Value of Communication

It’s been a horrendous week at work, mostly due to a lack of communication between accounting (me) and IT. I assumed they knew or understood what I needed, and they assumed I knew or understood what they were doing. {Apparently not.} Come to find out neither of us were going in quite the same direction. Spent two full days beating my head up against a wall, going back over the same data about four times to find non-existent errors. Finally found out late this afternoon what was really going on. Maybe now I can make some headway.

The downside is this has been a nice little road block to my creativity, and that irritates me more than anything else! The good news is I’ll get rejuvenated this weekend by going to a regional writer’s conference in Norman (Oklahoma).  It’s small enough that you don’t get overwhelmed, but large enough to bring in some good speakers and have really good workshops. Plus it’s fairly close. Yea!

I’m going to pay attention to what the workshops are trying to communicate to me so that I can turn the info around and make headway with my WIP. Next time you hear from me I won’t be complaining, but will hopefully be so inspired that I’ll be cranking out those pages like crazy.

And next time I have a problem with something that I know should work, I’ll pick up the phone and get to the root of the matter. i.e. COMMUNICATE!

Hero’s…YUM

So what type of hero do you prefer?? The metro-sexual or the alpha? Or is it somewhere in-between?

Me? Those who know me know, I like my men alpha. Real men. With callouses. Who sweat, have sawdust on them, maybe even a bit of grease. A man who knows what they want and will do anything to get it. Men who are rough– I don’t want any nicey-nice guys. I don’t usually like men in ties or even slacks. Jeans, low hung, broad chests, tall, dark…I think you get the picture.

Oh yea…those are my type of men.

So I’ve never written anything other than an alpha male. In my first book, a contest judge hated my hero and told me he was more like the 80’s bodice-rippers. DUH! lol But seriously, he wasn’t that bad. But he was close.  It would be impossible for me to write a hero any other way. At least for now. Perhaps later, but probably not.

And for a treat, I thought I would introduce you to the hero’s of my first two books. *BEG*

Please welcome, Darach. Hero for my first novel.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And for my current work…Gavan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Enjoy ladies.

Ashlynn Pearce

In Pursuit of Passion

Any Card

The family celebrated DH’s birthday Sunday night by having dinner at Kilkenny’s Irish Pub on Cherry Street. I had reservations and they seated us in a wide hallway, between the front and back room. Next to the bathrooms. Beyond BF Arkansas.

Kilkenny’s is a great restaurant with a huge menu. DH thinks they have the best steak in Tulsa, and I lap up the lobster and corn chowder. Yummers!

By the time we had our menus, a big drunk was making a lot of noise in the next room at the bar. Not the “let’s fight” variety you see in so many drunks, this was loud, obnoxious Bart Simpson blathering-at the top of his lungs.

“I’m Irish! What can I say? I’m too wonderful for words!!!” or something like that.  “I don’t know why people always think that but I’m not gay! I’m not gay!”

And he just kept yelling. I wanted to smack the boy. MS encouraged me. “You can take him, Mom.”

“Get thee behind me, Satan.” I stayed in my seat instead of grabbing the giant by the ear and hauling him out the door. I gave him my Mama glare.

You know the one? When I was a kid (okay, as long as she was alive) all Mama had to do was throw that look my way and I stopped anything I was doing/saying/thinking and repented. This drunk must not have had a mama because he just stared back at me and teetered.

BB was a manager for a catering company at one time and told a story about cutting a guy off after two drinks.

“What’d he do?” I asked.

“Made me mad. I walked by his table and he slung his glass at me and said, ’get me another’. I answered, ‘You’re cut off.’”

“Good for you!” I answered, sipping my lemon water.

The drunk must have finally passed out because it got easier to hear one another. I gave DH his third birthday card from me. It was a tri-fold sparkly card with three pages of great prose on it. What’d the guy do? Didn’t read a word–he just went for the last page. Guys.

I love cards. The first one I gave him on his birthday morning was a cutout card of a guy wearing a tool belt that said, “To the guy who knows how to work everything.” The card doesn’t open and the back says, “Except cards.” Stupid, I know, but it fits DH. There’s NOTHING this guy can’t make work. (And he has all the tools to do it.)

The second card had a squirrel on the front (we had a lot of squirrels eating at our bird feeder this year) and it said, “You aren’t old until you can’t remember where you put your nuts.”

We must have a lot of old squirrels in our yard. Can’t find their nuts so they eat our sunflower seeds.  

The third card told him to party his (!) off. <g> I like the sparkles.

I heard about a card a friend gave her husband with two naked, sagging hineys on it. It said, “I knew you expected a few cracks about your age.”

I love cards that people send me so much, I save most of them. Twisted sisters find great cards. I have one from Marilyn that’s two little girls with their hair up in sponge rollers that says, ”From One Beauty Queen to Another”, and a great one from Meg that says, “If they can make a self-cleaning oven . . . Why not a self cleaning house?”

My kids find great cards, too. I think this one is a Mother’s Day card from MS. President Bush speaking: Good news, everybody! Among moms who are MY mom, I’ve got a 100% approval rating! A mom is a supporter you can always count on.

 Here’s one from DH-There’s a picture of Prez Bush on the front of this one, too, and it says, “You’re not getting older. . . You’re getting more distinguishabler.    Then he signed it, “Have a very most happierest berthday.” Gotta love a guy with a great sense of humor.

Don’t you love people who send cards? I’m not a big card sender (I lose them before I get them in the mail) but I love people I get them from. I even got one with a bottle of champagne on the front congratulating me when I sold my first book from DIL’s parents.

So what’s the favorite card you’ve ever received? Do you like ‘em ’sweet and sappy’ or ’smart and snappy’?

Down and Dirty

I finished my planting yesterday morning. Applause, please.

Thank you very much!

Actually, I finished planting the flowers and veggies I bought Friday. However, my new garden plot is still 2/3 empty, so when the ground’s dried out from last night’s rain, I’ve got to get more plants. I plan to visit The Tomato Man’s Daughter in Tulsa, and also to pick up some more cucumber plants (two of mine broke in the wind) and maybe, since I have so much room, some cantaloupes and more flowers.

Working outside is probably the best thing I can do for my muse. Whenever I get stuck on a plot point, I head for the lawn mower. If my characters aren’t doing what I want, it’s the chain saw. When I just need to get rid of a little tension and rejuvenate, digging/planting/weeding will do it. And on those occasions when I’m sick to death of the publishing biz, raking leaves will make me fall in love with it all over again. (So does 100-degree weather!)

The one thing I DON’T like about spring planting is the crowds. When I went to Riddles’ Friday morning for my plants, they were so busy that there was a guy directing traffic. When I made stops at WalMart, Atwoods, Home Depot and Lowe’s on Saturday, I had to park in the back of beyond and hike a mile or two to the garden center. People were in my way everywhere — all kinds of people except employees who could answer my questions, LOL.

(I always got a kick out of those Home Depot commercials where the people walk into the store and every department has bright, smiling, knowledgeable employees just waiting to help them. It seems like virtually every employee I find in Home Depot says the same thing: “This isn’t my department. I’m just filling in.” I only go there when I know exactly what I want and the only help I need is in carrying it. If I’ve got questions, I go to Lowe’s.)

But for the moment, I’m happy. My tomatoes, peppers and cukes are in the ground, along with my purslane, zinnias, marigolds, African daisies and other flowers whose pots lacked name tags but I bought them anyway. My nails are chipped, my knees are aching, and it took forever to get all the windblown grit out of my eyes, but I have planted, and that gives me a great sense of satisfaction.

Now, if only everything grows . . .

Interview With Susan Shay

I know that by night (or early dawn Yes!), you’re a writer. But what are you known as by day?
LMOTP. That stands for Low Man On The Totem Pole. What can I say? It’s a family business.

Did you always want to be a writer? If not, then what?
No—I always wanted to be a story teller. I made up imaginary friends named Arlie and Orley when I was really little and haven’t stopped making up stories since.
I started wanting to be a writer when I read Little Women and connected with Jo when I was ten years old. We had a lot in common! Along the way I wanted to be a geologist, a cowboy, a concert pianist and a pilot.

What do you do to relax (not writing)?
Well . . . right now I garden or knit. In the past I’ve needle pointed, cross stitched, quilted, painted and created jewelry.

What do you like to read? What’s on your “keeper” shelf?
You mean besides RWI authors? (They’re all permanent fixtures.) I love to read Kay Hooper, Kristin Hannah, Tess Gerritsen and Tami Hoag. My very first “keeper” was “Lady of Fire” by Valerie Vayle and the second was “Skye O’Malley” by Bertrice Small.

Who/What influenced your writing the most?
Twisted Sisters Marilyn Pappano and Meg Reid! They’ve been there with me every step of the way . . . and they’ve been very patient since we commenced the trek.

What does your normal (writing) week look like?
If I get up early enough each day, I try to write a thousand words. BUT since BLIND SIGHT has come out, I’ve spent much more time with promoting, so I don’t get to write as much. In case you’re wondering, making up stories is the fun part!

What does your family think of your writing and/or your success? How do they support/encourage you?
My boys are thrilled for me. The youngest son has a great time telling people that his mom is a writer—especially since he’s been in college.
My middle son plugged my first book on Myspace, my oldest and his wife brought her parents to my signing. The youngest brought a pile of guys to my Cleveland signing and was the photographer, but wants to enjoy the home town signing for BLIND SIGHT. My husband is very patient and makes sure I have all the latest gizmos for writing.

If you could write yourself into a story, what would your character be and be like?
Great question! I’d be a gun slinger or a pirate—something dangerous. I think kick-a$$ heroines are wonderful!

What was the best advice (on writing) you ever received?
Join a good critique group. Good is the magic word in that sentence. A bad or hateful critique group can hurt more than it helps. Being able to take constructive criticism is an art form that must be learned, but it’s necessary. I’ve known people who would be published today if they’d had the ability to learn from their critiques rather than being certain they were smarter than the people critiquing them.

How has your experience with an e-publisher been?
Great! I think it’s a wonderful way to get into the publishing business.

Would you encourage other writers who haven’t worked with an e-pub to look to that part of the industry?
Definitely. E-pubs can produce books that don’t “fit” for other publishers, such as Civil War books or “historicals” set in the 1950’s or 60’s. It’s a way for an author to branch into another genre when the big boys aren’t interested in having them move on. And if the rights have reverted on an author’s back list, it’s a great place to re-publish.

What’s coming up next for you?
Let’s see–I’ve just finished a book about a woman who was born with the werewolf gene called Make Me Howl and I’m looking for a home for it. I also finished a shorter manuscript about a woman who’s a horse thief.

Would you like to read an excerpt from Blind Sight? I’m giving away a download of the book to someone who leaves a comment. Deanna’s boys can do the drawing if they’re available to help us out.

“Hey, Cassie.” His voice was melted chocolate, warm and soothing.
She bit her lip as she forced herself to wait several moments before she turned to him. His dark eyes mesmerized her, as well as the tiny scar next to his upper lip and his square jaw. She took a much needed breath. “Oh, hey, Keegan. How was your day?” Where were you all this time?
But it wasn’t her business where he’d been, and she wasn’t going to touch him in order to find out, on the off chance she could tell.
Concentrating intently, she forced herself to walk into the kitchen. While she put the things away, she couldn’t move him from the forefront of her mind.
The way his eyes crinkled as he spoke, the way he stood, hipshot; his smile, even his frown, played again and again in her mind.
Pulling into herself, she was still for a moment as she felt for the underlying tremor each person had—as individual as a fingerprint.
His was new, one she’d never sensed before, and it sent vibrations of warmth flowing through her.
But in that impression, she could discern nothing that might be a danger.
When she’d rinsed the sink, she dried her hands and picked up a bottle of spray cleaner.
Going back into the coffee shop, she wiped tables and straightened chairs a final time.
Glancing down, she saw a cup left behind on a seat. As if in slow motion, it toppled off the edge. Without thinking, she caught it—then remembered she’d forgotten to replace her gloves.
The vibration crashing through her was like thunder from a colossal drum, quaking long and hard and painful, deafening her to the sounds going on around her. A brilliant flash stabbed into her eyes and, as her irises contracted painfully, she nearly collapsed to her knees.
The bookstore disappeared.
Her body shuddering in the cool air of night, Cassie smelled dust and rain on the breeze. A feeling of devout piety stole over her as her heartbeat slowed to a sluggish thud. Casting her gaze downward, she saw a young woman, her face white and still as if it had been carved from alabaster, lying near the edge of a rocky crag. With hands that were not her own, she crossed the girl’s stiffening arms over her cold, unmoving chest, then straightened her skirt, pulling it to her knees.
As gently as if she were putting a child to bed, she slipped the body over the precipice where it crashed helplessly into a tree, flipped almost completely around, hit the ground, and rolled down the steep slope until it rested brokenly against a jagged boulder.
Stomach heaving at the shock of the vision, Cassaundra leaned heavily against the table to stare at the broken cup lying at her feet.

Mommy, Where Do Stories Come From?

It always starts with this feeling, this sort of low-voltage electricity near my tailbone that just hums along beneath my skin and along my nerves until it reaches my fingers. Once the inspiration hits, I have no choice, I must go write something!

The inspiration to write, to create a story from thin air, often comes from the strangest places. At this time of year it often begins with the sight of a dogwood tree in bloom. Their blossoms remind me of lace on a wedding dress. That naturally turns my thoughts to romance, and then to writing. Sometimes it’s fun to go to the mall, sit and watch the people walking by. It’s fun to metaphorically mix and match the people walking by into the most unlikely couples.

I once had a creative writing teacher who told me when she needed inspiration she would go to a cemetery, the older the better, then wander between the graves. She’d imagine the lives lived, the history witnessed; then become inspired to write.

I have a passion for music. I can’t play worth a darn and I can’t carry a tune in the proverbial bucket. But I appreciate those who can. However, I really admire songwriters. I am often inspired by the lyrics to songs. Have you ever listened to the lyrics of the Patti Page classic, Faded Love? Oh, there’s at least one story in that song. What about Willie Nelson’s Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain? And you can easily fishbone at least four or five stories from Nickleback’s Photograph or The Beatles The Long and Winding Road.

I live on thirty acres in rural Oklahoma. Just near the eastern edge of our property stands an old, gnarled oak tree. In the fall, the western sun gilds the tree at sunset. In the winter, the tree stands naked and bare. In spring, the oak shelters the blooming dogwoods and redbuds. And the summer, it stands tall, silent, and mysterious in its age. One day several years ago, my son and daughter were out using a metal detector near the tree. Near one of its exposed roots, they found a rusted spur buried six inches below the surface. Just a spur and nothing else.

I can’t even begin to tell you how many stories I have woven in my head about the rusted spur.

So tell me, what inspires you?

Adjustments

It was once mentioned that any topic could be used for a blog post, that it could be about what was going on in our lives. Here goes:

My father will be 82 this August. He’s always been the one that I’ve turned to for advice and comfort when something was bothering me. Besides being my father he is also my friend as we have interests in common. But now that relationship is changing. His mind is being destroyed by senile dementia. He is aware that this is happening and it is tearing me up to watch him try to adjust.

I’ve been told that there is medication that can slow this down but he refuses to go to a doctor for this or for any other reason. So am trying to figure out what to do next. I just contacted my sister and she is going to come out in a month to see if she can talk him into seeing a doctor.

Anyway, this is where I am in life right now and one of the reasons I have been such a negligent blogger. I can’t hope for this to change because it won’t. I can hope that I adjust to this so that I can continue with my WIP.

Claude Mary

Screenwriters’ Knowledge Applied

Writers often hear that Romance only has a few plots–we all tell these same stories over and over again. There’s the Cinderella story, the Beauty and the Beast story, the Vampire myth, the Forced Marriage, etc. All of these storylines are found in myth and legend across cultures. For that reason, these stories appeal to a mass audience.

Recently, I read a book on screenwriting by Blake Snyder. In his very instructive manual “Save The Cat! The Last Book On Screenwriting That You’ll Ever Need“, he says that all movies fit into one of ten categories:

1) Monster in the House
2) Golden Fleece
3) Out of the Bottle
4) Dude With a Problem
5) Rites of Passage
6) Buddy Love
7) Whydunit
8 ) The Fool Triumphant
9) Institutionalized
10) Superhero

Since I have ‘drunk the Kool-aid’ and believe the Romance storylines, I was predisposed to believe Mr. Snyder’s supposition about movie categories. Then I started reading his examples. It was eye opening.

Some examples are obvious.  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that “Forrest Gump “is a good example of the Fool Triumphant (or “The Pink Panther for” that matter).  What does take a little explaining are some of the other categories.

Like Buddy Love.  If you had asked me (prior to reading this book) what category that the film “Lethal Weapon” or “Thelma and Louise” fell into, I probably would not have chosen Buddy Love.  I could have guessed that “Die Hard” fell into the Dude With A Problem category.

What is most interesting is the depth of field that falls into each of these movie categories.  Of course, “Jaws” is a Monster In The House even though he never actually sets foot (fin? flipper?) in a house.  It is a small area and he’s a monster.  But to equate “Fatal Attraction” and Glenn Close’s very crazy stalker with the big freaking shark was a stretch for me.

You see, it’s thematic, not concrete.  And sometimes, symbolism is lost on me.

I found it fascinating that he doesn’t use normal categories that we think of like: Romantic Comedy, or Suspense Thriller.  The marketing of a film is distinct from the screenwriter’s story category.  He treats these categories like archetypes for plotlines.  Very interesting.  I’m still absorbing it all.

I’m still reading this book.  I have post-it flags and a highlighter and I’m dangerous.  I’m finding it pretty easy to make the leap from screenwriting suggestions to information for my manuscript.  I’m wondering if any of you have found useful information in other writing sources besides fiction or romance?

–Sandee Wagner

Moods Revisited…

In the past few months, my father has been having more trouble in walking.  Sunday, he fell twice; my brother David and Daddy’s neighbor got him up the first time, but the second time, the fire department had to come out…again.  When I saw Daddy after work on Sunday, he hadn’t had anything to eat or drink all day because he’d been afraid to walk into the kitchen.  He did make it to the bathroom, but he can’t stand long enough to drink water from the sink and he can’t carry a glass of water with his walker.

 David and I have been doing what we can to keep him at home, but now, even Daddy admits he can no longer live alone.  While it saddens me he has to lose his independence, I have to admit, I’m also relieved he will be safe.  We’re going to admit him to an assisted living home in the Broken Arrow area.  Daddy will have full imput on where he goes, but the one we’re leaning towards will let him be in a private space with his own things around him.  Best of all, my social butterfly dad will have a whole new group of ladies to charm with his hand-kissing ways.

The main reason I bring this up is that I always feared that when this time came, my brother and I wouldn’t be able to work together.  But we have.  Somehow, somewhere along the way to adulthood,  David and I ”lost” each other as brother and sister.  I don’t know if it’s because we finally matured or because the moon is in the right quarter, but in this project we can finally work together.  I suspect it’s because we both love Daddy and want the best for him.  And because, despite all things, we ARE family.

I’ve been reading a new author, or at least, a new author for me…Kristin Hannah.  Remember a few weeks ago when we discussed how moods can affect what we read or write?  In this instance, what I’m reading is affecting my mood during the difficult time.  For those of you who have never read Hannah, she writes these wonderful stories about dysfunctional families who find redemption through learning to love again.  She makes you laugh.  (“Let’s not drink our own bathwater, shall we?  It’s one of the things that separates us from the lesser primates.  Like men.” )  She makes you cry.  But most of all she makes you believe in families and love.

And right now, she’s making it so much easier for me to take care of my Daddy.

Now A Word From Our Sponsors

One of the numerous jobs I’ve held was selling air time for a small McAlester radio station. It was the first time I’d ever had a business card. Below the station call letters was my new name, and ‘Account Executive.’ Wow, I was so impressed to have a title. A glorified way to state: Sales person. Like calling a stay at home mom—or wife—a ‘Domestic Engineer.’

But having that card did make me feel good about what I was doing since I’d never had a job like this one. Moving from Houston, where the lights never go out to life in a small Oklahoma town where the sidewalks used to rollup promptly at 5, and knowing no one, how was I going to make any sales? God works mysteriously as this was the best way to acclimate into a new situation. And for life farther down the road.

When I did sell an ad, aka spot, I had to write the copy, get it approved by the station and the client. What I could have never guessed was I was good with the ad copy, and cutting the commercials. Every word had to count, especially when you’ve only got 30 seconds, or 15. The same can be said with writing where every word has a purpose. My best ad was a Dolly Parton imitation “Here you come again…” but I can’t remember what business it was for.

I watch television commercials with the same critical eye. There are some I love, and most. I hate. Do you remember the Taster’s Choice coffee commercials with the couple? I thought the chemistry between them was great.

I like a continuing story or commercials that tell a story.  A  new favorite is the California cows. Does that make me rush out and buy only California cheese? Nope, sorry. I’m too cheap for that. The E*Trade baby usually makes me stop because I think that baby is just darling! Do I use E*Trade? Ha!

IMHO, the best ads have been “Feelin’ Lucky?” for an Oklahoma casino–I think.  The ad that begins in the hospital where the man’s face is bandaged and hillbilly relatives are crowded around his bed makes me hoot every time. The catch is that they aren’t his family. (If any of you remember these, please comment!)

Next are the cowboys, all banged up and bandaged, being interviewed after a hard day of rounding up ’short hairs’ — Cats!  This was a great commercial–it aired first on Superbowl Sunday, but can you name who the sponsor was? I’ll give the answer later if you don’t know.

Commercials I mute immediately are the ones that are so loud, or so obnoxious. I’ll spare the guilty.  And companies who use saturation advertising. Attention ad people, that’s a certain turnoff for me.

What makes or breaks a commercial for you?