Peggy Jaeger's Blog - Posts Tagged "writing-inspiration"
Editing
I'm participating in the RWA challenge "THE END," and I've found myself doing something I never do while I'm working on my WIP : editing as I go.
When I write I almost always work from an outline, stick to it and then when the work is completed, start to edit. This time, though, for whatever reason, I am editing as I go...and I find I am liking it!
Even though my outlines are detailed, long winded, and very explanatory, every now and then a new little niggle of a thought or plot line change will worm its way into my mind. Most of the time I write the thought down and come back to it at the end.
Not this time.
For instance, the other day I was driving to work and saw a sign that said "Put God back in the -ass." Now I know that it should have read "class," but some wiseacre changed it. I found this funny - sacrilegious, but none the less funny in a skewered way. Part of my current WIP involves a girl who mis-speaks many times when she is nervous. So this got me to thinking about making her nervous tourettes-like symptoms more pronounced.
Back to my outline I went and wrote some funny miss-speaks into it to use during the telling of the story.
Editing as I go is new territory for me writing-wise, so we will have to see how it goes. If it takes too much time away from actually getting the words on the page in a timely fashion I will rethink the process.
But if it actually makes the story better the first time around, I just may have a whole new way to create.
Something to think about....
When I write I almost always work from an outline, stick to it and then when the work is completed, start to edit. This time, though, for whatever reason, I am editing as I go...and I find I am liking it!
Even though my outlines are detailed, long winded, and very explanatory, every now and then a new little niggle of a thought or plot line change will worm its way into my mind. Most of the time I write the thought down and come back to it at the end.
Not this time.
For instance, the other day I was driving to work and saw a sign that said "Put God back in the -ass." Now I know that it should have read "class," but some wiseacre changed it. I found this funny - sacrilegious, but none the less funny in a skewered way. Part of my current WIP involves a girl who mis-speaks many times when she is nervous. So this got me to thinking about making her nervous tourettes-like symptoms more pronounced.
Back to my outline I went and wrote some funny miss-speaks into it to use during the telling of the story.
Editing as I go is new territory for me writing-wise, so we will have to see how it goes. If it takes too much time away from actually getting the words on the page in a timely fashion I will rethink the process.
But if it actually makes the story better the first time around, I just may have a whole new way to create.
Something to think about....
Talking with #author M.S. Spencer; #newRelease #TWRP
Today I’ve got fellow Wild Rose Press sistah, M.S. Spencer visiting me. She has a new release out today, titled LAPSES OF MEMORY and she’s giving you a little glimpse into how the story came about. So, sit back and prepare to delve into the mind of a writer when inspiration hits! Here’s: M.S…..
Thanks so much for having me, Peggy. I’d like to talk a little about the genesis of my new romantic suspense, Lapses of Memory.
Usually, a story starts with a kernel of memory, or an anecdote, or even an image flashing across the inside of your eyes. Lots of things can trigger it—a news headline or a paragraph tucked away in the obituaries, a throw-away line from a conversation, or even a publisher’s idea. In the case of my new release, Lapses of Memory, it was the latter. A former publisher tossed out the idea of a series based on “love in the air.” Unfortunately, the high-pitched squeal I emitted sounded enough like “yes” to commit me to the project.
Now, rather than starting with a plot of my own devising, I had to come up with one related to someone else’s theme. Here’s the part where an image flashing across your brain comes in. Sitting quietly in what I euphemistically call my lotus position, I mulled. “Planes,” I said to myself. “Love in the air…snakes on a plane (nah, overdone)…old planes…my first trip on a plane…” Eureka (or aha, whichever you prefer)! I saw before me an enormous, bulbous silver bird with EASTERN written in red across the side. I’d recently seen it at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, and remembered because seeing it there made me feel old, since the plane was, in fact, the very first plane I’d flown on at age four. A Boeing 377 Stratocruiser, one of the first to make the transatlantic voyage a regular event, it allowed—with its sleeping berths and formal dining—for luxurious air travel in the 1950s.
My heroine, Sydney, would take that plane. And so would the hero Elian. Everything was going swimmingly, until I realized that, this being a contemporary romance, Sydney and Elian would be too young in 1958 to fall in love. So I was forced to make them suffer through an intermittent romance as they (and airplane design) matured.
LAPSES OF MEMORY
Blurb
Sydney Bellek first meets Elian Davies in the 1950s on a Boeing 377 Stratocruiser when she is five and he is seven. They run into each other every few years after that, but while he knows from the start that she is his true love, she does not. Later, as rival journalists, they vie for scoops on international crises from the Iranian revolution to the Lebanese civil war. The handsome and intrepid Elian beats her out at every turn, even while keeping his love for her secret.
Only after years of separation does she finally realize they are meant to be together, but this time, in a twist of fate, it is Elian whose memory of her is gone. Will he remember her before she loses heart or will their new love be enough to replace the old one?
Excerpt
Sydney pulled out her crossword puzzle, mints, pen, glasses, embroidery, and tissues and set them on the other seat before stealthily slipping the miniature bottle of Jack Daniels into the magazine pocket. She checked her ticket once again. They’d be in Rome tomorrow morning and from there the flight to Beirut should be less than five hours. As she searched for her seat belt, a husky voice behind her ear said, “Excuse me. I believe I have the window seat?”
The scent of licorice filled her nostrils. She looked up into a pair of deep indigo eyes, half-obscured by a tangle of hair the color of cordovan. He used his angular chin, cloaked in reddish brown stubble, to indicate his seat. She looked him up and down without moving and pronounced, “Elian Davies.”
He drew back, an expression of mock surprise on his face. “Sydney Bellek? Could it be you after all these years? My, how you’ve aged…I mean matured.”
Whatever joy she’d felt at seeing him faded. “You.”
He scooted around her knees, grabbed her stuff, dropped it in her lap, and sat down. “Me.”
She opened her crossword puzzle and pretended to work on it. He pointed a tanned finger at a spot on the page. “Eleven down is Oslo.”
“Duh.”
The stewardess came by. “Please buckle your seat belt, sir. We’ll be taking off in five minutes.”
“Oh, Miss…” He peered at her name plate. “Petula? What a lovely old-fashioned name!” He beamed at her. “Would you mind bringing me a glass of ice before we begin to taxi?”
The stewardess opened her mouth, then opened her eyes wide. “Why, you’re Elian Davies, the famous photojournalist, aren’t you?”
“At your service, Petula.” He bent in a graceful half bow.
“Right away, sir. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She tore down the aisle, knocking into passengers’ elbows and knees along the way. Holding a glass high, she ran back like a bartender in a Bastille Day race, and proudly plunked it and a packet of peanuts on Elian’s knee.
When she’d gone, he took a furtive look around and pulled a miniature bottle from his pocket. Sydney’s annoyance dissolved in giggles. “You too?” She pulled her own small whiskey out.
“Oh good, we’ll share this first one, shall we?”
She couldn’t say no, and besides, sipping kept her busy. Elian. She’d spent the last four years trying to hate him. It should have been easy. His reputation as an ace reporter and first-class scoop jockey had only grown since Tehran. Too many of her colleagues told stories of him racing across the tarmac just ahead of them to catch the final words of an escaping dictator, or jumping into a helicopter for a one-on-one interview with said dictator upon his triumphant return. Along with his derring-do came the even more infamous reputation as an inveterate ladies’ man, which the recent episode with Petula only confirmed.
She studied his left hand as it popped a peanut in his mouth—steady, strong, tanned. It looked familiar. Oh yes, I watched it unbutton my blouse in a supply room in Tehran. She turned away to hide the blush. When her cheeks had sufficiently cooled, she turned back only to have him glance away quickly.
Staring out the window, he inquired in a casual voice, “So how’s your boyfriend holding up while you’re off on these wasted efforts to follow in my footsteps?”
Her momentary affection melted away. Old Blue-Pencil Davies at it again. Prick. “They’re all moping of course, poor babies. And yours?”
“Me? I don’t hold with leading women on.”
“That’s not what your adoring public thinks.”
He swung around on her, the customary smirk on his lips gone. “They’re wrong, Sydney.”
The remark—and his deadly serious face—threw her. To cover her confusion, she sipped her drink. After a minute, he turned back to the window. As she watched his shoulders gradually relax, she reviewed the stories about him. From what she’d heard, women who crossed paths with him considered a one-night stand the standard reward. Could he be telling the truth? Just then Petula passed, slowing as she neared their row and heaving a soulful sigh. Sydney remembered the lovelorn look on her secretary’s face. He may not lead women on, but he sure draws them in.
Buy Links:
Wild Rose Press // iTunes // Amazon // B&N // Kobo // Bookstrand
About the Author
Although M. S. Spencer has lived or traveled in five of the seven continents, the last thirty years were spent mostly in Washington, D.C. as a librarian, Congressional staff assistant, speechwriter, editor, birdwatcher, kayaker, policy wonk, non-profit director, and parent. After many years in academia, she worked for the U.S. Senate, the U.S. Department of the Interior, in several library systems, both public and academic, and at the Torpedo Factory Art Center.
Ms. Spencer has published ten romantic suspense novels, and has two more in utero. She has two fabulous grown children and an incredible granddaughter. She divides her time between the Gulf Coast of Florida and a tiny village in Maine.
Contacts
Blog // Facebook // Twitter // Goodreads // Pinterst // Google+ // LinkedIn
M.S.’s calendar of events can be found here:
Romance Books 4 Us: http://romancebooks4us.com/Romance%20... OR
http://bit.ly/1d6ehza
Thanks so much for having me, Peggy. I’d like to talk a little about the genesis of my new romantic suspense, Lapses of Memory.
Usually, a story starts with a kernel of memory, or an anecdote, or even an image flashing across the inside of your eyes. Lots of things can trigger it—a news headline or a paragraph tucked away in the obituaries, a throw-away line from a conversation, or even a publisher’s idea. In the case of my new release, Lapses of Memory, it was the latter. A former publisher tossed out the idea of a series based on “love in the air.” Unfortunately, the high-pitched squeal I emitted sounded enough like “yes” to commit me to the project.
Now, rather than starting with a plot of my own devising, I had to come up with one related to someone else’s theme. Here’s the part where an image flashing across your brain comes in. Sitting quietly in what I euphemistically call my lotus position, I mulled. “Planes,” I said to myself. “Love in the air…snakes on a plane (nah, overdone)…old planes…my first trip on a plane…” Eureka (or aha, whichever you prefer)! I saw before me an enormous, bulbous silver bird with EASTERN written in red across the side. I’d recently seen it at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, and remembered because seeing it there made me feel old, since the plane was, in fact, the very first plane I’d flown on at age four. A Boeing 377 Stratocruiser, one of the first to make the transatlantic voyage a regular event, it allowed—with its sleeping berths and formal dining—for luxurious air travel in the 1950s.
My heroine, Sydney, would take that plane. And so would the hero Elian. Everything was going swimmingly, until I realized that, this being a contemporary romance, Sydney and Elian would be too young in 1958 to fall in love. So I was forced to make them suffer through an intermittent romance as they (and airplane design) matured.
LAPSES OF MEMORY
Blurb
Sydney Bellek first meets Elian Davies in the 1950s on a Boeing 377 Stratocruiser when she is five and he is seven. They run into each other every few years after that, but while he knows from the start that she is his true love, she does not. Later, as rival journalists, they vie for scoops on international crises from the Iranian revolution to the Lebanese civil war. The handsome and intrepid Elian beats her out at every turn, even while keeping his love for her secret.
Only after years of separation does she finally realize they are meant to be together, but this time, in a twist of fate, it is Elian whose memory of her is gone. Will he remember her before she loses heart or will their new love be enough to replace the old one?
Excerpt
Sydney pulled out her crossword puzzle, mints, pen, glasses, embroidery, and tissues and set them on the other seat before stealthily slipping the miniature bottle of Jack Daniels into the magazine pocket. She checked her ticket once again. They’d be in Rome tomorrow morning and from there the flight to Beirut should be less than five hours. As she searched for her seat belt, a husky voice behind her ear said, “Excuse me. I believe I have the window seat?”
The scent of licorice filled her nostrils. She looked up into a pair of deep indigo eyes, half-obscured by a tangle of hair the color of cordovan. He used his angular chin, cloaked in reddish brown stubble, to indicate his seat. She looked him up and down without moving and pronounced, “Elian Davies.”
He drew back, an expression of mock surprise on his face. “Sydney Bellek? Could it be you after all these years? My, how you’ve aged…I mean matured.”
Whatever joy she’d felt at seeing him faded. “You.”
He scooted around her knees, grabbed her stuff, dropped it in her lap, and sat down. “Me.”
She opened her crossword puzzle and pretended to work on it. He pointed a tanned finger at a spot on the page. “Eleven down is Oslo.”
“Duh.”
The stewardess came by. “Please buckle your seat belt, sir. We’ll be taking off in five minutes.”
“Oh, Miss…” He peered at her name plate. “Petula? What a lovely old-fashioned name!” He beamed at her. “Would you mind bringing me a glass of ice before we begin to taxi?”
The stewardess opened her mouth, then opened her eyes wide. “Why, you’re Elian Davies, the famous photojournalist, aren’t you?”
“At your service, Petula.” He bent in a graceful half bow.
“Right away, sir. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She tore down the aisle, knocking into passengers’ elbows and knees along the way. Holding a glass high, she ran back like a bartender in a Bastille Day race, and proudly plunked it and a packet of peanuts on Elian’s knee.
When she’d gone, he took a furtive look around and pulled a miniature bottle from his pocket. Sydney’s annoyance dissolved in giggles. “You too?” She pulled her own small whiskey out.
“Oh good, we’ll share this first one, shall we?”
She couldn’t say no, and besides, sipping kept her busy. Elian. She’d spent the last four years trying to hate him. It should have been easy. His reputation as an ace reporter and first-class scoop jockey had only grown since Tehran. Too many of her colleagues told stories of him racing across the tarmac just ahead of them to catch the final words of an escaping dictator, or jumping into a helicopter for a one-on-one interview with said dictator upon his triumphant return. Along with his derring-do came the even more infamous reputation as an inveterate ladies’ man, which the recent episode with Petula only confirmed.
She studied his left hand as it popped a peanut in his mouth—steady, strong, tanned. It looked familiar. Oh yes, I watched it unbutton my blouse in a supply room in Tehran. She turned away to hide the blush. When her cheeks had sufficiently cooled, she turned back only to have him glance away quickly.
Staring out the window, he inquired in a casual voice, “So how’s your boyfriend holding up while you’re off on these wasted efforts to follow in my footsteps?”
Her momentary affection melted away. Old Blue-Pencil Davies at it again. Prick. “They’re all moping of course, poor babies. And yours?”
“Me? I don’t hold with leading women on.”
“That’s not what your adoring public thinks.”
He swung around on her, the customary smirk on his lips gone. “They’re wrong, Sydney.”
The remark—and his deadly serious face—threw her. To cover her confusion, she sipped her drink. After a minute, he turned back to the window. As she watched his shoulders gradually relax, she reviewed the stories about him. From what she’d heard, women who crossed paths with him considered a one-night stand the standard reward. Could he be telling the truth? Just then Petula passed, slowing as she neared their row and heaving a soulful sigh. Sydney remembered the lovelorn look on her secretary’s face. He may not lead women on, but he sure draws them in.
Buy Links:
Wild Rose Press // iTunes // Amazon // B&N // Kobo // Bookstrand
About the Author
Although M. S. Spencer has lived or traveled in five of the seven continents, the last thirty years were spent mostly in Washington, D.C. as a librarian, Congressional staff assistant, speechwriter, editor, birdwatcher, kayaker, policy wonk, non-profit director, and parent. After many years in academia, she worked for the U.S. Senate, the U.S. Department of the Interior, in several library systems, both public and academic, and at the Torpedo Factory Art Center.
Ms. Spencer has published ten romantic suspense novels, and has two more in utero. She has two fabulous grown children and an incredible granddaughter. She divides her time between the Gulf Coast of Florida and a tiny village in Maine.
Contacts
Blog // Facebook // Twitter // Goodreads // Pinterst // Google+ // LinkedIn
M.S.’s calendar of events can be found here:
Romance Books 4 Us: http://romancebooks4us.com/Romance%20... OR
http://bit.ly/1d6ehza
Winding down in Atlanta; #RT17
I skipped a few days in my RT17 reporting because…life, you know?
Hee Hee. It actually was because my days were so jammed packed with events, workshops, signings, and meeting people that I didn’t have much free time to blog. Right now it’s a little before 4 a.m. and since I’m up and the gym is beckoning, I thought I might jot a few lines together.
Since we last met I attended my very first Kensington Books booksigning as one of their authors. thank goodness the room provided for us all was the size of a football field and a half because there were truthfully close to 1000 — if not more — fans who attended. My book supply went in less than 15 minutes of the 90 minutes we were allotted! I’d been fearful I’d be sitting there twiddling my thumbs and trying not to look mortified I wasn’t handing any books out. Never a worry, apparently! I met so many people who told me they were also going to be attending the giant book fair signing on Saturday and that they would see me there as well. I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating: Romance readers and the BEST and most loyal fans in the universe of readers. The lines were long and some people waited almost an hour to meet their fav author, but no one seemed to mind. I saw no crankiness, bitchiness, heard no complaining, and everyone— EVERYONE– was smiling. What an amazeballs event! I can’t wait to do it again at RWA in July.
Last night was the RT Reader’s Choice awards. At first I was going to attend because I was tired, missing my hubby, and needed a break from people-ing, ya know? But I sucked it up and went. Boy-oh-boy am I glad I did. Not only did I get to sit next to my newly “adopted” daughter ( My wonderful Lyrical Editor!!) I saw up close and personal some of my all time favorite authors and industry giants. I don’t want to make this piece too long by mentioning everyone but here are the ladies who have made my reading romance years the pleasure it has always been:
Karen Slaughter – one of the funniest chicks you will ever meet. Give her a microphone and just let her go!
Elizabeth Hoyt – writes historical sexual tension like nobody’s business.
Iris Johansen ( she’s a little tiny thing! Who knew??! She’s such an industry giant I figured she was 1o feet tall!)
Beverly Jenkins ( one of the most amazing women I’ve ever seen, for sososo many resons)
Sonali Dev – if you haven’t read A CHANGE OF HEART, run, run I tell you, to upload it, buy it, or however you read. Just GET IT!
Sherrilyn Kenyon – a true Georgia Peach
Karen White – beauty and brains rolled into one fab author
I’m here, writing today, and standing on the shoulders of these intelligent, articulate, and fabulous female writers. Some day, I hope an aspiring writer can say the same for me. These women simply make me want to write better.
So, today is jammed packed. I’ve got the giant book fair at 1030 this morning, and then another big party this evening. I may, no, make that WILL, need a nap somewhere in between
Be well and more to come…
If you want to see live updates from me during the events, you can find me here: Tweet Me//Read Me// Visit Me//Picture Me//Pin Me//Friend Me//Google+Me// Triberr
Hee Hee. It actually was because my days were so jammed packed with events, workshops, signings, and meeting people that I didn’t have much free time to blog. Right now it’s a little before 4 a.m. and since I’m up and the gym is beckoning, I thought I might jot a few lines together.
Since we last met I attended my very first Kensington Books booksigning as one of their authors. thank goodness the room provided for us all was the size of a football field and a half because there were truthfully close to 1000 — if not more — fans who attended. My book supply went in less than 15 minutes of the 90 minutes we were allotted! I’d been fearful I’d be sitting there twiddling my thumbs and trying not to look mortified I wasn’t handing any books out. Never a worry, apparently! I met so many people who told me they were also going to be attending the giant book fair signing on Saturday and that they would see me there as well. I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating: Romance readers and the BEST and most loyal fans in the universe of readers. The lines were long and some people waited almost an hour to meet their fav author, but no one seemed to mind. I saw no crankiness, bitchiness, heard no complaining, and everyone— EVERYONE– was smiling. What an amazeballs event! I can’t wait to do it again at RWA in July.
Last night was the RT Reader’s Choice awards. At first I was going to attend because I was tired, missing my hubby, and needed a break from people-ing, ya know? But I sucked it up and went. Boy-oh-boy am I glad I did. Not only did I get to sit next to my newly “adopted” daughter ( My wonderful Lyrical Editor!!) I saw up close and personal some of my all time favorite authors and industry giants. I don’t want to make this piece too long by mentioning everyone but here are the ladies who have made my reading romance years the pleasure it has always been:
Karen Slaughter – one of the funniest chicks you will ever meet. Give her a microphone and just let her go!
Elizabeth Hoyt – writes historical sexual tension like nobody’s business.
Iris Johansen ( she’s a little tiny thing! Who knew??! She’s such an industry giant I figured she was 1o feet tall!)
Beverly Jenkins ( one of the most amazing women I’ve ever seen, for sososo many resons)
Sonali Dev – if you haven’t read A CHANGE OF HEART, run, run I tell you, to upload it, buy it, or however you read. Just GET IT!
Sherrilyn Kenyon – a true Georgia Peach
Karen White – beauty and brains rolled into one fab author
I’m here, writing today, and standing on the shoulders of these intelligent, articulate, and fabulous female writers. Some day, I hope an aspiring writer can say the same for me. These women simply make me want to write better.
So, today is jammed packed. I’ve got the giant book fair at 1030 this morning, and then another big party this evening. I may, no, make that WILL, need a nap somewhere in between
Be well and more to come…
If you want to see live updates from me during the events, you can find me here: Tweet Me//Read Me// Visit Me//Picture Me//Pin Me//Friend Me//Google+Me// Triberr
Writing is my Oxygen…
Easiest blog EVAH to pen.
Why do I write? I could wax prolific for 500 words here, but there is no need to. As the title of my website tells you, writing is my oxygen. Writing breaths life into my existence. A day without writing for me is a day without breathing. If you don’t breath, you die. Simple enough.
Now excuse me, please, because I need to go…..breathe!
You might want to stop by the other authors in this blog hop to see why writing is so important to them.
1.
I Can’t Help It
2.
Because They Say So
3.
Get those Voices Out of my Head!
4.
Just Creative or Am I Schitzophrenic?
5.
What Happens When I’m Not Writing
6.
Just Ask Me Why I Breathe
7.
Telling Stories – Linda McLaughlin
8.
Because It’s Fun!
9.
Valerie Ullmer
10.
Because Writers Are Crazy
11.
Writing is Magic
12.
Writing is my Oxygen. . .
Why do I write? I could wax prolific for 500 words here, but there is no need to. As the title of my website tells you, writing is my oxygen. Writing breaths life into my existence. A day without writing for me is a day without breathing. If you don’t breath, you die. Simple enough.
Now excuse me, please, because I need to go…..breathe!
You might want to stop by the other authors in this blog hop to see why writing is so important to them.
1.
I Can’t Help It
2.
Because They Say So
3.
Get those Voices Out of my Head!
4.
Just Creative or Am I Schitzophrenic?
5.
What Happens When I’m Not Writing
6.
Just Ask Me Why I Breathe
7.
Telling Stories – Linda McLaughlin
8.
Because It’s Fun!
9.
Valerie Ullmer
10.
Because Writers Are Crazy
11.
Writing is Magic
12.
Writing is my Oxygen. . .
