Shopping?

This can be the most fun or the most frustrating thing ever.

Right now, it’s in-between. Mainly because I’m mostly talking about furniture shopping. We’ve been out looking for a few weeks, off and on, trying to get an idea of what we want in our living room. Sounds easy at the outset…one couch, one recliner, couple of chairs.

WRONG.

I’ve looked at so many couches I don’t know which one is better. They are all starting to feel the same to me. Then, there are fabric choices. I can’t decide between leather or microfiber. All I know is I need something pet and kid freindly. Have no clue really which one would be better suited.  And God forbid I pick the wrong one. The furniture I have now is almost 10 years old, and I’m sure it will be another 10 years before I can replace the new furniture. UGH. And don’t even get me started on prices. Sheesh!! Let’s just say they’re not giving the stuff away.

The only thing I can say is I like furniture shopping WAY better than clothes shopping. Did I mention I saw swimming suits at the store already??

 *runs away screaming  and hides* 😮

Annette Blair contest winner

Calling Stacey Smith! You won our special D’s-son drawing for the free copy of Gone With the Witch from Annette.

Please contact Marilyn at marilyn.pappano@sbcglobal.com so she can get your mailing information sent to Annette.

If we don’t hear from Stacey by next Saturday, we’ll ask D’s kiddo to draw another name from the virtual hat.

Absence of Writer’s Cramp, or Why I Hate Book Signings

It’s an ugly part of the writing biz. People stare at you while keeping their distance. They sometimes approach you, noses wrinkled as if they can hardly bear the smell, then dismiss you as unworthy.  Sometimes they insult you to your face, and you sit there and smile politely while muttering curses under your breath.

I’m talking about book signings. Some authors, I’m told, actually enjoy them. They usually fall into one of two categories: they’re either newly published and haven’t yet experienced the worst book signings have to offer, or they’re best-sellers who have people lined up out the door.

My first book signings took place at national conferences for Romance Writers of America, where the books were freebies. No-shows were no problems; everyone loves freebies. My first paying-customer signing was at a Romantic Times convention. I sold nearly a hundred books in a few hours and thought this was too cool! I couldn’t wait to do it again.

So I did. It was much smaller than RT’s convention signing, with far fewer authors taking part, and far, far fewer sales. But it still wasn’t too bad. After that, I did a few signings at my hometown book store, and those were great. (Anyone I’m not related to, my mom knows or my husband has arrested, and people have a tendency to not hold their arrests against him.) Then one day the publicist at my then-publisher called. They wanted me to do a signing in Kansas, at their expense.

You betcha, I said. She gave me the date and time, along with the store info. It was set for a fall Saturday afternoon. DH and I would drive up to the town in Kansas – don’t recall the name now, but it’s the home of Kansas State University – and we’d spend the night, then do the signing and return home. A nice little weekend getaway, right?

I knew something was wrong when DH started trying to make hotel reservations. There was nothing in town. Nothing anywhere within sixty miles of the town. “There’s a football game that weekend,” he told me when he finally found a room an hour away.

A football game. Huh. I’m not a fan, but I remembered how everything in Stillwater came to a stop on OSU’s home game days. My stomach started to hurt.

The weekend came. We got up that Saturday morning in our distant motel and drove into town, where traffic was heavy and restaurants were crowded and everyone was sporting school colors. The ache rose into my chest.

The bookstore was one of the few places in town that wasn’t busy. A table was set up inside the main entrance, stacked with piles of my book. “Sorry about the timing,” the slightly-anxious manager said as he got me settled.

“Timing?” I echoed through gritted teeth.

“Well, yeah. Kansas State is playing Kansas today just a couple miles away. In fact, kickoff is in five minutes.”

Oh, great. KState is not just playing; they’re playing Kansas.

In two hours, I told three people where the bathroom was, directed two people to the music section and sold two books – one to the manager, one to the assistant manager.

That’s when I started hating book signings. I’m not an outgoing person, I’m not a sales person, and I find it really hard to sell myself. I’d rather stay home and scrub toilets than do a signing these days. Maybe that’s why I’ve convinced myself that signings aren’t really great sales tools, even though I know they can make a difference. Just not always a good one.

I went to a signing once with an NYT author who was snippy and rude (then went back to her hotel and whined online about being stuck in Oklahoma for the night). Soon after, NYT author Robert B. Parker did a signing in Tulsa, and he couldn’t have been nicer. I still buy his books. I don’t buy hers.

How do book signings rate for you? Better than cleaning a toilet, worse than a root canal, or do you actually enjoy them?

They just don’t get it!

Today, I was telling my dad how lately life had been stressing me out…enough that I talked it over with my doctor and got prescribed a “happy pill”.  (Okay, those of you who thought I was slipping into dementia, blahhh!!!)  Anyway,  I also warned him that I was on deadline for a writing contest next week and would be available only for emergencies…please.  His response was that maybe I should give up the stuff that came with deadlines.  After I freaked out a little, I tried to explain to him that as a selling author, I would have to get used to deadlines, and probably very short ones at times.

On the way home, I got to thinking…those closest to us usually just don’t get it.  They don’t understand that writing is more than putting the story to paper, mailing it out, and getting a check.  To them, it can be done in your spare time…in between the “important” stuff like day job, housekeeping, washing the car.  I know my family didn’t understand why I had to do sooo much more travelling to promote my eBooks than I did with my Silhouette Desire.  The difference between a well-known name publisher and a new publisher (not counting a new medium!), totally escaped them.

Other missed understandings–I actually had an acquaintance (not a friend, thank God!) who felt sure that if I wrote her life story, it would be a best seller.  She survived an abusive marriage by killing her husband in self defense to protect her unborn child while the old man was beating on her… again.  When I explained that while her story of survival was inspiring, I wrote romance, about love.  Her response?  “But I still loved him when I pulled the trigger.”  Somehow, she couldn’t understand that because her relationship story didn’t have a happy ever after, it wasn’t a romance.

Then there is this gal at work who tells one and all that “Jackie writes smutty books!”, giggling all the while.  Time and time again I explain that I write sensual romance, not smut.  Of course in my defense, it didn’t help when one of our female doctors announced to one and all that after she finished reading my Desire, she woke her husband up at three in the morning for some action.  Flattering, but not conducive to convincing people I’m a serious writer who creates stories about healthy, loving relationships.

But I think the most frustrating misunderstanding is from my friends who have read all my Star Trek/Science Fiction stories, but don’t read my romances.  Oh, they’re proud of me for selling, but they’re waiting for me to write a “real” book.  The kind that is eligible for a Hugo nomination!  Though my sister did read, love, and re-read WARRIOR’S HEART, but I have to wonder…is it because the hardcover made it a real book?  🙂

MY DIRTY LITTLE SECRET

I’m a junk store junkie! A thrift shop maniac. A fun day for me is hitting the local stores. I never know what I’ll find, but the bargains are just waiting. It’s the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of the find, the anticipation of making this treasure my own. I can see potential in almost any object, especially if the price is right—meaning really low. 

 

The desire to work with my hands comes from my father. He could build or fix anything, which was good since I broke lots of stuff. Just yesterday I finished a 3 X 5 mirror—circa 1970s that is going to hang in my bathroom—the same one with the malfunctioning sink that hasn’t hit critical stage yet. Total cost $15. I’ve redone frames, given furniture new life, built metal art, even sold some of my creations.

 

These days, my dirty little secret is gaining in popularity, even becoming chic. Or so I overheard from a group of teenage girls trying on clothes. Their outfits were awesome! Thrift stores—I’m a bit of a snob here as I choose to support shops whose proceeds go to worthy causes—need  both buyers and donations. A win-win situation. A great way to recycle in our disposable society.

 

So, I’ll shout it loudly and proudly…I’m an addict—an eccentric in my own twisted way.

 

 

The Things We Lose For Love

Sandee brought up the topic of reading and writing a day or two ago, and Ashley mentioned the trouble she has finding authors she really likes. It’s ironic that every writer I know came to the business for two reasons: their love of reading and their desire to tell their own stories. And yet a great many of us find it so much harder to indulge our love of reading. In various ways, the writing takes it away from us.

Before I sold my first book, when it came to reading, I went way beyond avid. It was my favorite pastime, my hobby. I’d take my son to the park and read while he played. I’d sit outside on the steps and read while he played. We’d go to the tide pools, and I’d read . . . well, you get the idea. I read, easily, twenty to twenty-five books a month.

Then I sold my own book. I had contracts, deadlines, line-edits, copy-edits and on and on. I went from being a stay-at-home mom with a small writing habit and a huge reading habit to a professional. And to keep on top of everything, I had to cut back on that twenty-to-twenty-five-books-a-month reading habit.

But that was okay in the beginning. I developed a routine of writing like mad for two to three weeks, turning in a manuscript, then taking a month or so off and reading like mad. It took a while for the real problem to develop: not the limited time, but my growing knowledge of fiction writing.

Before I published, I was oblivious to things like POV, goals, motivation, conflict, passive voice, voice in general, character development, pacing, etc, etc. I knew two things about the books I read: either I liked them or I didn’t. Either way, I finished them. Yep, I finished every single book I ever started back in the day.

But the more I wrote and the more my fabulous editor Leslie Wainger taught me about writing, the less I enjoyed reading. Once I found out what point of view was and how to handle it, it drove me nuts to see it done badly. When I finally got my pacing just right, I couldn’t stand to read a book whose pacing was off. When the prose turned purple on the pages, I wanted to grab a pen and start editing.

One of my earliest writing friends told me, “Say goodbye to your unconditional love of books and your ability to watch movies without annoying everyone around you.” And she was right. Like any reader, when I plunk down my five or eight or ten bucks for a book (or a movie), I expect a good story. But as an author/reader, I expect a good story with no/few goober mistakes. I expect an author who’s made the New York Times best-seller list to put together a plot that stands up to scrutiny. I expect an author who’s published more than five books to nail the characters’ goals, motivations and conflicts. I expect their characters to be three-dimensional, consistent to who they are, and distinguishable from one another in thought, dialogue and deeds. I expect their research to be accurate, and I darn well expect to not figure out whodunit or howtheydunit within the first chapter.

It’s not easy to find books that meet all those requirements.

I still read a lot, though nowhere near the twenty/twenty-five books a month of the past. But I don’t finish every book I start, and my critiques have expanded far beyond “I do/don’t like this.” Take the New York Times best-seller I just finished (no names or titles to protect the guilty): the plot was contrived and full of holes; much of the major action was based on coincidence; the characters — of different nationalities and upbringings — used the same odd descriptive phrases and have the same thought processes; the info concerning the character’s Army background was inaccurate; the pacing was off; I figured out every major plot point chapters ahead of the super-hotshot investigators; AND at the very end, it turns out that the ENTIRE story was set into action by one bonehead move that no half-way decent villain would EVER deliberately make.

It’s one of the hazards of being a writer, that you become a harsher critic of the very thing that helped draw you into your new career. Not that there aren’t still great books out there. It’s just that once you know enough to spot the problems, they’re harder to find.

WIP Workout

Last fall Cherokee Nation opened a fitness center on the site of the Male Seminary for its citizens, employees and their families. Like many other Native American populations, we have a skyrocketing rate of diabetes and associated medical problems. The center is free to citizens, employees and family members. The Tahlequah community is also welcome for a reasonable monthly fee.

This morning my husband and I went to sign him up as a family member. While he was shooting baskets I used the treadmill.

While I was treading away at a moderately slow 3.8 mph, in my new tight and thigh hugging Lucy Tech pants that my sister talked me into buying, it occurred to me how much alike my body and my WIP are. We’re both pear shapes–which is supposed to be good except that pear shapes can be prone to circulation system problems.

Like my body, my WIP is bottom heavy, bottom heavy with back story and suspected information dumps. And like my body whose main form of exercise has been walking from the parking lot into the grocery store once a week, my WIP could also use more motion, more action.

One of my new year’s resolutions was to exercise my body more–yoga and using the treadmill–cardio machines, I believe is what treamills are called now. One of my 2009 commercial writing goals was to finish the first draft of my WIP by May 2009. That’s about four months away. To meet this deadline I’m going to have to give my WIP a workout, which means making a schedule, just like I’ll have to schedule my body’s workout times. I need the structure that a schedule gives otherwise I’ll just think about writing or exercising. Even if I don’t strictly adhere to my schedule, at least it will be in place to focus my energy toward May 2009, the END of May 2009.

Claude Mary

The First Time…

On a local radio station, the DJs were discussing the first “Knock-knock” joke they ever heard.  I remember mine.

“Knock-Knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Boo.”

“Boo who?”

“You don’t have to cry about it!”

Okay, give me a break; I was only in first grade.  But it brought to mind the many firsts we all have in our lives.  And staying with the theme of this blog, I thought about the very first romance novel I ever read.  MARA, DAUGHTER OF THE NILE, copyright 1953.  Yep, at the ripe old age of eight, I read my first romance. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I didn’t know it was a romance.  In fact, I was a tomboy who happened to be in love with ancient Egypt.  Kissing was icky.  Boys were icky.  So, unknowningly, I picked up this book in the library and fell in love with romance, all without realizing what it was.   Now, at my more advanced age, I know exactly what drew to this book.  Drew me so strongly that four years ago, when I saw it in the young adult section of my local Borders, I felt like I’d found an old friend.

What I fell in love with all those years ago wasn’t the sedate kissing.  It wasn’t even the hero who was, to my young mind, hot.  And it wasn’t the daring heroine who risked all for the hero.  It was the Happily Ever After.  Despite all the danger, despite all the conflict, and despite all the vast differences in their stations in life, the book ended with Mara the slave and her aristocrat happily together…forever.

And that tells it all.  That is what brought us all to romance…the Happily Ever After.  No matter what genre, no matter what time period…heck, it doesn’t even matter what species our hero and heroine belong to, we want that HEA.  And that was the thing that first brought me to this crazy business.

How about you?  What was your first romance?  How old were you when you read your first romance?

Never Wear White Sneakers in the Cow Lot

     Beginning writers are told, “write what you know.” I agree. While I’ve been accused/complimented about having several irons in the fire or being involved in far too many projects, most—if not all—get my full attention until critical stage or deadline. Thus the story of Saturday’s cattle round-up. Sounds impressive, right?                                              When the drought hit, we had quite a herd of cattle—a whopping 12! {Quite a step down from the 80+ & 17 horses when I lived in Oklahoma} but we couldn’t afford to feed that many so we sold all but 3 cows. The cows had babies, we started dirt track racing, got involved with kids, & traveling, well those darn babies grew up—into bulls. One decided that the neighbor had better groceries & more lady friends to visit, so stayed there. But the other bull calf matured into not the best sire material. Since we share a bull with the neighbor, Blockhead had to go.
     Here’s the part where everything else comes before getting rid of him—the working pen had to be fixed where Blockhead (BH) snapped a 4 X 4 post at ground level, the catch pen had 2 cracked posts, 3 gates needed to be rehung & the trailer had to be rewired-AGAIN. Add  2 of the 3 this year’s calves kept getting over on the neighbor’s. Better there than on I-30! But I despise chasing wayward animals, especially when the weather is freezing/blazing.
     We need to get rid of theses cows NOW. I’m at critical stage. Repairs get done—not in a timely sort of way though, DH spends 2 hours on the trailer getting it ready. Leaving nothing to chance—IE plugging any openings where the mangy beasts feel they can make an escape, we move my old race car, The Phoenix, next to the working chute where BH had taken out that post, 2 round bales are moved in the working pen to funnel the cows into the chute, the tractor is parked along the other gate to block it, the trailer is backed into place—slide gate open so there is a straight shot from the chute! We’re locked & loaded & ready for Saturday.
     We’d already caught the wandering calves  along with one mama, who nursed all 3 calves, to keep them company. All we needed was BH. Friday afternoon DH looked in the catch pen to see only the mama. ARGH. As we are fixing the fence yet again—this time with a cattle panel—I’m ready to get the rifle & learn how to butcher. Seriously! But all turns out all right as both calves are captured & wanting inside the pen is BH. Hey, this is turning out easier than I thought.
     Saturday morning the temperature dropped from the balmy 70s to 32 with the wind blowing slightly less than gale force.  What fun! I’m dressed like a cammo Sta-Puf marshmallow man.  DH discovers that the big horses have pulled out the trailer wiring & they’re playing tug-o-war with it. BEEELLPP! By the time I get the 4 head in the working pen, I’m losing sensation in my toes & fingers. The neighbor & his son-in-law have arrived, mama is cut out into the catch pen, & now my only job is to slide the trailer gate shut. All 1200 pounds of BH jumps in but I can’t get the gate shut! He’s jammed the door. My one job!
     After all the hundreds of cattle & horses I’ve worked & loaded, in front of my neighbor, I fail. I don’t take failure well. Dearest neighbor saves the capture by loosening the gate enough for me to slide it shut. BH is pushed to the front of the trailer, locked in & the slide gate is opened again. With a couple yah yahs, the calves are down the working chute & into the trailer. This time, I grab the trailer in one hand & the other on a post, plant both feet on the slide gate & shove! Yeah! All this has taken less than an hour. We thank our neighbors, then get ready to leave for the stockyards.
     DH informs me that I’ll have to follow him in my car since we have no trailer lights. I’m not thrilled, but the car is warm, I have on clean clothes, changed my shoes & have a cup of coffee. As we are driving to the stockyard, I’m thankful we beat the sleet that is hitting my car. Until I turn on the wipers. It’s not sleet. If you haven’t been around many cows, when they are mad, they poop. When they are nervous, they poop. When they are scared, they poop. And when they can’t poop anymore, they pee.
     Ah, the joys of ranch life.

Love and a $10 Hooker

Did you know there are still plenty of places in this country where you can pick up a hooker for ten bucks? Only $2 more than a cheap paperback???

I love books. Love to read. Love to look at the shelves overflowing with titles. But the prices are just ridiculous. Today I was scanning reviews and came across a book that sounded pretty good – great characters, exciting plot, smokin’ hot sex. Thought I’d look for it next time I was out, then noticed the price. $15. For paper. Holy papyrus!

When I sold my first book to Silhouette, oh, so many years ago, the full retail price was $2.25. Today my Silhouettes sell for a cool five bucks. And the books are one-fourth shorter! And publishers wonder where our market has gone??

Sure, the Internet has cut into a lot of our reading time. Computer games, too – my kiddo used to be a big reader, but now he’s role-playing games with his buddies. Hobbies – in summer I spend way more time in the yard than I do reading. Playing with grandbabies. The list of alternate activities goes on.

When I do read, I hate getting books from the used bookstore. It’s the author in me that objects strenuously to store owners making money from selling my work without me getting a cut of it. It’s tough enough for most authors to make a living wage – last figures I saw put it at something like 2%. It’s frustrating as hell to watch my paychecks dwindle while used bookstore owners profit.

I also don’t like getting books from the library. I don’t like libraries, though, hey, that’s just me. Our library doesn’t have much of a selection of mass-market fiction, which is mostly what I read. I want to be able to read on my schedule, not someone else’s.

So I buy new. But for a few years now, price has been a major factor in the books I buy. I remember when single-titles went to $6. Pricey, I thought. Then they went to seven. Eight. Some of those funky size paper backs – bigger than mass market but smaller than trade paper – sell for ten. Trade paper runs anywhere from $12-18.

For a book. Something that I read within a few hours and, more often than not, never pick up again. I have my keepers, and I have my re-reading pile (funny how many keepers aren’t re-reading material for me), but the sad fact is, the majority of books I read aren’t either. I read them, then I give them to someone else.

At $8-12 a pop, it can be an expensive pastime. And at that price, I can’t check out new authors as much as I used to. For five bucks, I’d give someone I’d never read before a shot. At eight, it’s iffy. At twelve, it ain’t happenin’. If I’m spending that kind of money, I want to be pretty freaking sure I’m going to like the book.

The publishing industry is in a bigger mess than the economy (and longer-lasting, too). They’ve just about priced me out of the market. What’s a used-bookstore-resistant, library-hostile girl to do?