Rebecca Forster's Blog, page 13

New Years Preservations Not Resolutions

After the toasts, kisses and well wishes come the New Year resolutions.

My resolutions usually revolve around weight loss, growing five inches and becoming a blond. The first would be easy if I had an attention span that lasted 12 months rather than twelve minutes. The latter two have been on my list since I was five years old. I will never be taller than I am and the one time I tried to go blond I  ended up looking like Jane Fonda in Klute (Google both to satisfy your curiosity).

So, that brings me to today – January 1, 2011. I have resolved to make no more resolutions. Instead, I am embracing New Years Preservation. I have identified the good things I had in 2010 that I want to keeo in 2011.  

1)      My husband and kids. I like them. We think each other are terribly funny. Good laughs and great conversation make any day of the year better.

2)      My friends and other family members for the same reason as my husband and kids. (Above, my sister Beth and my granddog Tucker. I will keep them).

3)      My car. It's like a little black dress – nothing fancy, fits me well and I can take it anywhere without embarrassing myself. It is ten years old (the same age as my LBD). I think it has another ten years to go.

4)      My writing jacket. It is an ugly, screaming yellow, fleece jacket that I bought for $10 five years ago. That jacket is the signal that I am working. My husband forbids me to wear it outside. I love that jacket. I want to be buried in that jacket.

5)      My father's fountain pen. He passed away six years ago. My mother gave me his pen. It looks like a skinny watermelon and doesn't hold much ink. It's about 60 years old. Great pen.

6)      Dinner parties. Cooking and conversation are great together especially when you mix up the guest list. Definitely, I'm preserving the tradition. Your invitation is in the mail.

7)       My sewing machine. It's on its last legs. The buttonholer doesn't work anymore but it sews backward and forward. We've been friends a long time and you don't throw a friend away just because they can't do the fancy stitches anymore.

8)      My work schedule. I work a lot. I work 7 days a week. Sometimes I don't have much to show for all those hours but sometimes I end up writing a pretty good book. Working hard, doing my best, that's what every year should be about.

9)      Debbie who had been cutting my hair for a year. It took me a long time to find her. I still like her. (Debbie at Trax Hair design in Torrance if anyone needs a good haircut)

There should be a number ten but there isn't.  If the car still works, Debbie doesn't have a meltdown and my family and friends are hanging in there with me by the time 2012 rolls around, I will be a happy clam. I'll still have brown hair and stand 5'4". I probably won't be whippet thin but what the heck. Since I won't be losing any weight, I won't have to sew any new clothes nor will I have to worry about my roots showing.

 Make resolutions and failure is waiting around the corner. Who needs it? Just gather up, gobble up, stash away all the good stuff you've already got and 2011 is going to be happy, successful, fabulous year.

Happy reading. Happy Writing. Happy New Year!

Getting High in Vegas for a New Perspective

 Oh, puhleeessssee. You were really expecting a torrid tale of my exploits in Sin City? If you were, the best I can do is confess to losing forty smackers at the roulette table. For me, that's the slippery slope to ruin which just shows what kind of risk taker I am.

No, I'm talking about really getting high in Vegas; like 23 stories high above the Strip.  

Instead of looking up at the crazy, cacophony of a skyline and fighting crowds of gamblers, kids and hot babes on the ground, I spent three days in The Mandarin Oriental with its lobby on the 23rd floor. The place is as unique to the Vegas Strip as a showgirl sans make-up - it has no casino. 

The elevator doors open onto a lobby glowing pink and blue and white as the huge windows filter the frenetic neon that blankets the streets below. A sculpture wall covered in  golden, bulbous bullets undulated to silver and copper depending on where I stood.  A choir sang classic Christmas songs in a nod to the season. When they fell silent, strains of Asian-inspired music filled every nook and cranny of this elegant place. I was a cloud walker; a Stratos dweller. * This was Zen. This was cool. This place was removed from the action, above the fray, a respite in an otherwise bizarre and confusing world of sight and sound. Standing in that lobby, I had an artistic epiphany.

I could not write about THE BIG PICTURE, THE AWESOME PLACE, THE APOCALYPTIC LANDSCAPE  if I was down in the roil and boil of it. To write about an epic setting, I needed to see it through the point of view of individuals; characters who would be affected by and react to it.

 I had a myriad of choices. On the streets below were kids celebrating  21st birthdays and drinking themselves into oblivion, newlyweds on a honeymoon or tying the knot with the blessing of Elvis's reincarnation. There were middle aged couples reliving their youth or hoping to recoup their fortunes.  There were homeless people and hucksters and men looking for love and a quick buck and women doing exactly the same thing. I could have chosen any one of them and written a million stories; I could not write one story about the place, Las Vegas. My imagination kicked into high gear only because my perspective changed.

Too often writers try to impress readers with the broad strokes of their brush when, in reality, success comes from the fine flourishes. Story is the key to an interesting read and story revolves around an individual in a place, not a place surrounding an individual.  What would we make, after all, of Gone with the Wind if the Civil War were not seen through Scarlett's eyes or World War II if we had not experienced it through the personal struggle of George the VI in The King's Speech?   

So, when I find myself drowning in a setting too big to tame or thoughts too full to organize, I'm going to get high, look down and identify whose story I'm telling.  Then I will take that elevator back down to street level. I will follow that character through the landscape and let their story unfold instead of trying to siphon a story out of the setting. Or, maybe, I'll just treat myself to another trip to Vegas, check in at the Mandarin Oriental, sit in the Sky Bar on the 23rd floor and let my imagination wander. That works, too.

* Trekkies! Think the original Star Trek episode 5818.4 where Kirk finds the Stratos dwellers at odds with the Troglytes; the elite live in luxury and peace while the rest of civilization toils below on the verge of revolution.  

REVISITING THE CALIFORNIA ROCKMAN

In November I wrote about a rock that sits on a lawn in a middle-class neighborhood in Redondo Beach. I love that rock. I love that the owner of the house loves that rock enough to dress it up for holidays. He (or she) turns it into a pumpkin in October and a granite snowman in December. That rock makes me smile. I have been known to chuckle out loud when I see the scarf wrapped around its stone neck. 

Recently, finding myself in a state of high panic over the number of days left until Christmas, the writing not being done and the lack of ideas about what to put under the tree for my husband who lacks any tangible hobbies, I fled the house and went to visit the rock.

There it was, scarf and all. But there was something different. Another rock had been added and it sported a hat. I'm here to tell you, I was not happy. It had been perfect the way it was. Rock, stone, scarf. Now it had a head and hat and I didn't quite  know what to make of it. So I sat myself down on the curb and looked at it for a bit.

Here's what I decided. It's all good. Period. Rock and stone, scarf or hat, it still made me happy to see it. I thought that it was very cool that someone inside that house took a minute to walk across the lawn and dress up his rock. I realized that it was the mere fact that I could count on the rock being dressed up rather than how it was dressed that made me feel good. I also thought that I should share the rock with you.

So, here it is. The California Rockman. To those of you buried under tons of snow, I'm sending you a little California sunshine. For those of you swealtering under the California December sun, I'm sending you thoughts of winter where people actually wear hats and scarves. To everyone who has a rock in their psychic yard that can't be moved, mowed over or ignored, I'm sending you some inspiration. Embrace your rock, dress it up, claim it as your very own and then share it.

Happy holidays and a wonderful New Year.

MEETING MEN

     I have been meeting a lot of men lately online. These men have dangerous and intriguing handles like 'rebel' and 'emystery' and 'moses'.  These men all want one thing – to talk about books.
     Disappointed? Not the pay-off you were expecting? Well, I gotta tell you, this is a new experience for me, too. Actually, I should clarify. Meeting men is not a new experience. I've known a couple in my life, I just can't really remember them very well since I've been married for like forever (think Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion and if you haven't seen it, stop reading this and get thee right now to Netflix).
     Since becoming a married woman, I have also met a lot of guys. They repair my car, come over in the middle of the afternoon for a little tryst – usually with my plumbing – or tend to taking my clothes in when I'm on a diet and letting them out again when I fail.  Tailors are unsung heroes. 
     What makes the men I'm meeting lately so intriguing is that they are (get ready) readers of fiction.  Before the internet, I didn't believe they existed. There were always the aberrations, of course. Those were the men who read Tom Clancy or David Morrell but I have been long been suspect of the devotion men have to that fiction. In fact, I have it on good authority that during the printing process the publisher lays down a thin layer of testosterone on the pages which is tantamount to carrying a ham hock in your pocket to make a dog love you.
      The men I'm talking about read MY fiction. I think my books are pretty thrilling considering I write about the legal system. What's not to love there? There's always a good murder (and I'm talking really good). There are fight-or-flight scenes. There are sex scenes (okay, maybe just the idea of sex. Okay, maybe just the insinuation of sex. My mom, after all, reads my books. She doesn't mind creative murder but sex? Not so much). There is always the bare-knuckled-intellectual smack d owns men will love in my fictional courtrooms. I too have a dose of testosterone but you have to actually read my books closely to find it and sometimes I sprinkle a little too much on the female characters.
      I had always imagined most men to be like my husband:  readers of nonfiction, political treatise, history. Lots and lots of history. Magazines. Tons and tons of news magazines. In short, I believed male readers did not want to be drawn into a fictional world and introduced to people who faded away with the turn of the last page.
     I was so wrong. I painted fiction readers with a broad brush that did not include men. I profiled, I admit it. Now I've seen the light. I am here to tell you that I embrace the fabulous men I have met through the internet because of my books. I am grateful for their counsel because, unlike the more polite woman reader, men say what's on their mind. Sometimes it's praise for my work (go ahead, take a look at some of the 'guy' reviews of my books) but they also have helped me so much as I focused on the ever-expanding e-publishing marketplace. They read my work on their computers, IPads, Nooks and Kindles and have made suggestions. Sometime, they just ask questions like, "Did you just fall off the turnip truck because your formatting is way off." Or the ever favorite, "I think you should check your file, either you can't spell or you have scanning problems."
            The cool thing about all this is that my guys not only point out a problem, they happily help me fix it. I'm assuming they are happy to help since the dialogue between us continues over weeks and months and, in some cases, years. I know about their children and grandchildren,  we swap travel stories and suggestions for good reads. I get a little jealous when they don't add 'but your work is so much better' to their recommendations.
            I am eternally grateful that these men have picked up my work and picked up on me. They have become friends I cherish even though we will more than likely never meet – which actually is probably a good thing.  I never could have imagined that offering up a book for their consideration would, in turn introduce me to a group of men so considerate.
            Here's to all you chivalrous, kind and generous guys who read fiction . Now, when I write I promise to remember you're out there. In fact, I may swipe a little more testosterone on those pages just to say thanks.

 

 

 

A ROCKY ROAD TO INSPIRATION

THE ROCKY ROAD OF INSPIRATION

Sometimes I find myself uninspired. Creatively shot. Not a word of dialogue for mute characters or description of a fictional landscape presents themselves. The next turn of phrase, the next analogy, adverb or adjective is on the tip of my tongue but that tongue is tied. The fuel pump's blocked, the door is closed.  I am, so to speak, between a creative rock and a hard place.  Giving up is out of the question so I talk a walk to jar my thoughts loose. My destination is the bustling village a mile down the hill from my house.

If I head to the beach, I will walk on white sand that rings the sapphire blue ocean which fills a horseshoe of a bay. I can see Malibu across the water and dolphin in the curl of the waves as they frolic with the surfers. There are skaters, volleyball players, cyclists and a plethora of beautiful California bodies which I would probably appreciate more if I were younger. As it is, all those beautiful people only serve to remind me that I'm not.

  If I go the other way, I walk on asphalt, past rows of well-kept, modestly-sized ranch style houses. This is the route I usually take because there is one house that never fails to pique my curiosity. Actually, it isn't the house but the rock that sits on the lawn in front of the house that I find so curious.  

This rock is unimpressively grey, round on top and flat on the bottom. Rather than move it, the owner of the house planted grass around it. The lawn is beautiful; the rock is not.  The rock is arm-span wide and a little more than knee-high. There is a stone on top of it that looks like a dinosaur egg. The rock and the stone could be one of those Boy Scout signs my brothers ringed around the backyard pointing the way to our own backdoor. For me, the rock points the way to inspiration. Whoever lives in the house makes the rock and stone his canvas and three times a year it becomes something else entirely.

                In October the rock is wrapped in orange paper, the stone in green and it is transformed into a pumpkin.

Come December, the rock becomes a granite snowman with a red and green stripped scarf wrapped around its nonexistent neck.

 Ah, spring! Rock as Easter Bunny….

You get the idea.

With a little help, the rock and stone become heralds of good cheer and harbingers of happy times to come. The rock speaks of faithfulness, passing each year with the owner of the house, marking time, submitting to the 'artists' vision. The rock, all dressed up, is funny and pleasing to the eye and unexpected. It is a public service and I, as a member of the public, never cease to be delighted by the ever morphing rock and his friend the stone. Here is a story told completely, without need of explanation or overt flourish.

 I believe in getting lost in a narrative, in creating fantasy, in telling a good story.  I believe that around every corner is a mystery or mayhem or madness or magic if we just keep our eyes open. I believe that someday I will walk by the rock and it will lament that it is too hot to wear a scarf during the California Christmas season. When that happens, I'll pause and loosen the scarf. Maybe I'll rest on the lawn and we'll have a chat. Ah, if only that would happen.

 And when my mind is mired, when I feel that I am stone deaf to inspiration and that my creativity is weighed down by real life, I don't despair. I know I will have to go no further to find either than to walk through a modest neighborhood where I will give a wink and nod to a rock, a stone and whoever is in that house who can teach me a thing or two about creativity. 

HEROES ALL

   Planning a new book begins with conjuring up a victim and a hero. The first must be protected, avenged or rescued; the second must be the protector, the avenger and the one who rides to the rescue.  
   Today, though, I attended a fundraiser for Ability First, an organization that provides services to help children and adults with physical and developmental disabilities realize their full potential. That's when the old story rule went out the window.
    There I was, out of my jeans, dressed in my very lady-like shirtwaist and Jackie-O pearls, ready to lunch and watch a fashion show in support of a worthy cause.  But I was early and the behind-the-scenes activity was even more interesting than the afternoon ahead.
    The women of the Long Beach Center Guild of Ability First were working feverishly, setting up silent auction baskets and  tables for the luncheon, making sure the sound system worked. Young people in brick-red t-shirts identifying them as Ability First staff helped vendors, manned the check-in table and took pictures. They also rehearsed the Ability First clients for the presentation they would make to the audience.
     During those early hours, I met Geri. Wheelchair bound and unable to communicate verbally, she nonetheless was able to make it clear she was happy to be at the event and happier still to participate. When the luncheon began, Geri  and her friends 'signed' a song for a group of 230 women who had come to celebrate their accomplishments and donate time and money to make sure that the swimming, arts, housing programs and more continue to service these amazingly courageous people. 
      I realize events like this aren't unusual. Everywhere you look there are ribbons to be worn, walks and runs to participate in and concerts that benefit good causes. But often I find it difficult to connect with these causes and their big events. Ability First, Long Beach is right in my own backyard and I was there, in that ballroom, with people who believed in the work that Ability First is doing. I was caught up in the the personal joy everyone felt and that made me feel great!     I also learned something very important from the clients and the staff of Ability First and the ladies of the guild: some stories don't need a victim, they are just about heroes.

HALLOWEEN. HOW INSPIRING!

                                    
     "I saw Halloween candy at Costco," I said.
     "It's September," my husband responded.
     "Doesn't matter. I bought a bag. I ate it. I'll get more before Halloween," I say.
     Halloween is still a couple of weeks away and yes more bags of candy have disappeared on my watch.  Still, there is evidence that those bags existed. Sad little mini bars of dark chocolate are stuffed into a bag in the recesses of my candy closet. They are there because I hate waste almost as much as I hate dark chocolate.   I am as ashamed of my overindulgence of Crackle Bars, Three Musketeers and the ever so delicious Mini-Peanut Butter Cups as I am of my rejection of the bitter dark chocolate. Actually, I am probably more ashamed of the latter because I know that I will shamelessly pawn the dark chocolate off on some unsuspecting trick-or-treater.
      The poor kid will dump the bag, sift through the booty and come upon my rejects. I imagine the child crying at worst. At best, those little bitty dark chocolates will be ignored or passed over pawned off on a younger kid.  Yet, as I torture myself with the idea of ruining a tyke's Halloween, I have another thought. Hershey wouldn't make the darn things if there weren't a whole lot of people out there who love 'em, would they?
     Which brings me to the files on my computer mark New Ideas, Synopsis and Inspiration. In these files are a plethora of Word documents in various stages of crafting: a sentence to remind me of some fleeting idea, full-blown treatments, chapter openings. These folders scare me the same way I fear a group of raging, candy-starved, monstrous teenagers appearing at my door on Halloween. I fear the folders because they represent thinking that went nowhere, ideas that weren't worth nurturing much less publishing. Here, hidden away, is the dark chocolate of my imagination. The good stuff isn't there.
     Or is it?
     Could be I need to take a second look at the 'dark chocolate ideas' I have squirreled away on my computer. There might be a character worthy of tweaking, a plot that could be deepened, a story that should be softened. Dress it up, a little lipstick on the pig, change the lighting, rummage around, grab something and come up for air.
     Yep, there it is. A little linty, perhaps.  The wrapper fallen off. A bit crumbly and stale. Still, in my bag of rejects, I find that time and taste has turned at least one of my personal rejects into the glimmery, glinty beginnings of a good idea. If I try again, nibble around the edges of it, I come to the conclusion that it might be pretty good after all. In fact, it might even be worth savoring. And, if I keep my eyes open, if I analyze the market, read about the business and listen hard I just might discover that there's an editor or reader out there who has a passion for the dark chocolate of my imagination.
     It's a sweet thought, isn't it?
 
            
 
 

Post Title.

NEW STRATEGY ALERT! 

Brian Drake is 35 but when we first corresponded he was a teen who wanted to write gritty crime novels. Brian's drive, imagination and, most importantly, the talent to make his dreams come true were impressive - even inspirational.  Like his heroes,  Brian is toughing out at the publishing game, sticking to his goal and following a unique strategy.  Extensive reading in his genre, publishing short stories and showcasing his analytical eye in terms of those who practice the craft is getting him noticed. In fact, Brian recently had a request for a full manuscript from Kensington. Meanwhile, his short story collection, Reapers Dozen, and his modern noir, Justfied Sins, are doing great as E-books. Check it out; be inspired.


BRIAN DRAKE:  TENACIOUS, TALENTED AND A TOTALLY COMMITED WRITER
GENRES:  Crime/mystery
PUBLICATION STRATEGY:  Short stories/analytical blog/continual submissions


What is your publishing history ? I've been writing since I was a teenager but I published my first story when I was 25. I've sold nine other short stories since then.  I'm always making agent/editor submissions.
What has been your experience with editors and agents? Very good. They have shared their time with me whether accepting or rejecting my submission. Charles Ardai at Hard Case Crime has been especially encouraging with kind notes and suggestions on other submission opportunities.
What do you perceive as the parameters and/or opportunities of your genre:  Both are only limited by imagination.  Crimes are either committed or solved everyday; the characters can range from hardboiled to sophisticated. There is no end to possible storylines.
You concentrate on detective fiction, correct?  My heroes tend to be loners who want to help the underdog. Sometimes they are detectives, sometimes vigilantes , but always they have a profound sense of justice.
Your goal is to publish a novel, why write short stories? It's fun to pound out 20 pages instead of 350 and meet the challenge of pacing and characterization. I wish there was a bigger market for short stories. These exercises have often turned into characters or plots I use in my full length fiction.
You have created an ambitious blog?  What's the objective? I am passionate about the crime/mystery genre.  Analysis of both good writers and marginal writers give me inspiration and help me hone my craft. I really like Dashiell Hammett.   While I like the energy of his slam-bang detective stories I admire that his work addresses issues faced in life. I hope my work will do the same and inspire other writers in the future. 
Advice for those novelists who want to start blogging?   Keep your writing short, interesting and unique. Remember, this is the platform that will help you promote your book when it's published.

Agents, editors, readers and fellow writers can contact Brian at  www.briandrake88.blogspot.com.

 

CLASS DISMISSED (Sort of)

   It's Labor Day. The last day of a three day weekend that should have been spent doing anything but laboring. Yet, on Saturday and Sunday I spent seven hours each day at UCLA teaching a class of would-be authors everything I know about  publishing, writing and keeping your creative head above water.
    But this isn't about what I know or don't know about publishing. Nor is it a complaint about having to work while everyone else played. I wasn't alone, after all, there were other people in that classroom working just as hard as I was. This is a thank you to them. While the class has been dismissed, it will be a very long while before I forget the students.
     Bob, Roger, Michaela, Deanna and Lisa stand out. They came because each had a story to tell. Some had been working on their book for years, others had a vague idea of what they wanted to write about but all had that desire to publish. And, as with so many who write, the desire that had once niggled at them was now a full-blown passion. It was my job to help them understand what lay ahead of them once their books were done.
    I won't kid you, it's like walking a tightrope when you teach a class like mine. We spent the first day talking about reality: traditional publishers scrambling as they try to figure out what to do about the onslaught of E-publishing opportunities, readers wanting quality writing at a lower price, bookstores now selling both e-readers and books, bold Indie writers offering their work without benefit of editor or agent.  So I have to be careful not to discourage a new writer by overstating the sheer confusion in publishing these days. I didn't have to worry with this class. They were beyond hearty.
      Research had been done, manuscripts had been written and edited and they were ready to adjust their vision in order to put their best 'author' foot forward when it came time to submit.
      But the most impressive thing about this class was that they gave so much back. When the class was dismissed, they left me energized by their intelligence, in awe of the creativity and, above all, they reminded me that there was joy in writing. 
     I sometimes become so focused on all the information about books and publishing and new opportunities for writers in terms of cyber outlets that I sometimes forget what all this is about. It's about writing with abandon, it's about telling a story that is burning inside, it's about having the courage to put my craft out there for people to embrace or reject.
       So, the long weekend is over. The class is gone, back to San Diego and Valencia and a few other places that only underscored these students' commimtment to their work. And I am here, writing this blog. Tomorrow I will work on my new book. I will work happily and well. And, when my book is almost finished, I imagine I will get an email from someone in the class informing me that they have just signed with an agent, or received an offer on their book and I will be energized all over again.
      What a successful class. I hope my students learned as much from me as I did from them.
      



   

AROUND THE WORLD (almost)

Four weeks ago I was in Germany retracing my mother's childhood in Bavaria. Two weeks after that I was hiking in the red rocks of Sedona, Arizona.  A week after that, I earned my Tailhook credentials by landing on the Nimitz aircraft carrier in the middle of the ocean.

Before that, I had been hiking in Alaska, cave-tubing in Central America and standing in a velvety black Parisian night on New Years Eve.

What makes all this so amazing is that most of these trips were unplanned. They came at me as opportunities, suggestions, and challenges of the moment.  I had never really been much of a traveler yet, for some reason, in the last two years wanderlust has taken hold. Perhaps it's my age or the fact that my children are grown or my husband's encouragement  to spread my wings that changed my mind about travel. Or maybe it was my 82-year-old mother's trip to Antarctica after my father passed away that made me a little more adventurous.  They had intended to go together but fate intervened.  If I was going to travel, I wanted to do it with people I loved.

Home now, I relive the heady feel of landing on an aircraft carrier, the sound of my very-American mother speaking German and the peace found among Sedona's red rocks.

Next stop on this blog: Germany. That's where I ate sausages at every meal, walked through bees in clover covered meadows, bonded with relatives who couldn't speak English and found myself transported back in time when we landed in the middle of a celebration where the dress of the day was dirndls and lederhosen. 

Now that was a far cry from where I live.