Anny Cook's Blog, page 81

Quality Control

Over the last six weeks I've read a LOT of books. Mostly new books but also a sprinkling of older ones. The older ones were usually the early ones in a series since I always re-read a series when I buy a new series book.

Over all about 90% of the new stuff was crap. It really saddens me to say that, especially as most of those books were written by authors I've considered "keepers". But it also angers me because I'm in the publishing world and therefore I know how it works.

Spelling errors, grammar and punctuation mistakes, and general idiot mistakes shouldn't happen. I'm not talking about plot or character issues here. I'm pointing to very basic technical aspects of writing. The kind of mistakes I'm discussing here should not happen ever--not because of an editor or critique partner or beta reader--but because the writer checked his/her work.

I cringe every time a writing professional uses peal (a bell sound) for peel (the outer skin on a fruit). Or shutter (window covering) for shudder (shiver or tremble). Not too long ago I discussed the issue of wrong word/spelled right with a fellow writer. She excused it by saying she didn't learn the difference in school.

And?

Are we or are we not writers? Wordsmiths? Is that not our profession? Then how can we say "oh, well" and shrug indifferently before we move on? Buy a dictionary and learn how to use it!

Where is the pride in workmanship in a book/blog/e-mail/blog comment that is riddled with errors and misspelled words? I freely confess that I'm a judgmental witch when it comes to deciding whether or not I will buy a book from an author who cannot write a simple error free e-mail or blog comment. Sorry.

In all the numerous discussions I've read, blame for a poorly written book is always dumped on the editor. Nope. Authors need to man-up or woman-up. That name on the front cover is yours. Responsibility for the text between the covers is yours. If you don't give a damn, why should anyone (including your mother or best friend) spend their hard-earned money on your book?

And since I'm having a rant...

If you don't have a story to tell, then don't copy your last book, change the names to protect the innocent, and then try to sell it to me as a new book. Don't put seventeen sex scenes in the book and hope I won't notice there's not any story to hold them together. And don't wrap up the entire non-existent plot in the last paragraph, hoping that I won't notice.

Lest you, the gentle reader, believe I think I'm better than other writers let me just share my thoughts on that. In the last three months I've taken the time to re-read every single published book I've written. As I read I made notes where I had questions, errors or continuity issues. Out of twenty books, I judge seventeen were the best work I was capable of at the time they were published.

Have I learned more about my craft? Yes. And with every new book hopefully I incorporate what I've learned. That's my goal. That's my motto. I want every book I write to be the best I can write at that time.

So I confess there were three books I fell far short of my goal. If I could I would re-write them. Revise them. Work until I produced something that made me proud to have my name on it. Since that's beyond me right now, all I can do is go forward.

I look for that same attitude in the writers that I read. If a writer demonstrates their lack of responsibility or workmanship, then I move on. The world is full of books for me to read and life is short.

I once bemoaned disappointing royalty numbers in an e-mail to a very dear friend. She sensibly smacked me up the side of the head and pointed out those numbers reflected people who spent hard-earned dollars on my book! They could have as easily bought someone else's book.

For every single person who has invested in me, I say THANK YOU, from my heart.

Rant over...

anny

Downtime...

Downtime. A standard question on author interviews is "What do you do when you're not writing?" I find it interesting that few writers actually answer the question. Some joke around or snort and point out there isn't any non-writing time, but most don't admit to doing anything except writing.
That can't be right. If all authors did was write, there would be no shortage of books. Really.
They may be sitting in front of a computer. They may even be typing. But I'm pretty sure that writing isn't what is happening. While necessary to the furthering of careers (though that can't exactly be true because Mark Twain didn't have facebook, twitter, or e-mail) most hours spent in front of the computer are for promo--not writing.
Entertaining as facebook or twitter might be, they aren't very good for the heart or body. I have to confess crocheting and calligraphy aren't either. So what do I do when I'm not writing?
The spousal unit and I go shopping. Not "buy the store out" shopping. It's mostly window shopping. We park waaaaaay out at the end of the parking lot, walk to the store, and then walk around and around and around inside the store. When we're tired, we pick up one or two items we need and then we walk back out to the end of the parking lot.
We also play Wii bowling. Three or four games at lunch time. and another three or four at dinner time. Aside from the standing aspect, competition is good for the soul. And someday I might even be able to beat my grandchildren when we go for a visit. It's soooo pitiful when your four-year-old great grandson can beat you at bowling.Laundry and dishes are good to keep the old ticker beating. Walking around the parking lot is good. Swimming is good. All of those are within my physical capabilities.
But after all that exciting exercise, I need something calming and soothing. Something to help me relax. My chosen activity is reading. From things other authors have posted on facebook and twitter and even shared with me personally, I don't think writers read enough. 
The power of the written word isn't only for readers--those nebulous people out there that read our books. It's important for us, the writers, to be readers, too. That's how we refresh our souls and minds. Reading engages our imagination.
Everyday I set aside thirty minutes to read about something new. Over the weekend I learned about the history of the saddle horn and how to use a tinderbox. Did you know there really is such a thing as a tinderbox? I didn't. I've read books that have described the use of such an item, but the writers never actually referred to it with that name.
And saddle horns weren't part of the western saddle until the 1830's. English saddles don't have a saddle horn. So my book--set in 1829--should not have saddles with saddle horns. I read several articles about how saddles are made and all about the history of saddles. I was amazed at the work involved. Did you know a saddle should be fitted to a specific horse? I didn't know that either.
I also read several articles on women's rights, two pieces on poisons, and another long article on quilting. (Just in passing, there's no safe way to induce vomiting and if you're poisoned, throwing up might not be the best way to go.) As I read, story ideas kept pinging my brain. Ping, ping, ping...
The other kind of reading I like to do is the news from small towns. A lot of small town newspapers are on the internet now. When you read those you get a renewed sense of what motivates people--what makes us run. Too often big city stories are buried under all the crime and violence. But small town stories about a son or daughter returning from college or military service, weddings, funerals, and that proud picture from the prom...those are the everyday stories of life.
Finally, I read books. You know, longer stories that take more than ten minutes to scan. I read all genres--except horror--because I just can't wrap my mind around that. I read authors I admire. Some I read because I love their way with words. Others I read because of the emotions they evoke. And some I read because they make me laugh. Whatever the reason, I read for refreshment. 
That's my downtime. What about you?
anny

Writer's Blockage

Wouldn't it be nice if it was as easy as that? I have an idea it just might be. You see, I suspect writer's block is our body trying to tell us we need to do something other than veg out in front of the computer.

Maybe we need to go for a walk. Or do the laundry. Or do the grocery shopping. Or bake a cake. Something. Something other than sitting in front of the computer.

Oh, I know all about BICHOK (butt in chair, hands on keyboard.) BUT, I think that's not the main problem anymore. The main problem might be e-mail, facebook, blogs, games...even a good book. Anything except actual writing.

That's not writer's block. That's lack of discipline. Before you throw tomatoes at me and hotly contest the necessity of all those other things, just tell me--what percentage of your computer time is spent in writing?

I know about promo responsibilities. The thing is this--with no book, there's nothing to promo. Zip, zero, nada, zilch.

So think about that the next time you're tempted to check out facebook or twitter or your e-mail. Can you really spare the time? Really? Do you have your daily quota of writing done? Just what is your daily quota? Are you telling me you don't have a daily target?

Every writer should have a daily target. It doesn't have to be ridiculous. And of course, when life interferes, life interferes. But that target can help center the writer, giving them a focus and goal. I know writers that aim for 100 words a day. Everything over that is gravy. I know others who shoot for 1000 words a day. That's great. Whatever the target, it should be a daily target.

Why do you suppose that is? I believe we all work best on a daily schedule. When we do, we're not as likely to be overwhelmed. What's the difference between doing the dishes daily or doing them weekly? Aside from running out of dishes, the sheer magnitude of the job is daunting to say the least.

If your daily writing goal is 100 words (or 500 or 1000), you also have a sense of real accomplishment when you meet your goal. And you might even have an urge to continue on, to see where the story is taking you. Who knows? You might even end up with a 1000 words.

Tomorrow when you sit down to meet your daily target, you'll sit down with a refreshed attitude. That's what it's all about actually. Our attitude can be self defeating. Or it can be self motivating. Which would you rather have?

anny

Character

Whenever I have reader chats, inevitably I get questions about when I'm going to write a book for so-and-so. And the answer? Maybe never.

Not all characters present their creator with a story. Actually, most of them don't. Or some of them nudge the writer with their story two or three years later. The character that speaks to multiple readers might be silent to the author.

I have a wishlist of characters my readers want stories for...a long wishlist. On one hand, that's a wonderful review of the characters I've created. On the other hand, not all characters will have their own story.

Sometimes I can give my readers a little bit by offering them glimpses of the character in a secondary capacity in a story. But as a reader myself, I know that isn't always satisfactory. When a secondary character grabs you by the throat and hangs on, you want to know what their story is! You demand it.

One of my all time favorite secondary characters is Cat in The Windflower by Laura London (Tom and Sharon Curtis). For many years I waited in vain for them to write Cat's story. A couple years back I finally read an interview in which they said they'd never planned to write Cat's story. So sad...

When my readers ask me about writing a story for a secondary character, I try to be honest and up-front with them. Some characters aren't speaking to me. Some aren't ready. And some may never be ready. That's reality.

Having said that...who knows? One of them could suddenly wake up and demand to have his or her story told. It's been known to happen.

So tell me. Who is the secondary character you want a story for? It doesn't have to be one of mine... Tell me why you want the story told.

anny

Vagaries of Promo

I'm signed up for RomantiCon, Ellora Cave's conference scheduled the end of September. For more info click HERE . Conferences and conventions always lead to thoughts about promo stuff. How much? What's the best? What works?

Truthfully, I suspect most of the items given away at such events end up in the round file. Paper products are especially vulnerable so book marks, trading cards, business cards, etc. usually are quickly discarded unless the reader is a collector of those specific items.

Magnets, pens, lip gloss and small items like them have a slightly longer shelf life, though pens are likely to be forgotten somewhere along the line. Of course, pens are what I call traveling promo. They change hands a lot so the exposure of an author's name is considerably wider than with other items.

I believe the promo item should be chosen for specific tasks. For instance, if I want to keep my name in front of one reader, then a magnet or mug will likely do the job. Magnets or items such as mugs or key chains are seldom immediately discarded.

However, if you want your name to spread over a wider circle of potential readers then you need a traveling item such as a pen, pencil, or a packet of sticky-notes or notepads. These items tend to travel from person to person.

I'm undecided about contests. Ultimately several people might enter the contest if the prize is sufficient. However, at the end of the day, only one person is the winner. Somehow, that doesn't seem quite fair.

There are other ways to spread the word about my books. Blogs, webpage, social media, and chats are just a few. I prefer something a more personal than a broadcast announcement about an upcoming book. Once a month I have a chat at Love Romances Cafe where I "chat" with readers (and authors) who show up. The authors post excerpts, but mostly we chat with our readers about whatever they would like to know.

Tonight (Tuesday) at 7 PM EST it this month's chat. Do you have a burning question you need answered? Or do you want to know what I'm working on now? Drop by and check it out. Heh. I'll offer you plenty of opportunities to ask questions. Check out the info in the upper right hand corner!

Or leave me a comment telling me what YOU would like to see as promo at a convention. I'm always interested to know what my readers are looking for!

anny

Ahhhhh-choo!

 Spring! The sun is shining! The flowers are blooming! The trees have leaves popping out! And...it's allergy season with burning, teary eyes and wheezing breathing.

I never had allergies until I was past middle age. I remember sitting in my doctor's office with my eyes watering. He asked what the problem was.

"My eyes feel like I have boulders in them."
"Hmmm. Let's have a look."
"Well?"
"You're right. You do have boulders in them. Big pollen boulders."

He gave me eye drops (which I despise!) and sent me on my way. Since then I've added wheezing, sneezing, and coughing to my repertoire. Every spring is a positive symphony of aches and pains.

And yet, I still love the color and scents of spring. I just love it mostly from indoors. How about you? Anyone else having a tussle with spring?

anny

Waiting Room

I've arrived at the conclusion that doctor's waiting rooms are the most uncomfortable places in the world. An increasing number of them have televisions blaring--usually on a channel that features one of those "tell all your personal, private business" programs. If not, then it'll be set on the twenty-four hour news channel.

Inevitably, the room is either too hot or too cold. The exam room is always freezing. The bathrooms are down the hall, around the corner, and up a flight of stairs. You just know if you go to the bathroom, they'll call your name, skip you if you're not there to answer, and you'll end up waiting longer.

And the forms they ask you to fill out...am I the only one who wonders who designed them? One of the questions on the form I filled out yesterday asked about medications. They wanted the dosage and how long. How long what? How long have I taken medication for that particular condition? Or how long have I been on that dosage? What???

A few weeks ago I filled out a form at another doctor's office. The instructions for a list of conditions--Check all that apply. Apply to what? There was no explanation. Did they want to know if I've ever had these symptoms/conditions? Or if this was a recent problem? I'm sixty-one years old. That's plenty of time to have an entire raft of symptoms/conditions.

Eventually, they called my name, took me back to a tiny room and weighed and measured me. The technician instructed me to stand on the scale facing her. Was that so I didn't drop dead from shock when I saw the number? Ten more pounds. It was enough to make me consider walking out of there from the get-go.

But no. If I stuck it out, I'd be done for another year. So I removed my shirt and bra, slipped on the gown (open in the front) and joined my fellow sufferers in another small waiting room. And waited. And waited. And waited.

By then I needed to go to the bathroom again. You guessed it...down the hall, around the corner, up the stairs...and of course they called my name while I was gone. And then took four more patients before they called my name again.

By this point I was sweaty (very warm waiting room) and very conscious of how my unsupported boobs were sticking to my chest. Ugh. Stuffing the gown in the crease, I tried to...pat the skin dry.

The technician was a lively cheerful woman who chatted with me in a friendly manner while she pushed and pulled my boobs like they were so much silly putty before smushing them in the machine. "Hold your breath!" Beep, beep, beep. "Okay, you can breathe now."

Flatten 'em one direction. Flatten 'em the other direction. I'm having hot flashes and she's cheerfully smushing the boobs again.

Finally we're done.

Please. Let me out of here!

Until next time.

anny

Things I Miss

There are some things I wish were still around. You know...like the telephone. Sorry. A cell phone is not a telephone. A cell phone is a collar and leash. Just when you believe you've escaped from the constant demands of the world around you, it rings, reminding you of your servitude.

In the old days when you walked away from home or the office, there was that zesty feel of freedom. Freedom! Nobody could reach you. Children made independent decisions based on the skills you'd taught them. Your co-workers actually had to think and act on their own. Bill collectors and importune friends were out of luck when you went shopping or heck...just for a walk.

I miss the telephone because you could attach a gizmo to the handset, perch it on your shoulder and get on with life. No plugs in the ears or craning your neck to hold the two-by-five-inch piece of crap next to your ear.

I miss the days before call waiting when the line was busy. If people wanted to talk to you they called back!

I miss the days when I didn't know all the personal business of total strangers. I didn't have to hear how Susie is pregnant and George is sleeping with that witch that lives next door. I didn't know that the lady next to me on the bus was dodging bill collectors or the man at the next table in the restaurant hasn't paid his rent in three months.

I miss the days when I could sit peacefully in a public restroom taking care of business without having to know all about how Tiffany isn't sure who the baby's father is.

I miss the days when the news media had a clue about classified and top secret. And I especially miss the days when the media didn't insist on sharing every single gory detail of every single crime they reported. There are some things I don't need to know.

I miss the days when underwear was worn beneath the outer wear and the only person who knew what color underwear you were wearing was your spouse or your mother. If you were old enough, not even your mother knew.

I miss the days when no one felt compelled to share the most intimate details of their lives on television. I miss the days when dignity and sobriety were the norm and drunkenness was something people were ashamed of. I miss the days when people didn't go to the store in their pajamas and robe. Heck, they didn't even go to the front porch to get their paper in the morning unless they were dressed.

I really miss the days when our fellow countrymen paid more than lip service to our flag and national anthem. You might remember...back when men removed their hats and people stood respectfully quiet or even actually singing! I miss the days when people were proud to be an American and showed it by displaying the flag every day instead of only when our country has suffered a trauma.

I miss the day when young people strived for decency and respect.

Yes, I know the past wasn't perfect. Neither is the present. And some days that is more apparent than other days.

Blessings on your day.

anny

Media Bytes

By almost any scale, the last week of April was a gastronomical delight of media bytes. In an age when we rush from one Twitter to the next, believing we're in the know, this week was a superabundance of byte after byte after byte.

For the fashionistas, the wedding of at least the last two or three decades, complete with unimaginable pageantry and tradition was the most important story. Period. The bride was beautiful, the groom was handsome, and the fairytale atmosphere was exactly what thousands of little girls dreamed it would be.

For the disaster groupies, the terrible, terrible catastrophe of super tornadoes striking cities and country, leaving grief and destruction in their paths was a once in a century event. Death, loss, and terror stretched out over five days as storms and tornadoes wreaked havoc.

Those were the top two stories in the outer world. In Romancelandia though, the top story was about a quiet erotic romance writer. Her story was just the beginning of a firestorm that raged over social networks, blogs, newspapers, and television. What's up with that, you say? She's a teacher in her "daytime life"...an English teacher for twenty-five years and by all accounts an excellent one. A couple parents found out what her "parttime" job was and they took it upon themselves to "out" her, revealing her penname (or real name) depending on your view point.

All three stories were certainly newsworthy for different reasons. The media bytes revealed the pecking order for each story, though.

Wedding? Oh, yes. Coast-to-coast coverage from every possible angle. Absolutely. I don't begrudge the bridal couple their day. Quite frankly, they're going to pay for that with a lifetime of servitude and loss of privacy. I don't envy either of them the ride. I can't imagine living life under such an intense microscope where you're scrutinized every time you walk out your door.

Death-dealing tornadoes? Not so much. Over the course of the week I talked to people in other parts of the country that weren't even aware of the extent of the devastation. To people who've never lived in tornado country, a tornado is a tornado is a tornado. Many of them don't understand in fifteen minutes or less a tornado can pretty much turn a prosperous little town into a total wasteland that looks like a war zone.

As for the teacher/writer. Well, her colleagues turned out in force via the social media and backed her up. I'm proud of those who put up their hands to say this is wrong. I suspect there was a huge response because this fight was something people could do. It was something they felt capable of doing. After all, a tornado and the aftermath is beyond our capabilities, but this first amendment fight was not.

Ultimately, it might be the actual dissemination of information that determines response. We live in an age where we no longer expect detailed information and when a story requires more than 140 characters we turn away in boredom or irritation.

Well. Some stories are bigger than 140 characters. Some stories demand more than a perfunctory three minutes on the evening news. And now that newspapers aren't around anymore to disseminate in-depth news, where will we get the real deal?

No matter how accomplished we are as writers or  photographers or videographers, we need more than five minutes to convey the breath-taking pageantry of a royal wedding or the unimaginable horror of a EF5 tornado or the legal intricacies of how an author defends her career choice to the school board. We need more than a media byte.

anny

Cherished Destinies

Cherished Destinies in my Mystic Valley series is now out in PRINT! And it has a pretty new cover! If you'd like to read more about this book, click on the cover... and it will take you right to the page.

And in celebration, I decided to post an excerpt today. Enjoy!

Sitting on her front porch with her bare feet swinging above the ground, Silence clasped her hands together in her lap and shuddered. Papa said it was time to think about what she should do now that Homer was dead. Mentally, she shied away from the scene beneath the judgment seat and then shook her head in denial. No, she must not hide anymore. Homer was gone and she would have to think for herself.

What was she going to do? How would she live? Homer had always said they were too poor to afford any more than the bare necessities. Think, Silence! What can you do to earn barter credits?

Arano stood at the edge of her yard and called, "Silence! May I come closer?"

With a delighted smile, Silence clapped her hands. "Arano, you can help me. Please come here," she patted the porch next to her.

When he was sitting beside her, he waited for her to speak. It took a while but he had infinite patience for her and eventually she observed with heartbreaking simplicity, "Something is wrong inside my head. I think Homer broke something when he hit me."

With iron calm, Arano agreed, "It's possible. What did he hit you with? And when? Do you remember?"

There was another long period without conversation but Arano could see that her brow was wrinkled in concentration so he gave her the time she needed, though everything in him rose up in useless anger against a dead man. Finally, she said tentatively, "I think he hit me with a stick?" She nibbled her lower lip and then continued, "It was a long time ago. I think."

"All right. What would you like me to help you with?"

Silence frowned. "Homer said we are poor. How can I get food if I have no barter credits?"

Pursing his lips in thought, Arano looked down at the ground and considered how he should advise her. Then he smiled as he realized that this was one thing he could do for her without anyone thinking anything about it. "Silence, put on your sandals. We are going to the village."

"I don't have any sandals," she replied in puzzlement. "Why do I have to put on sandals to go to Lost Market?"

"No sandals," he repeated softly. "Why?"

"Homer said I didn't need them."

Arano had a notion that he was going to get exceedingly tired of sentences that began "Homer said." With a deep sigh, he hopped down from the porch, turned and
lifted Silence down before she could object and took her hand. "Come on. We need to go see Noah, the barter keeper. He'll know exactly how many credits you have."

"Me? I don't have any," she protested.

"Whatever Homer had when he died is yours now. So let us go see what he had," Arano explained patiently. "Then, we will go to my house to get enough leather for me to make you a pair of sandals."

"You! You know how to make sandals?" she demanded in astonishment.

"Almost everyone knows how to make sandals," he replied calmly. "I have exactly the right kind of leather to make you a pair of sandals. And I want you to wear them every time you go outside," he said sternly. "Every time."

Her head immediately bobbed in agreement and he sighed deep inside, conceding that it was going to take a long time for her to develop any autonomy at all. In the beginning he supposed this wouldn't be a bad thing because clearly she was going to need supervision as she worked on developing a little independence. But eventually she was going to have to learn to stand up for herself.

As they made their way down the path to the village, he was torn between pride and being totally pissed off. He watched her zig and zag from side to side avoiding the rocks and debris on the path and he was proud that she'd obviously figured out how to reach the village with the least amount of damage. But it enraged him that Homer had withheld something so basic as a pair of shoes.

When they reached the village, Arano led her to the small pink dome where Noah Jones kept the barter books and village records. She balked at entering the dome, uttering the familiar phrase, "Homer said…" and Arano lost it.

Clenching his teeth, Arano said with terrifying patience, "Silence, please do me this great favor. Do not ever mention Homer or anything he said to you again. Homer lied."

Silence's deep blue eyes filled with tears that threatened to overflow and her bottom lip quivered. "All right, Arano."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Arano beseeched all the gods of the ancients to give him an extra measure of understanding. "Silence, dearheart, I'm not angry with you. I am angry with Homer and do not wish to hear his name," he explained gently. "Now, whatever he said no longer matters because he is not here. Come inside so that Noah can explain everything to you. You don't need to be afraid because I will stay with you."