On a More Personal Note

I tend to play it close to the vest when it comes to my personal business. I don't mean books coming out or other writing related news, but my very personal business, like losing my job a week ago Thursday. I've been hanging on by a thread for about three of the 6-1/2 years I've worked for the company, ever since they dumped a lousy account on me and took away 30-40% of my income, still demanding I maintain quota while taking away 30-40% of the work that I do. It's all about how many pages are typed and when the pages are not properly paginated, as in the account dumped on me, that cuts out a big portion of the money I earn. Two typed pages become one and you begin to see the problem.

I don't like putting my private business out here, not that I don't trust people, but because I don't want pity or people reading just for the thrill factor of someone else who's in trouble. I prefer to look on the positive side, like seven years ago when I was diagnosed with breast cancer only to find out, after two months of worry and hassle and testing, that I didn't have breast cancer. The doctor's office mixed my file up with someone else's. I never did find out whether or not they caught her in time and saved her life. I was so looking forward to perky breasts with upturned nipples. Oh, well. The same is true of losing my job.

Long story short: I called off work because the rain took out my electricity and phones -- again -- and I wasn't able to finish the day. I had vacation time coming and my boss took that opportunity to email me with a termination notice and demand I send back their equipment overnight at my expense, an expense that cost me $700, a month's rent and the groceries. I had some money saved and looked forward to my last paycheck and clearing out my 401K, but I should have known that would fall prey to the boss's tender mercies as well. It did. After a 20% bite out of my 401K, taxes, and surcharges, and the loss of all my accrued vacation time, I was little better off than when I had a job. Not a problem.

I filed for unemployment and am now waiting out the waiting week, which is government speak for not getting paid for one week. I wanted to take off six months, enjoy the unemployment and the time to read and write (mostly write), and kick back and relax after so many years of work without paid vacation even when I earned vacation time (she didn't pay me for that or compensate me for the vacation time in three other instances). I find that I need to go back to work and work I shall do.

I was offered three jobs (I'm a hot commodity with great skills and a solid background history) and accepted one of them. Now I need to decide when to start back to work, and it's looking like Oct. 25th, just in time for the Nov. 4th paycheck. It will be slim, but it will be a check and I do have other resources, and another job that pays a guaranteed salary each and every month without fail -- until it fails. It has before.

In a way, writing about my little pot hole in the road of life makes me wonder if I should share that information when so many people I know are either on disability or have been out of work so long their unemployment ran out. How can I talk about my little hiccup when so many others are in much more difficult straits? It seems unfair and needlessly cruel.

Suffice it to say, I always land on my feet and, aside from having to start over at a new job, I will get better pay, shorter hours, bigger paychecks, more vacation time, and cheaper benefits (benefits from the old company cost nearly a month's salary each and every month) with disability benefits. Like I said, I usually land on my feet. I do have to buy some equipment and may have to buy a program or two, but they are tax deductible. It's best to get on with the show. I still have two months off from writing book reviews after nearly nine years of nonstop reviewing and that I won't give up and may extend to three months, going back to reviewing at the beginning of the year, the same time I am giving up handling the PPRAA VE team exam sessions (someone finally stepped up to the plate after four years of me doing the job). Life is not all beer and skittles (I hate beer and don't really know what skittles are, except for the candy, and I know that skittles predate the candy), but it's workable.

That is all. Disperse.

Rain, Sinuses, and Stuff

The breeze through the bedroom window this morning feels like rain, smells like it, too. I haven't checked the forecast, but I do trust my senses, especially my sinuses, which are stuffed, and my head aches, a sure sign that there is rain in the forecast. My sinuses and head are much more reliable indicators about the weather than barometers, thermometers, meteorological gadgets, and weathermen (or women). Ever since I moved to the mountains, I get the weather results on a direct feed to the brain.

This is a weird week since I'm off work and finished four book reviews last night. Those are the last books until December since I've decided to take the next two months off. I need a break. It's difficult finding new words to same the same old things. This is a good, mediocre, awful, wonderful, or horrid book. The details are important, but there are only so many ways to say a book is over written or the story line is flat lined and no amount of CPR or literary fireworks will change that. Dead is dead.

The trick is to find something nice to say about the book. Don't want to completely deflate an ego that has New York Times Best Selling Author across the cover even when they phoned it in. Having written reviews nonstop for over eight years, I can attest to the fact that at times it is an effort to put anything down -- or to have to read one more thriller with the same tired plot and set up or a romance that isn't much of a romance or a literary novel that takes fifty pages to say a character now lives on the other side of the country and is working as manager of a sporting good store since he got out of prison. I get introspection and navel gazing, but no one can gaze that far into a navel that is too shallow to collect lint, especially when lint collects everywhere and anywhere.

At least I'll have something different to do for a while since I signed up to recap Mike & Molly. Now that is pleasurable and something new and I have Christy to thank for that one. She told me Mike & Molly was about a plus size couple finding love together. That was moderately interesting, even though James Coco did a similar sitcom a few decades ago, but what really got me was the public outcry by a blogger who was disgusted by seeing an overweight couple hugging, kissing, and loving each other. I probably wouldn't have checked it out as quickly or been as interested. Give me a good story and some laughs, but to really hook my interest you'd better give me controversy. It was also nice to see that the actress who plays Molly won an Emmy. Now that is progress since she does not fit the starvation ravaged figure that the rest of the females up for awards sported. That's a topic for another time.

Right now, I'm sniffling, sneezing, and wiping my nose while enjoying that rain-kissed breeze coming through the window. Time to tuck in the tootsies and find a good book to read, one that I am not contracted to review and don't have to finish if it turns out to be a dud.

Whizzing deadlines and holiday cards

It's that time of the year to pick out holiday cards for my grandchildren and a few friends. Ghosts, ghouls, goblins, and skeletons dance about in paper, felt, and other materials, delighting and filling me with the holiday spirit. Halloween cards are followed by Thanksgiving cards -- I like to be prepared and hate waiting until the last moment, except for writing deadlines.

Missing or extending writing deadlines never kept me in the church restroom when I arrived late for Sunday school. As a character once said, I love the sound of deadlines as they go whizzing by." I don't really like the whizzing sound, but it sounds good as long as I don't miss them for real. I'm always in that church restroom with my feet up against the wall so no one knows I was late for Sunday school -- or deadlines. Then again, I was writing about holiday cards.

The Thanksgiving cards are pretty unamazing decorated with wreaths in fall colors, turkeys, cornucopiae, food, and trimmings that all remind me of autumn harvest festivals. I found seven cards just right for sending, cards that will likely end up in a dusty box or in the garbage or pasted in a forgotten scrapbook that seemed like such a good idea when it was started. The cards are mostly for the grandchildren and I hope for at least a moment or two they enjoy the sentiment and think of me.

This is the busiest time of year. There are cards to buy, address, and send for four holidays, food to plan and make and eat, and the bustle and tussle of holiday presents to plan and buy and send. The rest of the year is fairly quiet, unless you count writing, editing, and publishing books, in which case there is no real slow time of the year. I'll bet that is why the months flash by like weeks and weeks flash by in a matter of hours.

There was a point to this post when I began and then it got lost among the gathering detritus of holiday planning and buying and sending and knowing that there is still a lot more to do right here and right now with four book reviews to get written, correspondence to catch up on, and writing of other works to do. Just for a moment it was pleasant to think of cool, crisp autumn days and frosty mornings, spices and herbs swirling through the house on a cloud of warmth and deliciousness, and the thougth of soft snow drifting and swirling down to turn the world into a faery land of dreams and possibilities. Other than that, there really is no point, except to say happy holidays, whichever ones you choose to celebrate.

Review: Blind Fury by Lynda La Plante

Detective Inspector Anna Travis has a new case. A young woman was raped, strangled, murdered, and then thrown into a field a service station on the M1 outside London. Three more cold cases are linked to the murder, victims of a serial killer, but something is off. DI Travis can feel it and so can her boss Detective Chief Supervisor Langton, her ex-lover.

The man in their sights works for Swell Blinds. John Smiley is all that he seems and more. No one has a bad word to say about him and he is very cooperative in the investigation when brought in for questioning about his work van parked in the lot at the time of the murders and caught on CCTV.

Although, Smiley looks too good to be true, Langton has a feeling they have the right man. The problem is they have nothing to tie Smiley to the women except being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Feelings aren't enough to go on. That's why Langton was willing to send Anna to Barfield Prison to interview a serial killer she helped catch.

Cameron Welsh is obsessed with Anna and she doesn't believe Welsh has anything to add to their case. Anna follows orders and interviews Welsh several times. Beneath the arrogance, Welsh knows more than he says and he continues to dangle the bait to draw Anna closer, and she comes closer than she cares to come to trap Smiley.

Cameron Welsh tells Anna Travis that no matter how careful a murderer is, there's always a witness, which provides one of the main themes in Lynda La Plante's latest thriller, Blind Fury. Witnesses pop up all through the novel and La Plante uses them to good effect.

At first glance, it seems as though Welsh is Hannibal Lecter to Anna's Clarisse Starling, but the comparison doesn't hold. Welsh doesn't have Lecter's calm and pointed clarity nor is Anna the willing student anxious to climb the ladder of success. Anna also lacks Clarisse's intuitive read on Welsh's character. Where Lecter is insightful and shares information that helps move things along, Welsh is frustrated and frustrating, using the interviews as mental masturbation. Welsh does help, but such help as could have been laid out in the first interview.

La Plante lacks the polished characterization used to such telling effect by Thomas Harris in Silence of the Lambs and loses her grip, much as Welsh loses his calm, superior demeanor when he discovers Anna is interested in another man. Welsh witnesses Anna with one of his guards, Ken Hudson, a buff blond guard studying to be a child psychologist.

Where La Plante fails to hit the mark is in the sudden intense relationship between Anna and Ken, moving from tentative first date to sex to marriage in less than three dates. Anna, who has always been obsessed with her work and is an orphan, is too anxious to move forward after her failed relationship with Langton, and jumps into sex and marriage with determined effort. The minor hitches along the way where Anna suspects Ken might be involved in the murder fail to ring true and look like attempts to throw a few roadblocks that never actually work. They are as quickly disposed of as is Anna's single-minded career track, coming off as desperation rather than head over heels love at first glance. It simply does not work.

Where La Plante excels is in detailing the minutiae of a murder investigation, going over and over the same ground mining for bits of information. Blind Fury is a template for how murder investigation are run and the time consuming work done by the officers--and the reader at times. The attention to detail does pay off as Anna gets the killer and finds out how all the murders are committed since the murderer is only too happy to lay out the details.

Blind Fury is less a thriller and more a police procedural, with the emphasis on the procedure. The relationships between co-workers and the main characters is less detailed and there is no ticking clock, although budgetary cuts are mentioned a couple of times. La Plante knows the turf and describes it well, providing an excellent manual on how to proceed in a cold case investigation. The human element takes a back seat to solving the murder and there Blind Fury succeeds beyond all expectations.

The End of the World as We Know It

Monday morning and work beckons. I'm reluctant to answer the call and want nothing more than to pull up the covers and go back to sleep for at least another four hours, the four hours I didn't get last night. I'd rather finish the thriller I started on Friday and had difficulty getting through until late last night when suddenly the story moved on. (I hate when that happens -- taking days to get through a book that should've taken hours and I couldn't chastise myself sufficiently to get it done because the story didn't really interest me and was confusing and the characters were all cut from the same cloth, the authorial intrusive cloth.) I'd rather do anything than have to sit at my desk and wade through another fifty dictations to get enough to be able to stop and move onto better things, like writing. I'd rather . . . you get the point.

So, in my work avoidance and abhorrence mode, I did what I usually do on Monday mornings, check out other blogs and I found a doozy. It wasn't unexpected, these "draconian measures" Anne R. Allen blogs about, and Joe Konrath called it several times in the past few months, and yet I found myself crying, "Foul!"

An author signed to one of the Big 6 publishers has been fired by her publisher for self-publishing a book of short stories meant to help publicize her upcoming novel. Now that is indeed foul. I would have thought that the publisher would be ecstatic at anything an author does to push sales and promote their own work, especially since the publisher would not be dumping oodles of marketing dollars into promoting the author's work, not unless the author had a contract with a six- or seven-figure advance, and yet here is the publisher cutting off his nose to spite his face. (It could be a she cutting of her nose, but you get the point.) This will not go down well with authors and if authors decide to sign with smaller publishing houses, as Anne R. Allen suggests, and the rest decide to self-publish or put up their own website, like J. K. Rowling, who was published by a small publishing house and then set up her own website to publish the Harry Potter books as direct sale ebooks, then the publishers are going to go out of business with a whimper instead of a bang.

I would have thought that keeping writers happy was more important than making writers angry enough to sue the publisher over being fired. Guess now. Look for the Big 6 publishers to include airtight conttracts that allow the writer to do nothing without the publisher's say-so, even if it means failing sales and the author not selling through. It doesn't make sense, but nothing makes sense in the midst of a major flounce, and that's what the publisher is doing, a major flounce. I'm sure hair tossing and having their noses in the air are all part of the flounce out. I'd call it a snit, having a cow, and one of the biggest and most public temper tantrums ever right when the Big 6 publishers need the good will of both authors, who keep them in product, and readers who usually side with the underdog. I don't think there is one of the Big 6 that can be called the underdog, no matter how their marketing department spins this one. Kiana Davenport will tell you all about the publisher's snit, and she's not the only one.

Kris Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith have written about and talked about the slow slide into oblivion that will take most publishers down the tubes and Dorchester, the publishing company that has stiffed notable writers like Brian Keene on their contracts, has retooled and gone into e-publishing only. Joe Konrath has said that paper books will be extinct very soon and some predict publishing entropy by December 2012, just in time for the end of the Mayan calendar. Maybe that's what killed the Mayan civilization, no more big publishers putting out codices and stone carvings and killing off the authors by strangling them with contracts that force authors to give away 75% of ebook earnings in order to get the coveted prize of a $20,000 advance on a contract.

Kris Rusch has called big publishing a dinosaur, like the Tyrannosaurus Rex or Argentinosaurus, that moves slowly and does not change directions quickly or easily. What she means is that a business with so many tentacles engage in so many different areas cannot easily extract said tentacles to put them engage them elsewhere.

Publishers want to protect their turf, but they will not be able to feasibly do so by strangling authors. Whatever they say, publishers need authors to stay in business. Celebrity authors are a dime a baker's dozen and often ghost written by real authors and once again authors are in the mix. Unless publishers want to try the trick of copying, cutting, and pasting past work into new books (and that doesn't seem likely), the only way to stay in business is to compromise and adapt, something the Big 6 seem ill equipped to do.

Add in the fact that literary agents, those people who take 15% of an authors royalties to protect the author's interests, are siding with publishers and we might see the demise of two big chunks of publishing business, or at the very least two big chunks of the publishing monolith that will crumble and fall into the digital sea with a resounding crash, leaving blasted hulks like the House of Usher.

It's a sad situation and one that should be a cautionary tale for anyone entering into a contract with what is increasingly being seen as the Devil. Whatever authors do, they should read the small print and be prepared to walk out (running would be better) if the publisher isn't willing to see reality or logic. Even life guards know that there are times it's best to let someone drown rather than go down with them. It's harsh, but it comes down to a matter of us or them. No one will protect you if you don't protect yourself. 

The publishing world is changing quickly. Don't be caught in the stampede. Stay informed and abreast of the news. These are volatile times and the Mount Etna of Publishing no longer slumbers. Remember what happened to Pompeii and Herculaneum.

 

Spring Thaw

Last night my oldest son called and we got into an old subject: him defending my honor. I could say I've no honor to defend, but that wouldn't be true. I am an honorable person. I could also say that I don't need defending, not against rude children or current spouses of ex-husbands because, well . . . there really is no need to go any further. My son was sincere in his passion to defend me against any and all foul comments, and I applaud him for that even though I am a little sad he felt the need to defend me.

Don't get me wrong. I think it's sweet that my son loved me enough to defend me, even to the point of bruises, blood, and the usual rewards of fighting. I also think it's more about a young boy's need to prove himself in battle and to himself that he is a man, which is some feat for a seven-year-old. I have always believed the need to resort to fists and weapons, the push to war, is ingrained in the male psyche and, after reading some of what an acquaintance is going through with the introduction of testosterone into her system to transition from female to male, it must also be hormonally connected. Take that, fellas. Men get just as hormonal as women; it manifests in a very different way.

Women, when hormonal, get weepy and moody. Men, when hormonal, get homicidal and often sociopathic. To put it in another way, hormones when rising make women go into the house and men out of the house. Women nest and seek answers and men want to mix it up.

I know. It's a very simplistic way of looking at things, but it's also right, at least from what I've seen over the years, and I've seen a lot of years, and men high on hormones angling for a fight. Only a man could have written, or even conceived of, Fight Club. Some women enjoyed the book, as I did on some levels, but they really don't get into fighting for the sake of fighting, even if the end result is being beaten to a pulp and spitting teeth and various chunks of internal organs. Women on the whole just do not get all excited about blood and guts and physical damage.

Having written that, I wonder at my own excitement during Gladiator or other movies where there is physical violence and I can safely say it's more about justice than blood and guts exciting me. Seeing the villain, or villains, getting their due after raping, pillaging, and exercising their hormonal excesses gets my heart beating faster and the blood rushing through my body. It's visceral -- and it's also hormonal. I've been known to get excited when reading a particularly bloody and physical scene in a book when the villain is beaten into the dust and loses a body part or his life. I wince when the hero is mauled. My sympathies are always with the hero. I'm a girl looking for a hero after all.

The human body is mostly water and water transports nutrients and hormones, lots of hormones, all over the system (the body is a system) like the Colorado River at spring thaw. Whitewater rushing from organs secreting hormones infusing the brain, muscles, and tissue until the chemical soup boils over and the mind, body, and soul are poised for action: women inside the house and men spoiling for a fight outside the house, although men have been known to mix it up inside the house as well. Men just want to fight.

I smiled when my son got that hurt and defensive tone in his voice. "I had to protect you, to defend you," he said. I wanted to laugh and tell him he was silly, but he was being true to his feelings and acting on hormones. I didn't want to downplay his contribution to defending his mother, so I just said, "Thank you." Then I explained that I've heard lots of people calling me names and saying nasty things about me and it doesn't bother me. After all, after spending my formative years being told what a waste of space I was and that I was a whore (while still being a virgin) by my mother, nothing gets to me any more, at least not if they resort to names.

My ex-husband's spouse lives in mortal fear of me coming back to reclaim my husband, and she demonizes me in order to give herself a reason to keep trashing me. She's right on one count. I am overweight. Like my mother, she is also wrong. I have slept with far fewer men than advertised and have not spent my life on my back with my legs in the air and my box stuffed. I haven't had the time and well, overweight. The two just do not work or play well together.

One thing I do know, which I didn't tell my son, is that people demonize people they fear and have wronged. It has nothing to do with logic or truth or honor. It's the only way they can justify their hormonal excesses.

When the twins are older and fighting for his honor and good name, he will look back and smile a little because he will finally understand that kids will be kids and the spring thaw hormonal rushes are upon them, and he'll remember our conversations. The wheel of life turns and his position on the wheel will have changed. He was my little boy and one day his little boy and girl will look up to him with that hurt tone in their voices and a glimmer of tears in their eyes while their lips quiver and my son will smile. It's the only thing to do when hormones are in control.

Guess it's the woman's turn to ask her fella, "That time of the month?" when he goes off like a rocket or pushes up his sleeves in preparation for a smack-down.

Review: The Traitor's Emblem by Juan Gomez-Jurado

A novel of revenge, betrayal, and love in the manner of Alexandre Dumas.

Paul Reiner and his mother, Ilse, live in Baron von Schroeder’s home in Munich as servants. Ilse is the Baroness Brunhilda’s sister and the Reiner’s are dependent on Brunhilda’s generosity, what little there is of it. There is little of the baron’s fortune left in the wake of his gambling and that does not change the way Paul’s cousin Jürgen treats Ilse and Paul. Jürgen is a petty tyrant and a coward and vents his arrogant sadism on Paul for no other reason than Paul exists. That changes with time and the revelation that Paul and Jürgen’s relationship is closer than cousins.

As time goes on and Paul and Ilse are thrown out of the mansion, they struggle to survive and, with Paul’s intelligence and ingenuity, prosper in the wake of Germany’s struggle to survive after the Versailles Treaty’s onerous provisions. All Paul wants is to find out what happened to his father Hans and why he was branded a deserter and the facts of his death obscured. Paul will get his chance, but it will cost him dearly.

In the author’s notes, Juan Gómez-Jurado explains that the story of The Traitor’s Emblem is different from what he initially planned and is based upon a story a man told him about a relic from the Hitler, a profane object with which Gómez-Jurado begins and ends the novel, a piece known as the Traitor’s Emblem, long thought to be a myth. While the story surrounding the relic is fascinating, Gómez-Jurado is correct in believing it is not enough to hold the novel together. He does construct a plausible scenario for the main characters and much of it is believable. Unfortunately, the story falls apart in some areas.

Without giving too much away, the circumstances surrounding the breakout from Dachau fails to provide the slimmest glimmer of evidence as to why the Nazis suddenly took up the chase. From all accounts, the imposters had gotten away with their ruse and were driving away when alarms go off, lights flash on, and gunshots riddle the getaway car. After having come so far with success, there is no reason for the camp to erupt and the Nazis to give chase. It makes for an exciting getaway, but seems too convenient and implausible.

The other issues surround a man Paul spends eleven years tracking, the man, Nagel, one of Hans’s confederates, runs for his life, which makes no sense. Paul supposedly has information Nagel needs and Nagel has no reason to suspect Paul plans to kill him. Once again, a nice bit of drama without a plausible reason. Paul wants information, as does Nagel, and Nagel keeps running away, abandoning one profitable business after another to end up back in Germany after a long fruitless chase through South West Africa. The whole piece of business is too pat, although it does put the players in the right place at the right time, and so conveniently plotted. There is also the hint that Nagel was the murderer and not Hans and this fact, thrown out as part of Nagel’s internal monologue, was not cleared up or mentioned again.

Despite the flaws in the story, The Traitor’s Emblem is an intricate tale of revenge, betrayal, love, and the chaotic political scene of Germany in the years between the end of World War I and the rise of Adolf Hitler to power before World War II. The details of life in Munich and the struggles of the German people under the lash of the Versailles Treaty are intimately drawn and provide a dark backdrop for the more personal tragedy between Paul and Jürgen.

Gómez-Jurado has written a page turner with strong adventure elements that is mostly satisfying and exciting. The pluses substantially outweigh the flaws even though the novel should have been longer to do justice to the story and the characters.

Wolf Cravings

Since reading The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan, wolves have been slipping out of the corners, so many I had to resort to the only cure known to feed the wolf -- watching movies.

I started with Red Riding Hood, which is a modern interpretation of Little Red Riding Hood in which Red Riding Hood is neither little nor young and she can understand the growls, barks, and yips of the werewolf. Gary Oldman is in the movie, so it's worth watching just for that reason, but the story is, although not unique, fascinating. There's a blood moon, which is when Mars casts its shadow on the moon, hence the blood part of the moon, that occur every thirteen years and the wolf passes on its legacy to the bitten, turning the bitten into a werewolf on the next full moon.

The story is a simple love triangle. Daughter of woodcutter is in love with a young woodcutter, her playmate since early childhood, but has been promised to the blacksmith's son in marriage. The blacksmith's son is wealthy and the young woodcutter is not, and definitely not good enough for the daughter of a woodcutter when her mother is intent on selling, or rather giving, her daughter to the son of the man she once loved as she was given in marriage to the woodcutter. Add a zealous warrior of the church (Gary Oldman) with a silver sword blessed by the pope, a cadre of torture devices and mercenaries, and silver fingernails perfect for killing wolves, a town in which the pact with the wolf has been broken with Red Riding Hood's elder sister is savaged by the wolf, and the fun begins. It takes a while to unmask the real werewolf, by which time a few townspeople have been murdered, the zealous warrior unhanded, and the woodcutter's daughter, Red Riding Hood, ready to save herself from the werewolf after it kills her grandmother. It's a nice retelling of the old Grimm's fairy tale and visually appealing and bloody.

Since that was not enough to feed my wolf cravings, I resorted to my favorite wolf movie, Wolf with Jack Nicholson, Michelle Pfeiffer, James Spader, and a stellar cast. Now that is what the wolf needed, a good man bitten by what appeared at first to be a dead wolf on the way back from Vermont to sign a well known author to MacLeish House, a turn from vegetarian to carnivore, heightened senses, betrayal by his protege in business and with his wife, a beautiful and screwed up rich man's daughter, and a milque toast turns into a savage man right before your very eyes. I have to say, for all its cinematic beauty and wonderful casting, I never really saw Jack Nicholson as a milque toast for all his acting chops. He is more wolf than mild-mannered man battling a curse, and the way he embraces the wolf at the end is pure Nicholson. Michelle Pfeiffer is, as always, the most beautiful scenery and at her ethereal best.

Now that the cravings have been stilled for now, I can go back to my regular life a little sadder that werewolves don't actually exist and that there is no chance for the bitten to gift me with his wolfiness through his passion. More's the pity, too.

 

Weekends, UGH!

The weekend has finally arrived and I've looked forward to it all during the work week. That's the problem, though, the weekend has arrived and there's no more work week for two whole days.

Why do I call it a problem? For the same reason that kids complain but actually prefer their parents to enforce the rules. I need structure. We all need structure, and I don't mean the kind where every waking hour -- and a few of the sleeping ones -- on the weekend given over to filling the time with as many errands and chores and social engagements as possible, so as not to have to feel guilty about taking time off during the weekend. It's what I always called planning the fun out of life when I was married.

My ex-husband was one of those people who scheduled everything, including his bowel movements, same time every day. If he didn't have his morning bathroom time at the right time, his whole day, and thus his schedule, was thrown off and he was a real bear until he got back on track.

I'm more of a fly by the seat of my pants gal, in writing as in life, and I resent being told what to do and when to do it. I don't mind agreeing to a specific deadline or schedule, as long as I have some input in the process. I don't respond well to orders or demands, and don't even hit me with an ultimatum. That smile on my lips is not a good thing. Trust me. It is a promise of bad things to come.

And yet here I am complaining about the weekend when all I need to do is read, write, and loll about for two whole days. It's exhausting when you get right down to it and I just discovered I almost look forward to the work week so I know there will be a rhyme and reason to the daylight hours, and the nighttime, too. I can -- and often do -- get the urge to blow off work and loll around reading, writing, and sleeping on occasion, but that's only because I get burned out. But being forced (there's that word again) to loll around reading, writing, and sleeping is something else again.

Maybe it's not the lack of structure that bothers me but the idea that now I have to lollygag, as my grandmother would say, about. Yeah, that's it.

Okay, it doesn't make sense, but I don't have to make sense. I'm a writer. It's in the rules.

Review: The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

A stunning tale that turns the genre on its head despite literary contortions and acrobatics.

Jacob Marlowe has been a werewolf for one hundred sixty-seven years (a fact he keeps repeating throughout the book) and is about two hundred years old. He has made his mark, accumulated a vast fortune, and has no wish to continue the allotted four hundred years of a werewolf’s life. Marlowe knows the Hunt has killed the rest of his kind. He is the last and he is ready to return to the site of his creation and welcome the Hunters. His friend and familiar, Harley, wants Marlowe to go on living and Marlowe simply wants out. There is nothing left to live for and life feels pointless.

Grainer, the lead Hunter, plans to take Marlowe out personally. Marlowe killed Grainer’s father many years ago and both are ready for the showdown of their lives.

The vampires want Marlowe as well and it will be a race to the finish to see who wins the prize in the end. The difference between vampires and werewolves is all about language. Vampires speak and read and werewolves do neither, except for Jacob Marlowe.

As in The Last Werewolf, Marlowe and Glen Duncan share the same problem, too many words. Add several different writing techniques—lack of punctuation, run-on sentences, stream of consciousness, literary acrobatics—and the result is a mish-mash of styles in an episodic tale that takes a considerable amount of time getting to the point. Duncan’s writing is at times pompous and overwrought as he flexes his literary muscles, much like a bodybuilder posing in front of a mirror.

I considered tossing the book a few times, but Duncan surprised me by throwing a curve and I was off again chasing Marlowe and trying to figure out who was playing whom. As frustrating as the writing is at times, Duncan tells a compelling story and, when he sinks his teeth into it, does so with breathtaking speed.

The Last Werewolf takes the mythology of lycanthropy, throws in vampires, who loathe werewolves as much as werewolves loathe them, becoming physically sick in each other's presence, but need them to conquer their last frontier. The result is an exercise in planned obsolescence and science that fuels a race to the finish, leaving an ending that offers a satisfying sense of hope and promise. Duncan uses the werewolf mythology to good effect, penning a stand-out novel in an overflowing genre rife with copycats and the same-old, same-old.

It's Live

It's not often I get a chance to plug my book, so please forgive me if I plug mine.

Among Women just went live at David Wisehart's Kindle site. Take a look.

Much of what goes on in jails has been sensationalized for movies, television, and novels. What really happens is very different. Orleans Parish prison in New Orleans is jail, despite the name, and Pearl Caldwell was incarcerated there for six weeks, six interminable weeks when she didn't know how long she'd be there or when she'd get to see a judge or a lawyer. Among Women is the story of those six weeks and what led up to being jailed. It is also the story of how Pearl's eyes were opened and her views changed of the kinds of people who end up in jail.

She began writing as a way to maintain her sanity, but became a confidante, a modern Scheherazade, who wrote down the stories of the women she met and came to know. The long hours, the injustices, the tales of the women are woven in and around the core of Pearl's experiences. It's not an easy story, but it one that at last can be told.

The time is late December 1984. The place is New Orleans. The story is Pearl's and the women of Orleans Parish Prison.

Among Women is available at all bookstores in print and ebook. Also available at Smashwords in all ebook formats. Check it out. You'll be enlightened if you do.

Leaves on the Winds

It wasn't an addiction in the beginning. It was an idea.

I had just seen the mini series about John and Abigail Adams and had read some of the background material about their letters, those personal and intimate letters. That is how it began.

There was a little stationery in my cache of goods and all I needed was a little more stationery and a new fountain pen. I bought both and began writing, at first a letter to a friend or two and once in a while to family. Writing letters wasn't anything new. Letters and envelopes had poured out of the printer over the years. Now I wanted something more personal, a piece of myself offered to friends, a trail that led to the heart of me, to the often anachronistic me, in my own hand.

My handwriting had deteriorated after years of neglect, and after years of scribbling in paper journals, most of which are written in a coded kind of shorthand, not to hide information but to make the writing go quicker. Quick writing is seldom legible; it is scribbling. I can read the entries, often with a little difficulty, but I wrote them and I know the code. Letters would have to be neater, clearer, something anyone could read, and so I began.

Handwriting letters causes physical pain, mostly in the hands, fingers, and wrist of the writer, and cramps seized my hand at odd moments, increasing until by the end of the letters it ached. Anyone who says writing doesn't change you is wrong. It changed my hands. I had no idea how out of shape they had become, at least as far as dexterity and strength were concerned. Typing, which I have done a lot over the past 40+ years, uses a different set of muscles and makes different demands on coordination. Bluntly put, my penmanship needed work, a good bit of work.

Taking long breaks between letters while waiting for answers that never came left me with aches and pains and cramps after writing a few letters. The only answer was to write more letters, be more diligent. Okay, so no one was writing back (okay, one or two responded in kind once in a while); that could not be a factor in the plan to hone the art of letter writing. These were my messages written on leaves and sent on the winds of the U.S. Postal Service and must continue whether or not anyone responded in kind.

I flirted with sealing wax but deemed it unfit for letters sent by mail and not by pony express. Letters would jam in the USPS machines and would end up at the other end in shreds or perhaps one small corner in a plastic bag with a contrite message of apology. "Your mail was caught in our machines and we do apologize for your loss." As much as I like the idea and the whole fire melting wax and ornate seals pressed into the heated glob, it wouldn't work for modern machines, so it was out. There was a momentary sigh of loss and lost opportunity, but only a moment's worth.

The stock of stationery dwindled and was replaced with more of the same -- at least until I checked out another stationery site. There were cards: greeting cards, birthday cards, thank you cards, invitations, just because cards, and blank cards. Blank cards with space for writing little messages. That was a good idea, and so a small purchase was made.

The cards didn't last long, what with all the writing and keeping up my dexterity, strength, and writing abilities, so more cards were purchased. A few extra dollars in the budget and off I went to purchase more blank cards and occasionally more stationery. One fountain pen was followed by two and three and more until I owned six fountain pens and a dip pen. A cobalt glass inkwell with a silver lid followed -- there has to be a place to keep the ink since the ink bottles, utilitarian as they are, were not pretty enough, didn't make enough of a statement with the fountain pens and colored inks.

Yes, the switch to colored inks began innocuously enough with a sample pack of all the inks that Levenger offers. One cartridge of sixteen colors were tried and a winner selected. Not blue -- that is so common. A regal purple fit for a queen, fit for my letters. All I had really wanted was an ink light enough to show up on some dark blue envelopes that went with some special correspondence cards (I had added those to my letter writing repertoire) and I ended up with Regal, which is Levenger's name for that royal purple.

I often wonder if the ink is still made with the special shellfish that were ground up and used to color the satins, laces, silks, and velvets worn by royalty in days gone by.

At any rate, the addiction was full blown at that point. Boxes of blank cards and stationery and correspondence cards stacked in spaces once occupied by books and magazines fill the cubbies on my desk. A box of the latest offerings holds another cache of cards.

Such an addiction needs feeding. Birthday cards, get well cards, just because cards, and holiday cards fill out the list and I'm looking and lusting after a Waterman pen that is far more expensive than any pen I have previously purchased. A Venetian Murano glass dip pen twinkles at me and suggests I give it a try and there has been a brief flirtation with a real quill pen and not some modern hybrid with a nib to make it easier to use. A real quill pen will require a pen knife to shittle and shape and of course a supply of quills, should I find I enjoy the effect, may have to be worked into the budget. I can give up more of the clothing allowance and, since I'm on a diet and eating more packaged food (good packaged food), money can be diverted from that, and a second job to fund this addiction could be worked into my already over worked scheduled, but it's writing letters. Personal and private missives that delight the receiver and fill me with purpose and joy. What else can I do but give in?

I never intended to get this far into the whole handwritten letter thing, but I am caught and I want to continue. Few days go by without me choosing and picking up a fountain pen, checking the ink, choosing a card, and writing a little something to my friends and family. I began with a very small list that has become a much larger group of people that every week or two get some little glimpse of my life and my improving penmanship.

Imagining the look of surprise and maybe even the smile that flashes when they receive an envelope addressed to them gives me pleasure, and I am adding to the belles lettres (although probably not quite that belle) in the world. I need no longer look for pen pals or beg some stranger to write to me. I write the letters and look forward to the rare response that comes my way.

The addiction is mine. I own it. I admit it. I'm not going to stop it. I enjoy the time spent with pen and ink and paper. I don't even mind the cost in postage, to which end I have purchases supplies and a program and print out my own postage. It's an addiction that can be as expensive or as cheap as the addicted wants. I prefer quality in my tools and that costs money. So what if I don't have a closet full of shoes or purses and I didn't buy a brand new toaster or electronic toaster oven? I have boxes of stationery, boxes with changing contents, and I write letters.

My cooking might be remembered (it is quite something to remember) and someone might keep a memory of some stray comment or joke I once told, they might even pull out pictures of our times together, but there is nothing more lasting than a letter written by my hand and kept in a bundle, perhaps tied with a ribbon, and some day stashed in a trunk in the attic for some future someone to find, read, and smile over. While all that might be true, it still remains something I do for myself -- and for my friends -- a bit of the past alive and well in the modern world, a part of old technology with new tools, letters sent off on the winds like poetry written on leaves and offered to the fates, a piece of me and my world alive and well that brings someone a smile or a tear. What better way to spend a couple of moments or a quarter of an hour? I can think of none better.

One Trick Ponies

Can anyone learn to write? Yes.

Can anyone learn to be a writer? Not really.

No matter what people and teachers will say, not everyone has it in them to be writers. That's a good thing. Everyone has a talent, a desire to do something or be someone, but not everyone can or should be a writer. That is a lesson that came home to me again this week.

The publishers of the Chicken Soup for the Soul anthologies send me regular call-outs for new books. Since my stories have been featured in six books, it makes sense they want to hear from writers who have been published with them before.

One such call-out came a month ago. The book was for stories about caregiving. While I have taken care of my ex-husbands and children (the kids were much easier), I don't consider myself a caregiver. I have helped out with relatives and friends, but still no real caregiver stories. I did, however, know of two people who had stories to tell and it would be a nice to see their stories in print.

My sister Beanie took care of our father in the last months of his life without the help of my other sister Hoity-Toity and my brother The Mushroom. What began as a bit of resentment for having to do it all alone and put her own life and family on hold, turned out to be a rich and memorable experience full of love and laughter. We are talking about my dad and there was always laughter, even when the cancer was devouring his bones and he was in great pain. That was just Dad. I've written about him before, but this story was Beanie's to tell.

I didn't help out because they all lived in Ohio and I live in Colorado. I wouldn't mind the commute, but I really couldn't afford to fly back and forth every day.

I told Beanie about the book and urged her to write about taking care of Dad, explaining she had until August 31st to get it done.

"That's not long enough," she complained. "Why don't you do it?"

"Because it's not my story. It's yours."

"I could tell you and you could write it."

"Nope. It has to be your story. I'll help with editing."

I could have heard her sigh without the telephone. "You'll rip it to pieces. You always do."

After a short explanation of editing and a discussion about how my ripping her work to pieces helped her earn As in her college composition classes (a required subject), she relented and agreed to give it a try.

My next call was to my aunt. She had just lost her youngest son Timmy and had taken care of him in his final days. Timmy was forty-eight when he died a few months ago. I knew it would be a tough sell, so I suggested it gently. She took to the idea right away and said it might help. (She's been crying for months now and I thought writing the story about caring for Timmy would be cathartic even if it was never published.)

We were off to the races -- or rather they were off to the races and I waited . . . patiently.

Beanie sent me her first draft about two weeks ago. I edited it, suggested some changes and sent the edited version (marked up in red and "ripped apart"). She was reluctant to open the files and finally did. She found out it wasn't quite as bad as she thought it would be. I suggested she add more about what it was like to take care of Dad and she said she'd get to it. "Better yet," she said, "why don't you write it and send it in? I've done the hard part."

"We talked about this and the answer is still no."

That's when the truth came out.

"I worked on that for three weeks. I tried to write it when we went camping, at night when the kids were asleep, at work when there was nothing to do, everywhere. Every time I started writing or thinking about it, I got a headache. I have too much going on and I can't go through that again. Either make the changes yourself -- I'll tell you what I did -- or forget about it."

I really do not and did not understand what there was about writing that gave her a headache. Writing helps clear my head and gets rid of any tension headaches I get.

We went back and forth and finally I agreed to her solution. I'd write what she said and incorporate it into the story. I submitted the story yesterday with her information. She can use the money, but I thought getting a story published would also boost her confidence and show her that she could write. "It's just not my thing," she said. "That's more your turf."

She's right about that.

My aunt was easier.

Aunt Anne worked on the story, did a bit of tightening and rewriting, but couldn't get it printed out. Her desktop computer was ancient, at least ten years old, and Timmy's printer wouldn't interface with it. She told me about it after the fact, but I would have suggested copying the file to disk, going to Kinko's, and printing it out there. Cheap, fast, and reliable.

Aunt Anne bought a new printer. The computer didn't recognize it at all and the printer said she needed to upgrade her software. She wasn't about to pay $129 for a Windows upgrade, so she took her grandson's advice, went to Best Buy, and got a laptop for $298. The new printer installed quickly and she printed out the story, put it in an envelope, and sent it overnight to me. The clock was ticking.

Her grandson told her to get the computer, print out the story, and take the computer back. She wouldn't be out any money and she'd get the job done. The only problem with that idea was she liked the new laptop so much she decided to keep it.

I received the story today, looked it over, and noticed that it needed a little more about what it was like taking care of Timmy. I called. We talked. She answered my questions and gave me the go-ahead to add to the story and submit it, which I did this evening well ahead of the deadline.

Aunt Anne did good. The story was clear, touched the emotions, and there were only a couple of spelling errors. (She couldn't find the spell check on the new computer.) I told her I was impressed and I could hear the big grim over the phone."Well, you're the expert," she said.

"No, I'm just a writer with some experience."

"I'm a one trick pony," she added when I suggested she might like to try writing something else. "I love the new laptop, but I'm no writer. That's your thing."

I teased her a little (she used all caps to write the story) about getting older (she is 77 years old as of last Wednesday) and she laughed and teased me. We're family. She is definitely not interested in writing any more stories, but she did appreciate this challenge because it gave her a chance to write about being with Timmy those last days after he decided not to get the liver transplant, and she had something to share with her other son Jeff and Timmy's children. I learned something, too, about what it was like for her, although I knew because we talked on the phone nearly every day. She lives in Ohio, too, and it's still nearly 2000 miles away.

My sister and my aunt rose to the challenge and got a little satisfaction from writing about their experiences, but Beanie isn't fond of headaches and Aunt Anne only had one story she wanted to tell. They are content with what they've done but they don't want to be writers. That's my thing, as they both reminded me.

No, not everyone wants to be a writer, nor should they. Someone has to read the books, stories, and articles writers create.

I would have welcomed both my aunt and my sister into the family of writers if that had been their choice. It just is not going to happen. I'll keep correcting Beanie's grammar, spelling, and punctuation when she emails and Aunt Anne will keep me on tap to help her get the most use from her laptop. That I can do.

Even though they're not writers, nor do they want to be writers, it's nice to know they appreciate the work and talent that goes into my writing. If nothing else, they understand me a little better. I guess that is enough for me -- and for them.

Connections

I was browsing through The 10% Solution.

I mean the $9.99 book by Ken Rand, not the movie about Sherlock Holmes going to see Sigmund Freud, which is really The 7% Solution since Holmes was in all things careful about his health. That centered on a time when opium dens flourished and cocaine and other drugs were sold over the counter and readily available, when the police only went to opium dens to do the job of detecting, question suspects, and pick up dead bodies and the government was more involved in intrigue and governing the country and not filling the prisons with drug addicts who, they believed, could go to the devil in their own way as long as murder, theft, or fraud were not part of the deal.

They (the British government) also had a strange idea that if the prisons were full to capacity with the downtrodden, debtors, and real criminals who had stolen, defrauded, murdered, beaten, robbed graves, burked people to provide bodies for medical students who needed a cadaver to study, or were mad and shut in Bedlam, among other ills due to the financial disparity between the upper, middle, working, and lower classes (the lower classes driven to crime to feed themselves, their families, and buy gin to get drunk and numb the pain of reality and poverty), the malcontents and miscreants were packed off like chained sardines to Australia where they were out of harm's way, decreased the surplus population, and could drink, whore, steal, drug, and whatever into oblivion away from the increasingly cramped confines of London and the countryside. Australia was also a good place for political prisoners who objected to the poverty, government, and way of life that denied a man all pleasure and sustenance, as were India, the colonies, the Bahamas, Africa, and the other outposts of British control. What's the use of having all that real estate without real Englishmen to populate the lanscape?

Aah, the golden days when the rich got richer and the poor could still get drunk, do drugs, and whore without risking jail. The rich drank, did drugs, and whored, but the likelihood of them seeing the inside of a jail cell was remote. Rank and funds doth impart immunity and privileges. Oh, for the days of opium, a 7% solution of cocaine to relieve boredom and ennui, and plenty of gin, even without the tonic.

I was browsing through The 10% Solution, which is a slim paperback volume priced far too high for the content, about writing tighter, moving the story along faster, by eliminating extraneous words. Those words are mostly connective words, writers' tics, that impede the flow of speedy progress, which is fine in a newspaper report or radio report, but not so fine with regard to the cost and content of books. It's all connected. Everything is connected.

What Rand writes about, in the tone of a sales letter that is long on words and short on getting to the point, is removing words and syllables like And, ly, that, of, ing, but, etc. Those words can provide color and a hint of the writer or character using said words as narrator or in dialogue and are not necessarily obstructive, but Rand believes them to be so, hence the book, which is more an article and less a book without the large type and small size of a less than trade paperback. The cover is nice and so is the introduction by a big fan, and well known author, whose name escapes me at this point.

(Oops, one of those phrases that should be edited out . . . at this point . . . and I do see the point, especially when typing up operative reports in which doctors repeatedly use that and other phrases that basically boil down to and then this happened and then that happened and then and then and then instead of getting directly to the point without all the fluff. "I used a scalpel to cut down through the layers of tissue and entered the abdominal (peritoneal) cavity. The hernia sac contained incarcerated bowel (omentum, muscle, fat, etc.) and was reduced back into the abdominal (peritoneal) cavity, ligated, and closed. Etc., etc., etc. Instead, (another verboten word in tight writing) the doctor goes on and on at length adding as well as instead of and, at this point, instead of moving on or at least using at that point since the text is in past tense, as is the rest of the sentence, and so on. I'd rather have a concise and tightly written/dictated report and lose the pages than have to go on for five minutes -- or up to 20 minutes -- with fluff and garbage. Get to the point.)

To get back to the point (pointless words that do not move the narrative forward), the book is a bloated explanation of a very simple process, something that George R. R. Martin calls sweating the text, which is a screenwriter's term for getting out the fluff and condensing fifty pages to ten, which can be done. I've done it in editing my own work, removing my own writer's tics. Writing tight isn't really my problem since I err on the size of tightness in the first place (self-editing as I write) and usually need to pad the text, only I pad with description and characters and action instead of erm, but, or, at this point, as well as, etc.

Whenever I am forced to listen to, watch, or read reams of text just to tell me a product works with a couple of examples, maybe a testimonial or two, and the price it will cost me to get this miracle, I skip down to the text. When faced with a video scrolling words or a talking head reading said sales text, I shut it down, run a search on the topic, and cut right to the chase.

What I'm am getting around to writing is that, while I do agree with the subject of the over priced book, I don't appreciate paying more than it's worth. Some would say, a little prevention is worth the price of a pound of cure, but they knew the prevention cost less than the full treatment. I'd give Rand's writing tip top marks for the central theme and a big thumbs down for the price. I've bought, read, and written books that didn't cost as much.

I suppose the real point in this meandering post is that everything is connected some way. I started with Sherlock Holmes, moved through scriptwriting, operative reports, and sales letters and came out at the same point where I started. Sort of. I didn't mention the price in the first sentence; that came everything is connected and makes ours a much more interesting life and -- in this case -- a review of a good pamphlet that should not have been a book.

I highly recommend the content. Consider getting the book second hand or checking it out of the library and copying the important material. It's cheaper.

At a Slower Pace

My brain tells me that 87 degrees is not that hot. It's less hot than my body temperature and tolerable. Just try telling my body that. My body feels warm and uncomfortable and I'm considering another long cold shower. Anything to feel cooler, even for a few moments. Perception and reality don't always agree.

I recently read a book where the story took place at an almost glacial pace. At first, it was irritating and I just wanted the author to get on with the story; that was what I wanted when I sat down, a story that moved. As I got further into the book, I realized there was a point to the slow pace. The author was in effect demonstrating the time dilation effect (time carried by a iced snail) and how it appeared to the characters. To have moved at a different pace would have ruined the effect and the story. Some things you cannot race through, and that story was one of them.

At the end of the journey, I was satisfied with what I had read and the pacing, tone, and characters fit together perfectly.

Since I am curious by nature, and by temperament, I decided to check out the reviews on various bookstore sites. What initially irked me -- the pacing -- was something that irked many of the readers sounding off. They complained about how slow the book was and felt it was a strike against the book. The readers had missed the point of the pacing. The book was supposed to be slow so the reader could experience the endless hours with the character, and all the readers wanted to do was race through the book and get it done.

The perception was at odds with the reality of the situation. They perceived the book as slow when the story was told at the same speed the main characters experienced it, and was effect. Most of the readers didn't agree. I felt the same way about Heinlein and Austen when I first essayed their pages. I didn't see the point. Time and experience have given me a much different perspective and reality of both.

There are times when a really good book can't be appreciated because the reader isn't sufficiently educated about the style or at a point in his life when subtleties are lost. Subtlety is not a big favorite in a population where news is delivered in sound bites and movies are all about action, action, action, fitting the story in the brief (all too brief) pauses. Everything must move at the speed of sound, but the speed of light would be better. It seems that so few people understand or appreciate a more sedate pace.

Fast food restaurants, speedy oil changes, rushing to work -- fast, fast, fast. All we do is run. How many times do these high powered people mosey down the trail, meander along a lane overarched with trees budding, in full flower, or blazing with autumn colors, or simply stop and savor each and every bite of a meal -- even if it isn't a decadent chocolate cake so rich each mouthful is a sensual explosion of flavor? Gone are Sunday evenings in the park listening to the local band or taking a leisurely stroll in the garden or down the street in twilight or gathering dark. Gone are the subtleties of life, and those subtleties have been gone long enough that few people reember what it was like to stop and enjoy the moment.

Literature has followed and much of what is written today (thrillers, adventures, crime novels, etc.) are being driven by television and movies, by the blockbuster summer movies full of special effects and explosions and chases and by the holiday movies that contain their share of the same summer blockbusters trimmed with baubles and lights and people racing around trying to find the perfect toy for a child who has a house full of toys and games strewn everywhere. Short attention spans is what are being bred by this fast-paced world and they are so short people have lost the ability to appreciate a story that unfolds rather than races to a breathless conclusion. These are the people raised on time lapse photography that showed the birth and death of a flower or insect or storm in the space between commercials.

Many good books and authors are being remaindered and criticized for a slow pace when the pace is part of the style and tone of the novel. Maybe the readers just haven't reached the point where they can appreciate what these skillful writers have achieved, novels that will endure and continue to find fans who have not forgotten what it means to enjoy a book instead of race through it. They haven't reached the point I have so that Heinlein and Austen and even the often lethargic flow of Faulkner provide meaning as well as entertainment.

I can only hope that somewhere along this race track of life people get a flat or spin out and off the track with a broken axle so that they are forced to slow down and stroll back to the pits and just enjoy the sights, sounds, smells, and taste of life.

Stop, Take a Breath, and Sit Down

There are times I look for something, tearing the house apart, certain I remember where I last saw and put something, and just cannot find it. Then, suddenly, it's right in front of me. It happens with writing that way, too. At least, it happens with me.

I have been struggling with finishing the latest book and just could not get back into the scenes or the characters' minds. Try how I might, nothing worked. I struggled, fussed, fumed, and generally forced words onto the page in a semblance of what should be there and it all felt flat. It read even flatter. Nothing was working, so I took yet another break.

The last time I visited this particular book was three years ago when I decided to veer off in another direction and write the novel I published earlier this year. Three years is a long time to put something off. The characters were still on the page. I knew where the story was going. Nothing sounded right. I could not connect to the excitement, the enthusiasm, or the language needed to get the story written. It was like looking for something and tearing up the house when all I had to do was stop and wait and it would magically appear. That's what happened in the wee hours of last night.

While asleep and dreaming peacefully (or not so peacefully where my dreams are concerned), I heard Delilah's voice. She had begun to tell her story and kept on talking while I slept. Slowly, her voice pierced the dream to the point I knew who she was and that I had to wake up and take dictation while she was ready to speak, so I woke up, opened the computer, and started checking email, and running the usual cycle of websites as she continued to talk.

At some point, through the haze of half-dreams, I opened up Word and began typing, and there it was, that connection I had tried so hard to find, right before my eyes and tripping off my fingers onto the keyboard. There was some hesitation. I felt like a doe walking into a familiar clearing and scenting danger in the air. The danger was intangible and the thought of losing the connection was palpable. I kept typing and ignored the danger, found my calm place in the writing zone, and the connection held.

One of the most important things I've learned about hiking is about getting lost. Instead of running around frantic to find the path, the smartest thing to do is sit down and take a breath. That's what I did with the novel. Bashing at it with words got me one flat chapter. Taking a step back and taking a breath got me half a chapter and back into that much desired connection with my characters.

I don't recommend waiting until the muse hits or inspiration strikes, but writing. I continued writing other things, blog posts like this one, for instance. It's more important to be open to the characters, leave a wide open connection, than it is to bash at the problem as the characters move farther and farther away.

My problem has been due to a disconnect with the story line and the characters and, in writing a period piece like this Victorian gothic novel, the right connection is all important. I have vowed not to go haring off after another book that needs to be written now while the iron is hot. I have had story ideas that gestated for years before they came into being on the page, and this one has been put on the back burner twice to bring books to publication. It's Delilah's turn to shine.

This time I'm following a slightly different direction, but it's not far off what I thought was true and will result in a satisfying conclusion and the book that I've been trying to write for some time, ever since an article on Jack the Ripper and a conversation about Victorian morality made the connections in my brain that began this journey. I should have learned the lesson a long time ago: finish what you start. I'll finish it, somewhat later than originally planned, but this time I won't lose the connection. Excuse me, but I have work to do.

 

What's in it for the Boys?

Amanda Hocking wrote about an article she read on the NY Times Sunday Book Review about boys and their reading habits that I found interesting. Basically, what the article said is that the numbers of boys who read is because current YA books "...lack the tough, edgy story lines that allow boys a private place to reflect on the inner fears of failure and humiliation they try so hard to brush over. Editors who ask writers of books for boys to include girl characters — for commercial reasons — further blunt the edges."

While the article did mention some specific books targeting boys, I think the problem is simpler and more basic. Boys do read, but the boys who read books early in life are usually the boys whose time is not consumed by sports or a lot of outside activities. With all the schoolwork and extra curricular activities and sports, who has time to read for pleasure? There are only so many hours in a day.

I do agree, however, that the reading landscape is much different now than it was in the 1950s and 1960s, and even into the 1970s, and has become more constricted because of the fear of upsetting parents and creating yet another war over what books should and should not be allowed. The classics are safe and time-tested and edgier current novels less so. Boys began reading children's books about explorers and then moved on to adult males like Heinlein, Hemingway, and Steinbeck. Nowadays, boys move from children's books, if they read at all, and are flummoxed at the length and breadth of adult and YA literature due to the predominantly female protagonists -- or maybe not. Could it be that boys and men are lying about what the read for fear of being thought gay?

I know many men and young men who read a lot. None of them are or have been overly involved in sports (that time thing again, only 24 hours in a day). They do enjoy gaming, which tends to be a more active pursuit than sitting quietly in a chair and reading, but they do not care much for the novelization of their favorite games, most of which read like gaming manuals. In cases like that, it's better to play than read. The men I know read across a wide swath of literature, from nonfiction to science fiction, fantasy (mostly vampire and werewolf fiction), and a few into the verges of romance and mainstream fiction. They like Grisham and Palahniuk as much as Rowling and Meyer. My brother, who has always been a voracious reader, sticks pretty close to science fiction and fantasy (IT professional) and enjoys Anne McCaffrey and Piers Anthony. For him, it's the writing and characters and not whether they are male or female.

For what it's worth, the literary landscape, in my estimation, has become as narrow as the minds of principals and schoolboard members. Women writers used to write male protagonists as believably as their female counterparts and there was no gender bias either way. While there are still some good writers able to cross gender lines with their protagonists, and quite a few emerging that write gender neutral and gay stories for readers of all ages, the choices are limited unless you know where to look, and care about looking at all.

When all is said and done, the real numbers about whether or not boys and men are reading and what they are reading are skewed. Not everyone likes to talk about what they're reading or that, like my nephews, they are reading Stephanie Meyers and Charlaine Harris and Kim Harrison, among other paranormal writers, where the protagonists are female and the emphasis is on romance and sex. I suspect it has always been that way. Then again, my nephews were never big on sports and neither was my brother. An active life in sports takes up time with preparing and training for the game, playing the game, and dissecting and talking about the game after it's over, none of which leaves much time for reading.

It all comes down to time and whether or not there is enough time for reading. I'd like to see a study with that as the focus instead of whether or not the fiction is available for boys to read and not feel as though they are being stereotyped.

Editing, the Gentler Side

Editing professionals is often difficult. Few writers thank you for bloodying their pages. Editing amateurs is usually much worse. Case in point: editing my sister's story for anthology submission.

Professionals, and most advanced amateurs, realize that what they write isn't perfect and it often takes a practiced eye to catch the faux pas, grammar goofs, and sentence structure problems that should be fixed, especially if publication is the goal. Editing my sister is always an exercise in perceived brutality and rampant perfectionism (mine) and inflicted pain and torture (hers). I am neither a brute nor a rampant perfectionist, but you will not convince her of that. I live to correct her. No, I live to write and correcting writing is a byproduct of the process, and I've dealt with my share of slash and burn sessions with editors, some of which I accepted with grace and some I accepted with grace after a spate of turning the air blue with curses, calling the editors' intelligence and competence into question, and envisioning the editor staked out naked over a red ant hill covered in honey in the middle of a desert with a pool of water just out of reach, although those incidents are rare and no editors have been harmed, except within the confines of my very fertile brain.

My sister (I'll call her Beanie. It is her nickname after all) sent me her essay about taking care of our dad when he was dying of cancer four years ago. She got a few facts wrong (dying four years ago and not five) and has a tendency toward run-on sentences, most of which are immediately apparent. It's the way she talks as well. It's partly my fault because I told her to talk it out and then type up what she recorded.

The central theme of the essay is taking care of dad and how that felt, which is in there. It is buried beneath a ton of sibling rancor and emotional detritus that is not going to make it into an anthology that is meant to feature the up side of life. This is all mostly downer. I get to tell her that she needs to dump most of what she has written and write more. She's going to love me.

The point is to do this delicately without hurting her feelings too much. She expects a little pain since she's known me all her life, but the pain must be quick and minimal. It's a balancing act.

The trick is to point up the good things -- and there are a few of those -- and show how to make the bad things go away or improve with a positive slant, sort of like political spin, except not so blatant. The point of the essay -- how difficult it was to balance her own life with taking care of dad -- is buried three paragraphs down and the dialogue is not in dialogue format. The latter is an easy fix. More description is needed, like how dad looked and how she saw him, and that will be fairly easy to fix once I can dig and drag it out of her. Beanie is a very private person and not so in your face and out there as I am. Another balancing act is necessary: me balancing criticism with praise and guidance.

It can be done and, in this case, must be done. Even if Beanie never writes anything else for publication, at least she will have tangible evidence that she wrote a memorial to Dad and shared it with others. It will be cathartic and also a bit of an ego boost that she had something published, both of which she needs right now. My job is to get her published.

One thing I've learned in editing and critiquing is that people remember what they read last. It is important to emphasize the praise and gently insert the criticism. I must do something right because, despite my red pen wielding slash-and-burn editing sessions, many of the writers I work with keep coming back and sending more people my way. I'm certain they turned the air blue and cursed me to the lowest circle of hell before they thanked me for my help. Beanie will curse me directly and will remember the time I slashed and burned my way through her writing right before she thanks me for helping her make the writing better.

When Beanie was taking some college English courses, she ranted about my editing. When I asked her what grades she received, she smiled and said she passed with an A. I hope a similar scenario will ensue, which is writer speak for, I hope she feels the same way this time.

In editing, as in dealing with anyone who could be homicidal given the right circumstances, it is best to deal gently with the writer, especially when the writer is an amateur. Use their words to best advantage, praise the good things, and help the writer see why removing a chunk of the text makes the work better. Last of all, add a dollop of praise and a pat on the back, and step aside to avoid the sling and arrows of the outraged writer. You'll live longer and be able to edit again.

The White Rabbit's Dilemma

"I'm late. I'm late for a very important date." The White Rabbit checked his pocket watch, twitched his long ears, and tugged down a corner of his waistcoat. "I'm late. Can't stop or off with my head." He ran off with Alice chasing after asking, "Why? What's so important?"

It's not verbatim from Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland, but the gist is about right. The White Rabbit raced to and fro across Wonderland while the Caterpillar puffed on its hookah and contemplated the fate of the Underverse, which is where down the rabbit hole leads. It all comes down to time. Time enough to do what needs doing and time enough to relax and do what you really want to do. It's all about time.

The same is true for people on the surface of this planet, people rushing to and fro, checking their watches, cell phones, and clocks wherever they happen to be, checking their look in mirrors and windows on businesses everywhere, to make sure they are looking good and on time. It doesn't pay -- or so the saying goes -- to be late or look less than perfect, unless you're homeless where hygiene and the best designer clothes just will not do. The right look, the right time, the right everything -- and no one thinks about the finer things in life or what all those gadgets and time-savers are actually saving time for.

People spend more time in the bathroom washing away every scent that doesn't come out of a bottle or from a jar, bar, or potion. Teeth must be whitened and hair washed, conditioned, gelled, moussed, fluffed, blown dry, and tousled to look just right. Clothes must be pressed, dry cleaned, washed, and hung on special hangers -- wire hangers just will not do. Drapes, curtains, furniture, cappuccino machines, milk frothers, food processors, blenders, microwaves, griddles, grills, juicers, pulpers, composters for trash and food, and all the spices, herbs, and flavorings to make breakfast, lunch, and supper memorable meals with plenty of sweets and cakes, pies, tarts, turnovers, and cookies. Everything must look and taste the best and no one must be bored.

So much time spent rushing around making sure everything looks perfect, smells sweet or spicy, making money to buy things that must be cleaned, polished, wiped, and looked at, time spent accumulating things at prices less than fifty years ago would have been considered insane, and all done with the television and stereo blasting and nothing is really getting done, especially if you're a writer.

I always wanted to be a writer, says the person who is certain that being a writer is a life of ease and personal appearances, book signings, readings, and cashing huge royalty checks, but I never had the time.

No, they didn't have the time because there were too many other things in the way ticking like bombs that must be defused or at least put on pause while they exercised, watched TV, ran the kids here and there, and generally wasted time fussing with complicated recipes or going to get dinner and bring it home because there was no time to cook. How much is lost because we think we don't have enough time.

It all comes down to time and time is mostly wasted. If you can write 500 words a day, that comes out to two typed pages, you can write a book in a year. Write 1000 words a day, four pages, and cut that time in half, finishing a book in six months, 180 days. That's two books a year, and if you're middle-aged, that would still be sixty books over the next thirty years, providing you have thirty years, and forty books over twenty years isn't too bad either. If you're in your twenties, do the math. Two books a year and a working life span of at least forty years and that's eighty books. It is possible when you break it down to basic math, but it's not the pages that will get you, it's the time.

Time lost. Time wasted. Time spent moaning and groaning. Time used watching television whilte talking on the cell phone or playing games on the computer or chatting on Facebook, LiveJournal, or Twitter. Any number of blogs or web sites beckon and begged to suck the teat of time and leave nothing for writing, for living the dream you've been harboring in some secret locked part of a mind cupboard.

Technology is supposed to save time, give time for other more important things, and I don't mean shopping, networking, socializing, or whatever it is you do with the time that is left over from not having to do things manually, the hard and slow way. Typewriters made writing books easier (for writer and publisher) by making the words legible and set in a specific format. Word processors took it to the next level and left behind Wite-Out and correction strips, carbon paper, and special erasers, and computers took the process one step further, saving the words and pages in the correct format on floppy disks and then on thumb drives, about the length of the thumb. The words don't take up much space in ones and zeroes, and a 16GB drive will save thousands of books -- if you write them -- but it all comes back to time. Making time, having time, spending time -- to write.

When there were fewer gadgets and time saving devices, people had fewer demands on their time and fewer sirens seducing them to waste time. Work got done. Meals were made and dishes washed and put away. And books were written, and what books they were -- and are. It's all about time.

We all have the same 24 hours each day, but how we spend them is up to us. We can spend the time working to acquire more things to make life easier that will suck up more time away from that dream of writing books, which is not necessarily a glamorous life, not down here in the trenches where the words are written, stories are plotted, characters are given life, and books are put together, but it is a life that offers some rewards, not the least of which is satisfaction in seeing dreams come to life. It's a life. It's a choice -- a choice in what to do and how to spend all those hours saved from other labor, a choice that means turning your back on the seduction of things and get down to the nitty gritty of writing a book. Two pages a day or four pages a day, or ten pages a day, it can be done. All it takes is time.

Do you have the time?

The battery in my watch is dead.

The above is 1137 words, a little over four pages, and it took me 20 minute to write. How about it? Have you the time?

Riots, Powder Kegs, and Time

Parents out of town and teenagers, left to their own devices, will have a party. It's like the reason for climbing Mt. Everest, or any big mountain, because it's there. Food, alcohol, plenty of space, and the parents are gone, so why not have a party. That's how I see the riots in England in the wake of a constable's death. It's a reason for a party or, in this case, a riot. A chance to break into shops and take whatever is wanted -- or needed.

In times of economic difficulty, especially in the heat of summer when tempers are short and the temperature is high, cities and towns are like powder kegs with fire burning nearby. One inch to close and BOOM! The constable's death was an excuse, not a reason, and the powder keg blew with stunning force. Shop windows were broken and contents damaged and stolen. Police were called out to keep order and one bookseller, whose store was in the heart of the rioting, kept his cool. He is reported to have said that if the rioters want to steal his books it was fine with him; they might learn something. That's the thing about books, they change a person's perspectives, feed a hunger for education, and provide a safe place to play and imagine a different life. It's why most authors write books, too, and, evidently, why booksellers get into the business of selling books to the public.

Borders, a bookstore that has been an institution, is now closed. The remaining stock will be parceled out to remainder shops or other bookstores to satisfy some of the chain's debts and the stores will remain empty, homes for spider, or will morph into something else: a dance club, a big box bargain or scratch and dent store, or even a getaway for drug addicts looking for a safe place to shoot up or smoke themselves into a different reality. Too bad they didn't get hooked on books and fall into worlds created just for getting away from reality and imagining a different life.

It wasn't in a Borders bookstore, although I spent many hours on Sundays when I was living in Texas, reading, sipping fruit juice, water, or hot chocolate, writing in a journal, or reading a book I picked from the shelves, but in a Waldenbooks bookstore in the Westgate mall in Columbus, Ohio where I got my first taste of worlds and adventures that would change my perspectives and my life. That was where, from across the store, I caught sight of a book cover with three people on it, grouped together like a force of nature. I was drawn to the Science Fiction and Fantasy aisle of the store and I picked up the book. It was Three Against the Witch World by Andre Norton. I was fascinated by the blurb I read and bought the book, taking it home with me. I haven't looked back at that moment for a very long time, but, last night while I was being interviewed for a biography about Andre, that moment came back to me as clear and sharp as it was the moment it happened nearly forty years ago. I was in full reverse mode, sharing the books and stories that I remember best, and talking about a friend who is now gone, a woman who became my mentor, and we met in a bookstore.

I received a Kindle a few months ago and I thoroughly enjoy being able to download books to read. The Kindle is light and convenient and the battery lasts quite a while, especially if I turn off the screensaver. I found that out the other day when I had to recharge it, thinking I had a lot more time on the battery. Even though I already own A Storm of Swords in paperback (part of a four-book boxed set), I decided to buy and download the book to my Kindle. Am I the reason Borders went out of business?

As self-centered as I can sometimes be, I know I'm not the reason Borders closed their doors. Bad business practices is what did Borders in, otherwise Waldenbooks, Barnes & Noble, and Books-a-Million would close their doors and call it quits. All of those bookstores, Borders included, sold more than books. They also sold CDs and DVDs of music, movies, and television shows, stationery, magazines, and pens, and some of them sold coffee and food. No one person or lack of people is responsible for Borders going under. It's like the riots in England, no one precipitating event caused people to slip their tethers and go berserk. It's a lot of different reasons catalyzed by a single event or series of events. Borders was a powder keg and someone lit a match too nearby, so it blew.

I don't mourn Borders too much. There are still bookstores with little cafes where I can sit on a Sunday sipping iced cappuccino and read a book on my Kindle or write in a journal, and there are plenty of small bookstores that will now get the book buyers and browsers who once frequented Borders.

These are volatile times financially, politically, and businesswise, powder kegs with fire sparking and burning nearby. There is no telling which powder keg will explode first. Anything is possible. There might be some good Samaritan who will put out the fire and put move the powder keg to a safe place -- or not. Nothing stays the same for long. Everything changes.

One thing never changes and that is the need and desire for knowledge and a place to get away from the cares and woes of the world, places that can be found in a book. Like the bookseller who said, "Let them break in and steal the books. They might learn something," I, too, am confident that what people want can be found between the pages of a book -- print and electronic -- wherein is contained the wisdom of the ages -- and quite a few silly and bad stories. Jump in, the reading's fine.

 

Price Fixing and Other Publishing Games

A year or so ago, Amazon knuckled under to the big publishers and agreed not to discount their ebooks any more. It was a tough decision and Amazon hung out as long as possible, but in the eleventh hour there was nothing to do but bow the head and take it like a big corporation should. It was tough to see the end of that fight . . . but it's not over yet.

It looks like Apple and the Big Publishers are facing a lawsuit for price fixing. Imagine that. Apple and the big publishers wanted to keep Amazon on a leash because Apple and Steve Jobs were afraid that Amazon would get into the movie and music downloading business, and Jobs wanted that corner of the world for himself. Guess it came back to bite him in his nether regions and he may be forced to give up hsi dream of world domination.

A few days ago, Steve Jobs, looking very thin and ill and having some trouble navigating the stage, unveiled the Apple iCloud, which is similar to the Amazon Cloud Drive, and how even the Mobile Me, which Jobs admitted was a bust, would be incorporated and the annual price, which was $99/year for Mobile Me, was now free. It was a moving moment for the audience, as was the demonstration of what iCloud will do, and that is synch all input from the cloud to every device -- as long as you own Apple products (Mac, iPhone, iPod, etc.).

The thing is, in business you don't beat the competition by making them play on a different field or by taking them off the field completely, but by playing head to head and toe to toe and may the best man win. That is not what happened with Amazon last year and not what is happening now.

On forums all over the Internet, people are complaining about paying near hard cover prices for ebooks. The perceived value is that a file endlessly downloaded and formatted once should not cost as much as a hard cover, paper and board book, and even more than a paperback because there are no physical resources involved. Militant readers are calling for boycotts of the big publishers and waiting on books they really want to be remaindered or become available as secondhand books. Either way, publishers aren't paying attention and neither it seems is Steve Jobs at Apple. They can't see readers are beginning to fight back.

To further expunge all mention of Amazon or links to Amazon in ebooks, books sold in the Apple store through Smashwords must have no mention of Amazon, or any other bookstore, and no links are allowed, which cuts an author's chance to cheaply market their ebooks. Not everyone owns a iPhone, iPad, or Mac and authors know that. Making links to other bookstores is one way to provide access to books and offers a few alternatives for point of sale. When I submitted the revised version of Among Women to Smashwords I was told I had to take down all links other than Apple iStore links or my book would not be distributed at all. Apple's draconian measures affect all the bookstores where Smashwords distributes ebooks, including Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Diesel, Kobo, Sony, etc. Since when does one store have the right to determine what is and is not allowed for other stores? Never, until Apple got into the price fixing and smash Amazon game.

Add to that little titbit, the news that the big publishers' accounting systems are out of date and sales of ebooks are being under reported. In other words, more ebooks are sold than are reported and authors are not getting paid royalties for all ebooks sold. That's not news to authors. We know what is and is not going on with our money.

Publishers have been playing an end game that is going to cost them the reason for their existence -- authors. Self-publishing is looking better and better, even if an eStributor, as Joe Konrath calls agents to help package and manage sales of ebooks, is involved. Even though it was not their intention, it looks like the big publishers and Apple, under the guidance of Steve Jobs, who has not gotten over what happened in the beginning days of computers and operating systems, are going to have to pay for their price fixing and cavalier attitudes towards authors and competitors.

Every day is a new day and in the publishing word outside of the behemoth that traditional publishing has become, each new day hammers a new nail into the coffin. When you add in factors like literary agent, Andrew Wylie's railing against the 30% share of the market distributors like Apple and Amazon get from publishers and calling on publishers to stand firm against such tactics. The Jackal, as Wylie is called, said that Amazon and Apple should be willing to go quid quo pro and give publishers 30% of sales of iPads and Kindles to publishers if they wanted to protect the 30% they demand stating, "They [Amazon and Apple] have the device, but they cannot sell it without the content." Wylie's deal with Amazon to sell ebooks of his clients' back lists seems to fly in the face of his stand against Amazon and Apple, especially in the face of Random House publicly censuring Wylie by calling him a competitor instead of a deal broker between authors and publishers.

Yes, boys and girls, this is a volatile age we live in and the battles in publishing have just begun. Personally, not having to deal with agents and the ponderously slow time table of publishers seems more and more like a smart move, especially when my own publisher can't be bothered to send out quarterly statements quarterly and prefers to do it annually. Granted, the sales have been slow, but they have picked up and here we are in the third quarter without a single word from the publisher. At least Smashwords and Amazon pay every month without fail, no matter what royalties have been earned.

 

When All Else Fails -- Discipline

One of the most wonderful things in the world, at least for me and those like me, is writing. One of the worst things in the world is not writing, at least as far as being prolific is concerned, or finding oneself unable or unwilling to write. That's where discipline and habit come in.

The act of writing is a choice for some, a necessity for a few, and an addiction for others. Writing is more than just putting words on the page, virtual or paper. It's a calling and a curse. It's joy and sorrow and heartbreak and proof of life and heart and mind and determination. Without putting too fine a point on things, in order to be viable as a writer, as a published writer, it is necessary to develop, learn, or get into the habit of writing, to be disciplined. Often, discipline is the only thing that will keep a writer going when the going is hard and there seems to be no other way to get the words down.

It takes six weeks to create a habit and a lifetime to keep it going. Stephen King, in his book On Writing, writes about his daily regimen, his habit, his discipline and everything he does to make it happen. Even on vacation in England, he continued to write; he doesn't believe in taking days off. The result of his discipline is an impressive body of work.

I remember a story about a 19th century writer who worked in the local post office. He got up early in the morning and wrote for a specified amount of time, shutting himself in his room to write. When he finished one book, he didn't rest on his laurels or allow himself the luxury of marketing, networking, socializing, or post publishing blues, he picked up another sheet of paper and began his next book, continuing to write until his time was up and he must leave for work. That is discipline, and it is also commitment to the task.

As I've struggled with moving forward on the latest book, I've found that I have lost steam, lost headway in the process. I let the book sit for too long and have had trouble getting back into the minds of my characters -- at least on a conscious level. Unconsciously, all the characters are there, especially my narrator, and she speaks to me at odd times -- most often while I'm sleeping. The only trick (and it's not really a trick per se) I know is to just get on with the business of writing, keep the fingers typing and the pen full of ink and moving across the page. I cannot afford to let this book drop out of sight because it is a good book, an interesting book full of all kinds of contradictions, surprises, truths, and a fair amount of horror. What I have lost, other than time, is that forward momentum that propelled me through the last book in two weeks. That's what I need now.

Since I'm out of the disciplined habit of writing every day at the same time (I prefer early in the predawn hours because I tend to be more focused and creative at that hour), it's time to get back into the groove and rebuild my habit, reforge the discipline necessary to get through this rough patch.

Writing isn't all champagne launches and standing room only queues of fans waiting for a moment to hobnob with the author and get a signature on a copy of the book. Writing is like anything else that is worth doing -- a long hard slog at the worst of times and a determined one foot in front of the other procession down the path without side trips.

Back into the breach I go, full of determination and knowing that what comes out at first may well and truly suck, but will get easier and better with time -- with discipline.

Heigh ho, heigh ho, it's off to writing I go.

If you're having trouble getting the words onto the page and can't seem to get them just right, the only thing left to do is write and keep writing and then, in the cold harsh light of day, go back through and edit, rewrite, and do what's necessary to turn the straw into gold. You may find that some of that straw glistens already and what you thought was sub par may be better than you hoped.

Discipline is the key to keep going and the fear of the page or failure or success or whatever is bothering you will fade away as the daily writing habit kicks in. Don't let it fool you. Vacations are optional and there will always be time for that hour or two or five when it's you and the page and the words.

Good writing.