside of my box. Since we’re talking about boxes. Out of my confort zone. But it’s a good thing.

So today, let’s talk critique groups/writing partners/sounding boards. How do you like to go about writing? Do you like being outside of the box?

 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?

 

Beginnings are always the toughest for me. It’s the gateway to the whole book. What I say in that first line will set my tone for what’s to come. And what better way to say that then the title.

 

When I walk into a store, I beeline to the books. It can be Target. It can be Walmart. It can be Hyvee. But I go straight there. Barnes and Noble is heaven for me. I spend a lot of time perusing the library, up on the second floor running my fingers over the thousands of titles. But the single most thing I look for in a book is a title. And the cover. I’m sorry but I’m that person. Tar and feather me if you must but some of the best books I’ve ever read were because I saw them on a shelf, facing out and picked them up for a two-page middle of the book teaser. My mind works like a projector. When I read the words, it plays out like I’m watching it on the screen. The title helps to give me an idea if it might be something I’m interested in. The cover helps me pick it up. I never read a back-cover blurb without reading two pages right in the middle. That’s just the way I am.

 

Two years ago I was in Phoenix at a Walmart in Peoria right off the 101 Loop. They have the biggest book selection ever. Right in the middle of the store. It stretches as far as the eyes can see. I was in need of another book to read. A two and a half hour flight back to Missouri is rough for someone who doesn’t like to fly and I like to spend my time chewing on my fingernails and reading. I searched the new releases. Nothing caught my eye that I didn’t already own. And I head towards the back section. That’s where I saw it. The cover was beautiful, purpleish with gold tones. The middle was a couple. The guy muscular, tan, his dark hair worn longer and the woman, blonde, petite, her hair was plastered to her. He was leaning into her, her mouth ready to be kissed.

 

Hard Evidence. (Pamela Clare)

 

I smiled to myself. A play on words- my kind of book. I picked it up, flipped right to the middle of the book. I can’t repeat the scene. But one might say… uh, um… it was hot. Super hot. Hotter than the Sahara on the most blistering of days. I stood right there in the store fanning myself with this book. My face went flushed. I might’ve sweated a little. I dunno. I was in Phoenix. It was pretty warm.

 

Let’s just say I snatched that book up faster than a rabbit can destroy a strawberry patch.

 

I’m not the best titlist. It goes hand in hand with my inability to write beginnings. I can’t title something I don’t know exactly. Double Vision, my WIP, wasn’t always DV, but I can tell you it happened not too long after I established I was going to start my quest for the original. The plot is completely different as well. My heroine started out as an investigative journalist a little over two years ago. Now my heroine is a special agent for the FBI, working in the cyber crimes unit.

 

This is my first beginning. My working title at the time (which stayed for all of two days, I think. I had to go look up my emails from two years ago. LOL) was Practice Makes Perfect Murder. Just like a headline. Or at least I thought it was in my head. (I’m telling you I suck at titles. I always have. I just happen to have the best titlist in the world as a best girlfriend.)

 

“I’d always thought that paper and ink smelled a lot like heaven and a little like hell. Let’s just say I was leaning a little more towards the hell part today.

 

It was Friday and the office at Midwestern Daily had been a cluster of activity up until about three hours ago. I had been at my desk for 12 hours today and hadn’t accomplished one damn thing. Not one word was written on my computer screen and I still had a nasty red-penciled marked article sitting on my desk courtesy of Dave Winton, Editor-in-Chief. But at the moment I was too fed up to really give a flying rat’s ass.”

 

 

My beginning now, which is still subject to change since I’ve not finished yet and I always rewrite the beginning after I’ve written “The End” is not much better. But better fitting for the title of Double Vision. I’m still thinking up the perfect first sentence. It has to be something completely smart ass, just like Sadie. I will come up with it after I’ve written the last word. That’s usually how this works for me.

 

“It’s been four weeks! What do you mean clean-up isn’t taken care of yet?” I tapped my pencil on the desk and the eraser’s momentum carried it higher and higher the madder I got. I was speaking to my superior, James Davenport of the Washington D.C. FBI office and I tried to keep my voice down to a whisper but I was fighting a losing battle with my temper. “By now Ivan Petrenkov’s whole operation could be shut down!”

 

 

Double Vision is reflective of my plot. There is a lot that can be said for double vision. It can remind you of being drunk in a bar, weaving through the tables as you make your way outside. You vision so blurry you can’t make out which one is real and which one is the fake. It can be the mirror image of my heroine with her twin. The twin is not the main plot. Only the background. Things get very interesting for Sadie when she returns home to Missouri. Practice Makes Perfect Murder wouldn’t fit for this story anymore. To even write that is just silly for me. Bad, bad title. Shame on me. That’s like having a mullet and air-guitaring to Stairway to Heaven.

 

To me the title is the bread and butter of the cover. It is what will attract a lot of people. It is what will ring in their ears long after they’ve forgotten what the cover looked like. It’s hard to come up with something catchy. And for us writing series’, it’s hard to find something you can use over and over again without it becoming stale. It’s like the perfect accessory. Almost as important as the right shoe for the trouser jeans you love to wear. Without a title, your book would be just another untitled good sitting on the shelf waiting to be picked up, begging to be read.

 

 

I know our writing pirate wenches out there have something to share. Give me your best first title and how it’s changed since you’ve began.  Do you think a short or a long title is better? For our readers, do you base your reading off title, cover, blurb or a little of everything? What’s the best title you’ve read for a book that seemed to fit perfectly?

It was dark by the time I walked through the door. Seven o’clock. You wouldn’t think that was overly late but it wasn’t yet spring in Missouri and time hadn’t reverted back to borrowing time to make it light longer.

 

I dropped my keys in my purse. I had a major headache going on. I’d just finished Eleven on Top by Janet Evanovich this morning before work and then ending was still bugging me. I went into the kitchen and flipped on the light, finding the book on my desk, I popped it open to the last 30 pages. It was a quick read for me. I had almost every line memorized. The way Ranger finds Stephanie crammed into an overhead cabinet. The way their eyes met. The way he kisses her bloody wrists. The emotion I felt in those few short paragraphs was killing me. How could she not be with him?

 

Matty popped his head around the corner and I closed the book with a sharp snap.

 

“You wanna watch a movie?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Blow was the choice movie. We’d seen it at least a dozen times before. We sat on the couch together in the dark, eyes focused on the TV and still my mind wandered. I couldn’t get that scene out of my head. I knew there wasn’t another book. I’d checked a million times at the library. No new book for a few more months. I surely was going to die with longing to know what happened next. What if they didn’t get together in the next book? What about that look? How could she not see what I see?

 

There was only one way to fix this in my mind. I had to just get it out. I had to write. But how the hell was I going to do that? I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t even have a notebook to write on.

 

You know what will happen in the next book, don’t you? There it was. That little voice. Poking me. Prodding me. They won’t be together. What are you going to do then? What if he brushes a curl behind her ear and walks away. What if there wasn’t another book?

 

I had to fix this problem. It was driving me nuts. I had printer paper. As soon as Matty went to bed, I was going to find a pen and just write something. Who cared if it made sense. No one would ever see it but me. No one would have to know what I’d done. Surely I’d lost my mind. No character had ever come to life for me like Ranger and Stephanie on a page. There was something about the way they looked at each other.

 

I looked up at Matty sitting beside me on the couch and he happened to look down at me the same time. The glow from the TV was perfect on his smiling face and I knew why I was addicted. Matty was my Ranger. And I had to let Stephanie see that. Somehow.

 

That settled it. I had to do something. So I patiently waited. I fidgeted. I chewed on my thumbnail. I got up and walked around. I did the dishes. And finally, it was midnight. Way past our bedtime. I smiled all the way up the stairs. I thought of the way I wanted to write. What I was going to write. It was going to be perfect. And finally I’d be able to have some peace and quiet.

 

It was one am. I tossed back the blankets and crept down the stairs. The house was eerily silent in the hush of night and I was slightly creped out that I had the guts to walk down into the kitchen. I pulled a couple of sheets from the print and found an old ink pen. I slid into a kitchen table chair and sat there.

 

No words came to me.

 

I put my head in my hands. This was the worst feeling. I knew it was there. Why couldn’t I write it now?

 

“I glanced into the mirror. The black mini dress molded to every curve and made me feel slightly self-conscience. I could do this, I reminded myself. It’s not like I’d never done a distraction for Ranger before. Piece of cake, right?”

 

My god! What is that?! I read over it. “What the hell is this?” I ask myself. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just going to go with this until I get to the scene where she throws herself into his arms and kisses him like she’s never kissed someone before and swear that she loves him.

 

I put my ink pen back to the paper. My fingers flew through sheets of paper. My hand would cramp and I rubbed it out, a mad gleam in my eye as I tried to remember everything flowing through my mind. I finally got to the end. By no means did Stephanie throw herself into his arms. She backed him into a wall and wrapped a leg around his thigh. She drew him into her, pressed herself against every hard inch of him and brushed her lips over his. And as quickly as she did that, she walked away from him.

 

WTF am I writing? I asked myself, reading back over it. I was cross-eyed. Delirious. I glanced back at the microwave clock and rubbed my eyes. It was almost six am!

 

I shoved the papers into my desk, underneath the keyboard covered in three inches of dust and dropped the cover over them. I hustled back upstairs and fell into bed, asleep before my head even hit the pillow.

 

Eight AM comes very early to someone on two hours of sleep.

 

I wrote about 40 pages of Mission: Distraction (which wasn’t what I ended posting and at this point wasn’t even titled), before I ever had the nerve to type it up. I knew how to type. I was a computer major in college. I type faster than my brain can keep up. But there was something very intimidating about the computer. I felt very phony. And I dared to breathe a word of my obsession to my younger sister- who at the time was very obsessed with Sailor Moon (Anime) fan fiction.

 

“You should post it.”

 

“NO!” I shook my head violently side to side. “No way. I’m too old for that crap. I don’t know why I wrote it. Surely I’ll get sued.”

 

“No way, dude. There’s a ton of stuff out there.” She pulled up her email account. “Listen. What do you have to lose? I’ll email you the site link to that fan fiction site.”

 

I made myself sick on the way home. Post it? Was she insane? Clearly she was because she was in the same family as me, but I couldn’t post this. I didn’t own these characters. People would make fun of me. They would KNOW it was me.

 

Wouldn’t they?

 

When I was in high school, I was being a smart ass to my English teacher and in my goal for what I wanted to do after high school I put: I’m going to be on the top of the NYT someday.

 

My English teacher thought this was brilliant. I laughed in her face. I hate writing. Why would I ever write for fun?

 

What did I have to lose?  Everything, I swore to myself. Okay so that might be a little melodramatic. But surely I’m too old to post “fan fiction” as my sister liked to refer to it as. And still, this writing thing was still in my head. I had to write something else. She was still talking to me. Telling me where she wanted to go next. Telling me what she wanted to do. This wasn’t good. I was obsessed!

 

I got home in a mood. The night was ruined. My stomach was churning. I might have sweated a little bit. I pulled up the email account and sure enough, there was an email from my sister.

 

Hey. I checked into that for you. You have to sign up for a penname

and there’s a three day wait. If you want to sign up, do it now before

you have a chance to think about it.

Buck up. Don’t be a chickenshit.

 

And at the bottom was the link to the site. I sweated it out for a minute. Palms sweaty. Mouth drier than the Mohave. Knees knocking. Did I dare click on it? I’m known for doing crap that I wished I hadn’t. I’m too impulsive for my own good. I mean, look where this reading thing got me! I knew I shouldn’t have picked up that book Janine told me too. “Just read this book. I know you’ll like it.” I shook my head politely NO. I’m not into those sorts of books. I told her. I like historicals. “No. NO. No. You’ll love this. Stephanie Plum is a riot. This is the eighth book. You don’t have to read them in order. I really think you’ll enjoy it.” Still I shake my head no. I hold this woman off for two years on this Stephanie Plum book obsession she had going on. And then I caved and now it has me getting up in the middle of the night like a thief and stealing downstairs to write like a mad woman until dawn.

 

So I click on the link. Fanfiction.net. It seems pretty harmless. There’s something like 10 pages to browse through of Stephanie Plum fan fiction. I read one. Someone rewrote the last scene in Eleven on Top in Ranger’s POV. I fell in love. I read this story about a million times. Never would I have ever thought to write in another POV. Stephanie felt natural to me, but this writer made Ranger come alive in front of my eyes. I felt his desperation. I felt his hunger for revenge. I felt his overwhelming moment of relief to find her alive. I was looking through his eyes and seeing the tears brushing along her lower lashes. Knew she thought she was going to die. Knew that she kept telling herself over and over again that he’d save her.

 

And in that moment I knew what I had to do. I went to the sign in page and filled out the necessary information. No one would ever know me. No one would know it was ME. I could do this anonymously.

 

No one would ever find out!

 

Wrong. I’m at something close to 35 fan fiction stories for Stephanie Plum two years later. Two full length stories under my belt, two novellas, and dozens of short stories. Fan fiction gave me the courage to try to write something of my own. Gave me the courage to reach out to other people, other writers and talk to them. Helped me meet women who I’ll never forget, who I’ll always be friends with, and gave me more sisters. Partners in crime.

 

So, I know that was long. I’m getting back into the old habit of long-windedness.

 

Tell me about your first time writing. The first time you wrote a scene you never thought you’d be able to write. The first time you wrote anything. Did it come out the way you wanted it or was it something completely different from what you envisioned? For our reading wenches, how about the first time you found a community for your favorite author? Did you have a hard time just jumping in there?

If I’d kept a diary for a few days like this, it would’ve looked much like this:

 

It’s about mid-afternoon and I’m so excited I can hardly breathe! Thank goodness I didn’t have to write a blog last night because I can’t focus on one thing at a time. My suitcase still has to be packed. I still have to buy groceries. I need to clean the house. I need to get at least three loads of laundry finished. I mentally ticked everything off my list throughout the day. Not to mention that Thursday, I was about to embark on my first journey as a writer. Physical journey, I suppose.

I was going to a conference!

Every time I thought about it, I was filled with excitement just bubbling over the edge and spilling out around me. I couldn’t wait until Thursday! It was going to be SO much fun!

Thursday, April 24:

Mildly in a panic when I realize I’m actually going to a conference. For writers. Going to a conference for writers. Okay. Breathe in through the nose. Breathe out through the mouth. Breathe in through the nose… Hell, it’s not working.

I’m halfway home. It’s not even noon

“Ringadingding. Ringadingding. B###* Muth*$^&&$## F*## &$@#  @$$*(@&!.” 

WTH is that?

Crap. The cell phone.

I speed through a light, reach for the phone. Please. Please. Please let this be Hellion saying that the conference is cancelled and I’m getting my money back for being an idiot and saying I was going.

Nope. Dad.

You still coming home on Sunday?
*hard swallow* Yup.
Good.
Click.

Lovely conversationalist.

I arrive home, still trying to remember how to breathe. It won’t be that bad, I tell myself. Hellion will be there. She will be your bumper. She will talk to everyone and no one will notice you don’t know how to.

Except we’re taking separate workshops. Crapola.

I look at the clock. Look out the door. Hellion is tearing around the corner like the hounds of hell are after her.

Here goes nothing.

Friday, April 25 @ 10:00am

I feel much calmer now. We arrived at the hotel without me accidentally making a jump for it. Hellion and I parted ways at the airport last night, me off with a girlfriend to the conference hotel (eek!) and Hellion off with our crit partner, Dee. I’m all alone right now, trying to remember to breathe. My fingers are numb. Probably from the two Venti Starbucks I just had. I have a baby shower to decorate for first before I make my decent into my very own personal hell complete with perfect strangers talking to me. 

This gives me the cold sweats. 

I’m off to inhale some helium. This might help calm me down.

Friday, April 25 @ 12:20pm

Oh hell. Oh hell. Oh hell.

There are people downstairs registering!

Surely it can’t be too late for me to tuck my tail and run the other direction is it?

I contemplate this as I ride the elevator back up to the room. Not only do I have cold feet. I’m rather cold all over. Maybe I’m coming down with something that will allow me to stay in the room all weekend and hide.

All is quiet in the hall as I sneak back into the room, undetected. 

Wait. It that my cell phone flashing? I gingerly walk towards it, and pick it up like it might burn my hand with acid.

One missed call.

Hellion.

I step away from the phone and it rings. Okay, I went pretty far away from it. I take a deep breath, feeling rather sick to my stomach. I call her back.

We’re here. Are you coming down?

*deep breath* Would this be the moment to say no? That would mean I didn’t bring my big girl panties and everyone knows ninja’s always wear their big girl panties in case they are stuck in an elevator during a fire alarm.

 

Friday, April 25 @ 2:30pm

Crossover Fiction.

You can do this. This is your genre. This is the reason you came here you nincompoop. Just walk into the room.

Except I have to sit in the front because I’m blinder than a bat at noon

Crap.

I put my head down and sit in the front. My awkward long legs almost reach out into the middle of the aisle. I quickly fold them back, wrap around style like yoga. The workshop instructor smiles and I flash my best smile except my inner Chandler rears his ugly head and it’s more like a smirk with a bit of torture lips thrown in, probably some crazy eyes. She shrank back.

Yup, me at my finest.

I sit there quietly, head down, notebook ready. Just let me get through this. Just let me get through this.

She’s introduced and I notice all the books on her table. Examples, she calls them. Heaven, I silently refer to them. All of them authors I love and adore and instantly I feel much better. I feel at home with my inner reader. And as long as I stayed one with the reader, I was going to be okay.

I even managed to jot a few notes about my para series.

Thank goodness for small favors.

***

The Chicago Spring Fling 2008 was my first conference. This was the first opportunity I had to actually go out and feel like I was a writer. I’ve got to tell you that I felt anything but a writer when I first arrived. It’s easy to pretend in your mind that you can accomplish nearly anything, including 100k before September 01, but when you step into the world of actual published writers, your sense of accomplishment dwindles, at least for me. I was a nervous wreck.

If any of you have met me in real life, I either tend to babble a lot when I’m nervous or I’m extremely withdrawn. I babbled all the way from the airport to the hotel and all night, almost until 2am. Babbling, for some reason, is my natural defense against an extreme case of nerves. I didn’t know anyone but Hellion and Dee

Oh boy. I had no idea what I was in for.

Several months ago, Hellion and I were emailing an author by the name of Leslie Langtry who innocently admitted that she was going to be at the Spring Fling. Here is where I’m going to admit that I might have made my decision to go a little easier at the time. I got to see people I had been missing for a while and I get to meet an author who’s book made me snort aloud with laughter? Sign me up. 

Wrong! *mental head smack* Someone needs to take my decision making abilities away from me!

I make it back downstairs from the baby shower and I see Hellion in her flaming red hair wearing all black (She knows how to represent for the babes, because I was wearing all black too) and I see another redhead. Instantly, all conversation flows to a halt.

Leslie Langtry in the house!

We hug and make plans for drinks and our workshops are starting, so Hellion and I steer away from each other. Crossover fiction for me. I’m feeling rather sick at this point. Being on my own. Pretending to be a writer. Nothing more dangerous than that combination (Other than me, a bottle of Tequila and a dry bar).

 

I learned a lot in that first workshop. Went to a Q&A with three of the headlining authors, Christie Ridgway, Debbie Macomber and Eloisa James. I’ve always loved to listen to other people talk about their lives. Even writing. This was a good thing for me. I loosened up a bit. Headed upstairs to chill and then headed back down for another course on how to write romance (which I needed in a bad way- and learned a lot about pitching – the six minute synopsis of your book that will sell you to an agent- and how to submit.) In the process, unfortunately, the subject of what is wrong in romance. What is written versus what is factual. And one of the things that came up was “Does anyone really end up with the guy who just pissed them off to no end at first sight?”  And I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. I put my head down, but I didn’t do it quick enough. Singled out. And it was all I could do to choke out. “NO! I don’t want to share!”

 

Thank god I wasn’t pitching this past weekend.

 

After that, it was the chocolate reception. And then it was night time. The first day was done and over. I survived.

 

I think the best thing for me this past weekend was the speeches. All the keynote speeches I sat in on inspired me to be a better writer. That’s it. I said it. A writer. When you read a book, these authors suck you into their world. They know how to draw you in and for them to share that with you is one of the most awe-inspiring moments I’ve ever had as I’ve walked this path. They inspire me to go out there and write something more visual, filled with imagery that as you read it, you feel like you’re there. You can smell the clover in June and the fallen leaves in October. That’s who I want to be when I grow up.

 

An author.

 

Alright, I have a lot more where that came from, but I’ll save it for next week. I just wanted to give you a little of the conference. It was one of the best things I’ve ever done in my life. If you ever have a chance to go to the Chicago Spring Fling, do it. You won’t be disappointed.

 

When do you feel most inspired? Ever attended a speech or a workshop or a conference? What kind of impact did it have on you? And as readers, what draws you into a book?

Determination is a good thing to have in reserve; you never know when you might need an extra kick in the butt to get you going. To make you stop feeling sorry for yourself. To make you stop making up excuses. A reason to downshift a gear and make it up that hill. Determination is mostly what a writer uses in order to make it through one book and onward to the next. Determination is all you have when facing a long dry spell. Determination shows what you’re made of, what you’re capable of doing when everyone has long given up on you. Determination is you.

 

I think the hardest thing I’ve had to come to terms with in my switch from writing fan fiction to write original fiction is character. I still write the same genre. I still stay within the same plot lines, the same story arc and pretty much the same timing. I write like I approach exercise. I put one foot in front of the other. I keep my head down; focus all my energy on the task at hand. I remember to breathe. I ignore the racing of my heart, the sweat beading down my forehead. And when I want to give up. I’m tired and can’t run that extra mile, I reach down inside and remember the only person who believes in me, is me. And that makes me determined to move just a little further. So when I write my characters, I have to remember everything I love about characters I’ve read before. Everything I hated and wanted to change. Everything I would’ve done differently (but not better, because we all do things in our own prospective) and use it as I would the stair climber. Take those steps one at a time. Don’t overwhelm yourself. Remember to focus on what you want most out of the exercise. Remember to breathe through the frustration. And at the end, you’ll reach your goal (not to mention the end of the torture cycle) your main character. 

 

Building a main character is the most important part (well to me it is, besides the main plot) of the WIP. The main character is how you’ll draw that reader into your story. The main character shows off your voice to perfection, compliments your writing style, covers up your flaws. Since I write in first person and I write the female POV, I find that writing the main character is a little harder. Not as hard as writing third person, because that’s nearly impossible for me. Most main heroines have a dash of the writer in them. A lot of writers stick with the same kind of heroine, at least an echo of a heroine outline. Characters are what brings your reader back for more. Animated, lively characters, whose interaction with one another won’t let you put the book down. So how you do you find that formula? I’ve yet to find mine. It’s a harmony factor that I’ve been messing with for nearly two years. My male characters are good, but it’s all about the heroine. Once I mix up the right formula for my heroine, the story will flow like a river. It’s all about determination to get to that stage of the game.

  

 

Any advice you’ve learned over the years? Formulas for writing up characters? Any favorite characters you’ve read over the years that were a theme for the writer?

 

Blissful silence. The sheets felt like heaven, the bed was softer than air. I breathed in as my head hits the pillow. I pulled the covers up to my chin, breathing in the faint scent of baby powder and vanilla birthday cake as I try to relax. Midnight came too fast and even as my fingers had flown over the keyboard, I found it wasn’t fast enough. It was never fast enough. No matter what I did; no matter how fast I type, it was never enough for them.

 

I took a couple of deep breaths and sunk deeper into my sleep pattern. Relax, I told myself. Just relax. There will be time tomorrow.

 

There won’t be time tomorrow but I frequently like to lie to myself just so I can sleep.

 

I closed my eyes to Conan hopping up on his desk and waving his arms in the air like a loon and finally find myself in dreamland.

 

“Wake up!” I heard. “I said, ‘wake up!’ I swear! You are the laziest of writers. How did I get saddled with you again? I could’ve been a Nora Roberts story if I just would’ve waited in queue for two more seconds.”

 

I take a deep breath, a sigh really, and roll over. “Go away,” I thought to myself. “It’s still dark out.”

 

“Hey.” The voice was velvet, wrapping around me like a decadent bathtub filled with dark chocolate. “Wake up honey.”

 

Still I refused to let him get my attention. “I’m trying to dream about you and you’re trying to wake me up. I don’t get it,” I thought. I peeped a blue eye open and glanced at the clock. “You realize there is only one reason I like to be woke up at 3 am and that’s not to have conversation.”

 

I heard a very unladylike snort and he chuckled. “I knew there was a reason why I loved you.”

 

“I knew it!” I heard in the background. “I don’t know why I put up with you!”

 

“Hey, c’mon,” he said. They were both stomping around in my brain and it took everything I had not to want to lean my head over the side of the bed and head bang to imaginary music. “I know how you feel about that sort of thing.”

 

She huffed. “Doesn’t mean you couldn’t try.”

 

“Just like a woman.”

 

Then there was silence. Oh, blissful silence. Dreamland here I come—

 

Suddenly my silence was interrupted with a steam of curse words so foul that even I reserve them only for desperate times. Road rage, excluded.

 

“Jeez, I’m up. I’m up.” I roll out of bed and snatch up my notebook. I stumbled into the wall, bouncing back and tripping over the bed. I get up. Listen for the tell tale sign of snoring and make my way back over to the door. I run into the door jam, stubbed my pinky toe, managed to close the door without waking up the rest of the neighborhood and shuffled into the cold bathroom smelling of peppermint toothpaste and expensive almond soap. I shut the door with barely a creak, and with a yawn, scribbled little circles on the paper to get the ink flowing.

 

“Alright, I’m here.”

 

Silence.

 

“Hey. You got my ass outta bed, start talking.”

 

“She stomped out on me.” His usual smooth talker ways put on a hold and it made my heart clinch. I hated doing this to him.

 

I leaned my head against the wall. “You expected something different from her? You know better than that by now. She hates admitting emotion. To admit that she has feelings for you is a trust issue and you know all about her trust issues. She can’t trust herself. She can’t trust you.”

 

“I wish you get inspired to give me a little love. This arguing shit is getting on my nerve.”

 

I sighed. “I’m working on it. I’m a little uninspired myself.”

 

“You got new music.”

 

“I know. It helped a little.”

 

There was silence again and I knew he was thinking. My hero was no dull knife- he was the sharpest in the drawer. Sometimes that was bad for me. “It’s because of him. You got her all twisted over him.”

 

“No. Correction. She’s all twisted over the both of you. You know what she’s got with Ash is just work.” Right now, I added.

 

“I heard that. You need to stop listening to that song over and over again and listen to something more cheerful, like Closer or something.”

 

“Closer? I’m not having this conversation with you at 3am. Go to bed. I’ll figure this out in the morning.”

 

“You better,” he said, and there was no question that he meant it. I enjoyed messing with him. More than Sadie. “Or I’ll have to take drastic measures.”

 

“You warning me ahead of time?” I almost laughed but then I realized I was having a conversation with myself and refrained. “That’s a first.”

 

I jotted a few notes down, stumbled back into bed. I dreamed of mid-summer with the sounds of hay balers and cattle, the rustling of leaves– dry from summer drought— in the big hickory trees. The sounds of laughter, little kids having fun. The taste of fresh lemonade after running outside in the hot sun. A younger Sadie with her long blonde hair floating behind her as she runs to the wood’s edge in search of her best friend. The feeling of being free, of climbing that hickory tree almost to the top and never being afraid that you might fall. And then I realize I know what I need to do.

 

The alarm goes off quietly, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, and it reminds me I have another duty to do first. But I feel inspired like I haven’t been inspired in weeks.

 

So what inspires you to write? Especially when nothing is going right and you’re to the point of throwing up your hands and giving in. Do you get new music? Do you go out for a run? Do you go drop $400 shopping? Take a vacation? Here a conversation and that spurs up something you hadn’t thought of? What keeps you from going forward when you are stuck? Lay it on me.