Cynthia Harrison's Blog, page 59

JennyJennyJenny

I’m from Detroit, so not sure how local the MC5 were back in the day. (MC stands for Motor City). They had a couple of hits “Devil in a Blue Dress” and “Kick out the Jams” come to mind. The chorus to “Devil in a Blue Dress” sung fast, was ‘JennyJennyJenny, won’t you come along with me?’ and I’m thinking of it because Jenny Crusie is the writer who taught me everything I know about the craft of writing. And I’m looking back at those old lessons to try to get my WIP in order.

If you want the details on Jenny’s intensive workshop, I talk about our week together here. But back to today at my writing desk. Not a writing day goes by without me taking one of my Jenny hammers, wrenches, or screwdrivers out of the toolbox. Today, I’m going with a suggestion she gave me. This is a paraphrase, but the gist is:

Me: My books are too short. They’re more like novellas. How can I make them longer?

Jenny: One way is to add a subplot. The subplot should support the main plot. They should mirror each other and be entwined in ways important to theme and plot.

Great advice. Working on my second book in the Blue Lake series, I came to the end at about 40K. So of course, I needed a subplot. This was convenient, because I really wanted to write one, but with romance, editors can be picky about subplots. Now that I’m writing “women’s fiction” a subplot and even another point of view or two is not a problem.

So at first I thought, well, I can write the whole subplot as a separate book and then add it in where necessary. I have some experience with this in reverse when I had to pluck a subplot out of another book. That was pretty easy, but the opposite is not. Because really, a book needs to feel whole. Everything needs to seem like it naturally follows from what happened before. And I can’t get the theme/plot/intertwined thing doing the subplot as a stand alone.

So I’ve got three full scenes written and three or four ideas for scenes. My plan was to write out those scenes, but today I’ve decided I’m going to read through my WIP and decide where my supporting characters need to come in and why they are in this story in the first place.

And thanks Jenny for all you do and have done for me and many many other writers.

Stand-Alone Sarah

Sarah’s Survival Guide is a free 40 page story right here on my website. Anyone can read it, even attach it to their tablet or reading device. Makes it sound like I wanted to do something nice for my readers. I do, of course, but the real reason Sarah’s Survival Guide stands alone is because my former editor asked me to consider taking it out. I was writing romance at the time, and Sarah’s subplot was stealing the spotlight from the main lovers. Sarah is still very much a part of The Paris Notebook, especially the penultimate scene.

What Sarah does not have in the novel is a point of view. Sarah’s story is not filled out as I meant it to be. That’s okay, I’m a tough old writer and have been edited many times. I also understand the rules of writing romance. So I’m not saying my editor was wrong. She was spot on. The problem was me, I had not written a romance. The wonderful folks at The Wild Rose Press knew I was not a romance writer, and through two novels helped me become one. Then when I proposed a women’s fiction series, they said YES. They said that was where I should be, writing women’s fiction, with more going on than true love. Nothing against true love! I’ll always have a love story or three.

Almost the minute I learned I needed to cut Sarah’s story, I began plotting. I was able to pull it out almost seamlessly. I added a few bits into the book so it made sense and I took all spoilers out of Sarah’s Survival Guide. Then, after paying a friend a shamelessly small amount for a gorgeous cover, I was ready to roll.

I don’t know how many people have read Sarah’s story. I have never, in ten years, quickly going on eleven, looked at my page views. But I love hearing people tell me they wished there was more about Sarah in The Paris Notebook. And that’s happened at least a dozen times. Every time, I say “You’re in luck! Click on Sarah’s Survival Guide on my blog.” I think it’s a sweet love story. It works as a short story, but if you read it first, you might want to know what happens next. Well, that answer is in The Paris Notebook.

Galley Edits & Gratitude

As a book reviewer, I learned that “galleys” were the final manuscript, set in print, before publication. Galleys were what we mostly read. They had plain covers and came with an info-packed publicity note. We were always told that we should not quote from galleys unless the publicist agreed. I found that it was okay to quote good stuff but not bad, as it might be fixed in galley edit.

Both author and editor do one final read, and what we are looking for are typos, homonyms, spell check errors, grammar issues. My publisher really does not encourage any other kinds of changes in galley. Glaring oops, yes. Cutting and revising a paragraph or even a sentence, no.

Before I was published, I longed for the day when I would have my own galley edits to proofread. And now I do. I can’t remember doing this on my last book! The Paris Notebook had a different editor, still I’m sure I must have done.

But then, I was not in the middle of organizing a major moving of house. Now I am and I feel the pressure. It may be an insider secret, but after about 25 or so reads of a novel, this writer at least, starts to get bored. Really intensely bored. How ungrateful!

I plan to start my galley edits today, finally, after being distracted by furniture shopping, picking out new towels, and begging the window shade installers to come out with what part of my very large order they have. They said, not exactly no, but “We can be there next Wednesday at ten am to install everything” so I had to say yes. And the furniture, or the greater part of it, will be here Tuesday. I have a new-sized bed. I have not bought the sheets yet, although my pal Ali sent me lots of great stuff online. Great prices too.

See, every time I start to write about the process of writing, it segues into house talk. I have such abundance in my life right now, both with the writing and the new home, that I am simply grateful. And since it’s Sunday, I’m giving even more thanks for this life of mine.

Contemporary or Vintage?

We recently moved to a new home with a very contemporary feel. All the lighting fixtures, the appliances, countertops, and the general architectural layout scream MODERN. Lots of granite and slate. Problem? I love old things. That’s my grandmother’s mirror in the photo and I still use it every day to check the back of my hair:) It sits on my bathroom vanity and I simply love it. Still, I made a vow when I moved in, this house will be decorated with contemporary furniture.

One reason: my mother just gave me a coffee-with-cream colored contemporary leather sofa in great condition. And three pieces of semi-contemporary light oak furniture. (They’re a little bit French Country). We also have cream colored carpet. So everything is light. The walls are painted in one of those new neutral tones–light moss green that matches the filigree on my other grandmother’s china. No way am I getting rid of the traditional cherry wood china cabinet Al bought for me when I inherited that china.

I love dark furniture, Victorian trimmings, and gilded everything. But I have passed through my lace doily phase, much to Al’s relief. So. No Victorian in this modern house, or if, only mixed in for an eclectic look. Then we went furniture shopping. We have had a Paul Bunyan bedroom set from the day we married 28 years ago. Now it’s in the guest room. We wanted to treat ourselves to a new bedroom and my eye went straight to a French Country set in antique white. I knew it was too girly for Al. He didn’t like the brass headboards I showed him either.

By the time we’d viewed every bedroom in the store we came down to one we both loved. I do not know what to call it, but modern it is not. It’s pretty, not stark. Curvy, not “clean lines.” The headboard and mirror are gilded (yay!). It’s very Italian Rococo. Love it!! Which got me thinking. I really don’t want to have a totally modern home. There’s already the traditional china cabinet and stemware curio in dark cherry. There’s already some French Colonial pieces I cannot bear to part with. And instead of the bedside table that came with the flashy set, I opted for a plain old bookcase my mom and I found tucked in my grandmother’s basement. It’s simple but has a beautiful patina and is just the right height. I’m not getting rid of my grandma’s cedar chest (Pennsylvania Dutch, painted an antique white), either.

So, while I’m making some concessions to the new, I realized I’m just not ready to get rid of the best of my antique treasures. Al and I are still in discussion about the tall French Colonial bookcase, antiqued in a beautiful blue, in the foyer. We didn’t use to have a foyer. We’ll see who wins that one. I’ve got my vintage Shakespeare collection in there! It shall not be removed to the basement! We never had a basement before, either.

However this new house turns out (window treatments to be installed next week–furniture delivered then as well, we hope) I will always love both of my grandmothers’ things and am so grateful to have just a piece of them still in my life. Love never goes out of style.

Our Fortunate Tortured Selves

Remember liberal guilt? The idea that because we had so much, we felt guilty, and so to assuage our consciouses, we were happy to give some back. I still think giving to the poor is a noble cause, but I never thought guilt was what social programs were about. I thought those programs were in place because of  love. Because of generosity.

I’ve been poor, even homeless, but I’ve always worked. My income, when I have one worth reporting to the IRS, has always hovered close to the poverty level, which is now $13,444. My jobs have been waitress, secretary, high school teacher, college teacher, writer. The only government assistance I’ve ever used was a Pell Grant to start my college education. After I married, the Pell Grant went away. I pursued education anyway because I believed it was my way to a better job than waitress, bartender, or secretary.

Now I have two degrees in English, two jobs (writing and teaching) and I couldn’t buy myself a used car. Forget about a house! My husband is the reason I am living in a new house, buying new things to furnish it with, and feeling twinges of guilt. I have so much. Most of the world has so little. It doesn’t seem fair.

Land a man, land on your feet. This uncomfortable truth has been the reality of my life. Yes of course I cook and clean and so forth. That’s the unpaid work we women who marry take on. Well, some of us.

Had I not been married, I would have pursued full time teaching with more zeal. But the way things happened, I was able to teach part-time and write for great chunks of time, taking years off the day job. Without that time  off from teaching, I never would have been able to pursue things like writing for magazines. I would not have been able to write novels or find a publisher. I probably wouldn’t be writing this post or have the time to worry about all the poor people in the world. I’d be too busy grading papers or flying the freeways.

When I told my husband about a post I wrote a week or so ago, all about moving to the country and buying new curtains, he said I should be careful. He said I should not flaunt our situation. He said it would make some people with less feel bad. He was right. And ever since, I’ve been feeling guilty about my good fortune.

Home

New house doesn’t quite feel like home yet. An internet connection would help. So would window shades:) But aside from the material organization, I’ve yet to make an emotional connection to this new place. Maybe because I’m not unpacked and remain undecorated. Maybe because my shoulders ache, my back hurts, and there’s a weird pain in my foot that is shooting upward toward the knee.

Which reminds me that I am close to a lovely yoga studio. I need to get back to class. After I rest the various overworked muscles. And finish unpacking. Then start writing again; I am counting today’s blog as a first step. Had to come out to a bookstore to post an entry. And I’m not the coffee shop type of writer.

I lived in one place for 25 years and didn’t give the move much thought. Well, other than “I can’t wait and I know I will love it!” But 25 years brings another sort of problem to moving house. It’s like packing for vacation. But instead of hunting through a few suitcases, I’m hunting through a bunch of rooms that equal 100 suitcases. Add to that short term memory loss (no big deal, it happens to most people as they get older) and unpacking becomes a challenge.

Then there’s the part about remembering to be fully clothed at all times (windows!) and to shut doors where applicable (windows!) Yes, the new place has lots of windows and I love that about it. I will love it even more when the window shop calls to say my order’s come in and when will they be able to install?

Meanwhile, I had to drive by the old place today. We’d forgotten to give the new owner one of the garage door openers, so I popped it in his mailbox. I felt nothing for the house I had loved for so long. I was actually happy that I did not own the mailbox bombed by bird shit.

I don’t love my old place anymore. I don’t love my new place yet. But I still have my internet home, and that feels just right:)

Jelly

Just lately, I’ve come into a whole lotta luck. My famously frugal husband has opened his wallet and money, for the first time in our married life, spills. “Buy it.” “Get it.” “Take it.” These are words I’ve seldom heard.

I’ve always been jealous (also envious) although I didn’t always KNOW I was. The first time I saw a friends’ new house, a modest ranch, I tried to throw myself out of the moving car after we left. I was quite drunk at the time. And the action was more drama than a serious attempt at self-annihilation. For years I thought of that episode and couldn’t quite make out what had been wrong with me. (Besides the fact that I’d had one too many Cherry Kijafa and Coke.)

As our friends all moved into bigger houses with walk-in closets and jet tubs, we stayed put in our starter home, which I have loved all the more for being a little run-down, a little old-fashioned, and having entirely too many stairs. All my life I have wanted a nice tidy ranch, and what I got was a quad-level (with no window treatments) and a tri-level (tricked out with a splendid addition about ten years ago.)

We re-did the kitchen a year before the granite craze but managed to get in a nice wood floor in our big but cozy dining room. So, I have been content here. I have loved my house despite all it’s drawbacks. And I finally figured out what was going on with me and my friends’ more palatial abodes. I was envious of the friend who ordered new furniture on a yearly basis, jealous of the built-in bookshelves and the working fireplaces. I was jelly, as the California kids say.

This realization happened not over houses, but writers. There came a point in my life, maybe a year or so ago, when I knew I was never going to be Dan Brown. Not even Danielle Steel. I would not make money from my writing, it would not save me from a more conventional career (teaching), and nobody was ever going to say “I’m going to make you  a star!”

The star quote is something a popular writer actually told me her agent and editor, who had picked her out of Harlequin Alley, told her. Never mind star, New York ignored me. Harlequin was kind; I’ve learned a great deal from their various rejections over the years, from “you need to learn your craft” to “this is a bigger book than a romance.”

Full of jelly over a friends’ new book contract? Want the house Nora Roberts built? Wish you lived on the ocean in Kauai with a private plane to whisk you away when weather forecasts a hurricane? Here’s what you do. Make your sandwich. See how the jelly wobbles and squirts out while the peanut butter sticks to the bread? Jelly is sugar. Not good for you. Peanut butter is protein and it will make you stronger.

This is the last post I’ll be writing from my sweet old house. Next week, I’ll be moving into the ranch of my dreams. With a whole bunch of new stuff. And in late August, after finishing my next book, I’ll be back in the classroom.

Reviews, Blurbs, Templates & Taglines

What a morning! Woke up to a 4 star review of Sister Issues from Rosie Amber. Thanks Rosie The Paris Notebook for possible review! Plus I final-edited the template for my new novel, coming soon, and sent it off to my fabulous editor. Now I’m working on the tagline and blurb. As a former professional book reviewer, those things are easy and fun for me to write.

Back in the day, I loved composing a perfect tagline or a pull quote for the authors I reviewed. I made it a point to put something in the review that praised the author’s work. Sometimes, back  when I still visited bookstores, I’d check a book I’d reviewed and sure enough, there was my tagline right on the cover. Some of the writers even used my name, although most times it was just “RT Book Reviews” or “Publishers Weekly.” Still, I knew whose words they were:)

So I’ve come full circle and quite looking forward to sitting with my pen and notebook today, coming up with the perfect tagline for my new book.

 

Do Drugs Affect Writing?

After a visit to my dealer, I mean doctor, yesterday, I caught a glint of something positive removing the migraine curse I’ve been under for six weeks now. Doc & I have been together ten years and he knows my triggers. Weather, wind, rain, low pressure systems. Also dentist visits. And stress.

Yesterday as I told my tale of woe, he said “let’s wait a week and see if this new weather system will clear things up.” That reminded me of the many friends I have who suffer from seasonal allergies. I don’t. But if I look at migraine like that, it helps.

The problem with writing for me has been the medication. If a migraine gets bad, I can pop up to 7 extra pills a day. I’ve only had to do that twice, but even then, just the migraine stopper alone makes me a little less inclined to write. I can drive a car with one pill. I can teach class with one pill. And I can write with one pill. I just don’t want to.

I’ve heard many writers say they didn’t have the desire to write while taking certain meds. These writers say that while on the drugs, writing doesn’t matter to them anymore. Some of them go off a prescribed drug because they figure out writing matters more than whatever they’d hope to cure with a pill.

I’m working on a book I love, my publisher recently began accepting women’s fiction and my editor gave me the go-ahead to write it. And yet it has been difficult for me to find words these past several weeks. When I don’t write, it’s usually because things get too busy. But that’s not it this time.

I realized today…maybe it’s the medication. My mood has certainly been no ambition, no energy, no sizzle. This morning, I picked up my notebook thinking that at least I could write some morning pages. Even that was a struggle.

I am not saying anyone should stop taking medication. I will continue to pop pills as long as I need them. I am just hoping the weather clears and the migraine disappears. And hey, I wrote a blog post today:)

What is Women’s Fiction?

For my next novel, I’m crossing over from romance to women’s fiction. Although writing romance has been a fun challenge, romance is all about the two. Just like when you’re newly in love, you can’t see or think about anyone but your love. My story drafts have all sorts of point-of-view, many types of relationships, including love stories. Always more than one. Now I won’t have to cut away until the two are left alone on the page.

People ask what the difference is between women’s fiction, chick lit, and romance. For a definition of romance, see above. Now, chick lit and women’s fiction. Those labels are harder to define. It used to be “chick lit is funny and women’s fiction is serious.” or “chick lit is singletons on the town and women’s fiction is settled and sad.” That’s just not accurate. These labels are marketing devices. Chick lit comes in a variety of shapes and sizes. It’s not all white wine and new shoes. Women’s fiction is not all drama and divorce.

We have these labels because marketing people like to know where to slot books to optimize purchases. “Okay, if the heroine is single and in her 20s or 30s, loves to shop, and isn’t ready to settle down, let’s call that chick lit. We’ll do the covers in fun colors with sexy half body shots. That way young single women can buy the books that reflect their lives and experiences.”

When I was in my 20s and 30s I was in college reading the classics, not chick lit. (I’m old, so the label had not been invented yet.) In my 40s, married with children and settled, I became senior chick lit reviewer for the trade magazine RT Book Club. I loved chick lit then, and I love it still. The variety of “chick lit” stories I read, from one about a homeless DJ to another about a newly-divorced and pregnant forty-something, convinced me chick lit was simply fiction for people, probably women, since we buy most of the fiction out there, who like to read novels.

Ditto for women’s fiction. These stories are not all female life or death medical dramas or how to go on after a husband’s betrayal. They don’t always include knitting. Women’s fiction can be funny and chick lit can be serious. Each is often both, all in one story. Many women take exception to the term “women’s fiction” and I don’t blame them. There is no equivalent “men’s fiction” so it’s just another way to put women in their place, behind the male writers.

Truth is, men write romance. They just kill the heroine at the end and everyone says how sensitive and romantic these authors are. Men write “women’s” fiction too. If it’s not sci-fi, fantasy, thriller, or mystery, marketing just calls it “contemporary fiction.” That’s what I write. Contemporary fiction. Suitable for both sexes. And if my publisher wants to call it women’s fiction, I am happy to let them do so, since, as I said, most novel readers are women.