Renee Miller's Blog, page 15

The Writing Process Blog Hop

I was tagged this week for a blog hop about the Writing Process, or as Veronica (my tagger) put it, “the roadmap that takes each writer from “What a cool idea” to “THE END, motherfucker!”

I don’t usually do blog hops, but this one is cool, and offers some insight for other writers and for readers, so I accepted Veronica’s invitation. For this blog hop, I’m supposed to answer four questions about my writing process. We each have different strengths, weaknesses and talents, so it follows we do our shit our own way. I can be wildly productive in my writing, and have written more than 10,000 words in a day (for you non-writers, that’s a frigging huge thing). I can also be pretty pathetic, only writing 1000 words in a week. I don’t get upset if my word counts aren’t high, and if they’re astronomical, it’s usually because I’ve followed the “process” I know works for me.

What is that process? Well, let me answer those four questions and you’ll all know.

1. What are you working on?

I’m working on several projects at the moment, which is the only way I can be productive. When I focus on a single project, I tend to work slowly and get pretty bored. To avoid that, I let my brain wander, and I work on the project that most inspires me at that time. How many projects? Let’s see, I’ve just finished Nefarious (the third book in my “for the love of gods” series, the first two books Lucky and Mendacious) will be published by Crescent Moon Press), and I’m outlining the fourth book, which is untitled at the moment. I’ll probably start writing it before the end of July.

I’m about a quarter of the way through the second book in the Sex, Peanuts, Fangs and Fur trilogy, an absurdist series meant to tickle one’s funny bone. I’m still puttering on the outline for that one, because something feels off. I won’t tackle the third and final book until I figure it out. Thanks to my boss, Maria, I have a fantastic book about the book of Revelations for research material. (Revelations and understanding the many interpretations of it is crucial to writing this trilogy) This stuff is fascinating and distracting.

I’ve also started a book that twists Grimm’s fairy tales into a real-world setting with dark and (hopefully) hilarious results. It’s part paranormal romance, part dark fantasy, part tickle your funny bone type of book. I love every minute of this project.

Finally, I’m editing Lies We Tell, which I hope to publish this fall, either before or after the release of LUCKY.

Yes, I think that’s all I’m working on at the moment.

2. How does your work differ from others in this genre?

I work in several genres. Romance, paranormal, fantasy, thriller, suspense, absurdist, and even literary fiction. I write the story that I’m inspired to tell, and I don’t think about genre until it’s finished. I think what makes my books different is my voice. I think that’s what makes any book different from others in its genre. I try to add humor, when it’s appropriate, and I try not to add fluff or frills. Also, there’s almost always profanity and sex in my books, though these elements aren’t always X-rated.

3. Why do you write what you do?

I don’t know. That’s a boring non-answer, but it’s the truth. I don’t know why I write what I write. It’s not a simple answer, because the motivation is different for each book. I write what is interesting to me, and I hope that someone else finds it just as fascinating or amusing as I do.

4. How does your writing process work?

God, this is going to be pretty rambly. I begin with an idea. (Which makes sense, right?) It might be a plot idea, or just a character. It might be a question or a sentence that stays with me. I think about this idea for a long time. Sometimes I think about it for months before I consider sitting down and making any notes. Once I’ve decided I need to write this idea down, I start plotting.

I outline everything. It might not be anything intricate. Sex, Peanuts, Fangs and Fur started with a one paragraph outline. It evolved as I wrote it, and when I reached the 3/4 mark on the manuscript, I stopped and wrote an outline. This is when it turned into three books, because it would have been about 200K words. Anyway, once the outline is done, I usually start writing, and never look at the outline again. For me, outlining is just a way to get to know the characters and to determine if I actually have something worth writing.

I research if it’s necessary before I sit down to write. Often I find I’m pausing to research as I write too, and I usually finish the first draft within a couple of months. Sometimes it takes longer, depending on how many other projects I’m working on at the same time. When I finish the first draft, I walk away and work on something new.

Then revisions, and all that boring stuff.

I flit from project to project, writing what my brain is willing to write each day. If I have edits, I work on those too, and sometimes editing takes up 100% of my writing time. This is the drawback of having so many books on the go at once. At some point, they all need editing and I can only put it off for so long.

Like many authors, I have notebooks here and there where I jot down various ideas and details. Some books have character profiles, some have chapter summaries, or thoughts for later. I used to write the entire manuscript in notebooks and then type it on the computer later. I don’t do that anymore. It takes a really long time and my penmanship is atrocious.

So, that’s it I guess. I’m supposed to tag 3 or 4 people who I think will enjoy sharing their writing process. This blog hop has made several rounds, though, and there aren’t many I know who haven’t been tagged. So, I’m tagging one person: Katrina Monroe, and I ask any writers reading this to share an element of your writing process that you feel is unusual or that you think might be useful for others.

Thanks for reading. I hope you found at least one useful idea in my rambling.

Tagged: blog hop, fiction, work in progress, writing

Sneak Peek Sunday

Welcome back to Sneak Peek Sunday. This week I’d thought I’d share an excerpt from EVERLAND, which is truly a work in progress at just 10,000 words. I’m still working on the outline for this one, because I’m constantly changing the damn thing, but I did manage to get a few chapters down before I made myself crazy.

By the way, if any of you would like to share something, the guidelines for Sneak Peek Sunday are HERE.

So, enjoy a peek at EVERLAND:

Cinderella’s bare feet were raw and sore from the hot pavement. She ignored the stinging pain, which she hadn’t felt since the days before her marriage to Charming, and marveled at the massive buildings reaching up into the sky. People passed, glancing briefly at her. She noted their clothing, and realized she stood out like a sore thumb in her pink silk gown.

She eyed the various windows along the street. Each contained a variety of wares, most of them alien to her. The closest one displayed boxes containing people. Why would they put human beings in such contraptions? Were they being punished? She moved closer to the window, and realized the people in the boxes were oblivious to everything around them. They talked, argued, and played games, seemingly content to be shut inside the devices.

Strange.

The window next to the torture store held white statues covered in wigs. They’d been clothed in garments that matched what the people around her wore.

Cinderella walked to the door. As she entered the store, cool air blasted her face. The lights weren’t as intense as the sunshine. They hung overhead, the candles hidden behind frosted panels. How did they not catch the ceiling and set the place ablaze?

“Can I help you?” a woman asked.

Cinderella tore her eyes away from the ceiling candles, and found a short, round woman. She wore blue-framed glasses and a men’s jacket and pants. Curious. Red had been known to wear pants in Everland, but women of quality wore gowns. What would pants be like?

“I’d like what you’re wearing,” Cinderella told the woman. “But not in black. Do you have anything in robin’s egg blue or maybe rose petal pink?”

The woman smiled and glanced at her gown. “Did someone get married?”

“Why?” Could she tell that Cinderella was married? What if she told someone?

“Your dress. It’s beautiful, but most people only wear things like that when they’re forced into being a bridesmaid.”

Cinderella gasped. “I’m no one’s maid.”

“Right.” The woman raised an eyebrow. “You have money, right?”

“I’d like to place it on credit. When I find my normal prince, he will take care of my debts.”

The woman tilted her head. “Sure, I’ll see what I can find. You’re skinny, but we just got a shipment of petite sizes in. Be right back.”

The woman scurried away.

Cinderella watched the other patrons as she waited. Two women whispered over a rack of lingerie. How bold to place such things out in the open. They glanced in her direction and Cinderella smiled. The women dissolved into giggles and more whispers.

Peasants, obviously, who were grateful for a scrap of royal attention.

She paced the floor. How long did it take to retrieve pants and a jacket? Perhaps she should have requested slippers as well. Or boots. Cinderella smiled. Snow White had loaned her boots once. Cinderella hated giving them back. She’d tried to have her cobbler make her a similar pair, but Charming canceled the order, claiming she had no need for such mannish things. He didn’t want her damaging her delicate feet by cramming them into anything but the finest of silks. Well, Charming couldn’t stop her now. She’d ask for boots as well.

“Ma’am?” a male voice drew Cinderella’s eyes from the women. He wore a blue suit, a gold badge clipped to its breast pocket. “My name is Sam. Can you tell me your name?”

“Cinder…. Cindy.” She said.

“And your last name?”

“I—does one need a last name to purchase garments?”

The man turned and Cinderella saw he’d brought a friend. This one wore white pants and a white shirt, no badge. They were both handsome, but something about Sam made her heart flutter. She’d bet he would be an excellent Huntsman. His dark hair curled around his ears, refusing to be tamed into a defined style, and his blue eyes reminded her of summer skies in Everland, peaceful but warm. Oh, Red would be so jealous. She’d found the perfect man: rugged and hard, but with the polished manners of nobility.

“Do you know where you are?” Sam asked.

“I’m in the real world.”

“Ah… yes, but where in the real world?”

“How am I to know? I’ve just arrived.”

Sam sighed and turned to his friend again. The friend met Cinderella’s gaze, his muddy brown eyes kind and… pitying? Why would he pity her?

“If you’re through interrogating me, I’m waiting for my garments. The woman went to fetch them for me.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” Sam said. “We’ll get you some new clothes.”

Cinderella glanced toward the back of the store, where the woman had disappeared. No sign of her anywhere. Well if she didn’t want the business of a princess, so be it.

“All right, Sam,” she said. “But could you carry me? My feet are terribly sore.”

Sam glanced at her feet. His companion snickered.

“Sure,” Sam finally said. “I’ll carry you.”

#

“Cinderella!”

Gretchen set her toothbrush on the sink and closed her eyes. Finally, a name she knew. Why the hell would her voices start calling fairy tale names? She pressed her forehead. The voice, a man’s, continued to call the name. He sounded distressed, and a little scared.

She glanced at her reflection, noting the shadows beneath her eyes. The voices had kept her up all night. Actually, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d slept more than a few hours. Dr. Ginger said to deal with her grief and they’d go away, but how?

“Miss you,” another voice said. This voice was male as well, and one she’d heard before.

She understood the pain in his voice. He was grieving. Gretchen imagined him kneeling before a tombstone, tears streaming down his face. However, she couldn’t see what he looked like. She thought it strange she heard these voices constantly, but never imagined faces to go with them. Couldn’t imagine them. Weird.

Gretchen rinsed her toothbrush and then exited the bathroom. She’d do as the voice in her head had done; visit the cemetery and talk to her mother. Face her grief head-on. Surely that would be a good way to deal with it.

#

The cemetery was empty, as it always was. Gretchen walked through the rusted iron gates and up the hill. She hadn’t visited her mother’s grave in a couple of months. Guilt pinched her chest. The flowers she’d left would be dead and strangers would think her mother had been forgotten already.

She held new flowers, roses mixed with laurel branches, in her hand. Her palm was sweaty, causing the plastic wrapping to slip now and then. Gretchen reached the top of the hill and stopped. A man knelt before her mother’s stone, his head bent. He was slim, and wore a green velvet jacket. His dirty blond hair was long and a little shaggy. She frowned. He looked like he stepped out of a play; his clothes were so strange. While his appearance raised a ton of questions, the only one she cared to answer was why he was visiting her mother’s grave.

Gretchen took a breath and continued forward. Better find out who the hell he is. She stopped a few feet away from him. The man didn’t look up, so she cleared her throat.

The man stood and then turned to face her. His eyes were brown flecked with gold. Gretchen had similar golden flecks in her green eyes. She stared at the man. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shifted from one boot-clad foot to the other. He was handsome, but something about him sent a chill over Gretchen’s spine.

“Hello,” she said. “That’s my mom’s grave.”

He stared for a moment, glancing at the stone and back at Gretchen. “You are Laurel’s daughter?”

“Yes and you are?”

He stood and held out a hand. “I’m an old friend. My name is Rum—Rick.”

Gretchen stared at his hand, but didn’t take it. “She never mentioned you.”

“We were friends many years ago. I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

His voice was familiar, but she couldn’t place where she’d heard it.

“Did she suffer?” he asked.

What an odd question. “Yes. She had cancer.”

He winced. “She deserved better.”

Gretchen nodded.

“Well, I’ll leave you alone. Nice to meet you…I didn’t catch your name.”

“Gretchen.” She said.

He smiled and strolled away. Gretchen watched him walk toward the large stone shed at the center of the cemetery. Something in her gut said to follow him. She set the flowers on top of her mother’s tombstone and turned in the same direction. The air around him shimmered and “Rick” disappeared.

Gretchen stopped. How the—she’d really lost it this time. She ran toward the shed, determined to confront the demons in her head. This was just another symptom of whatever was wrong with her, and it wasn’t grief. Hallucinations hadn’t happened yet. She was obviously sick and getting sicker.

As she approached the spot where Rick had disappeared, an invisible force pulled at her. Gretchen blinked as the shed and the landscape blurred. She continued to walk, giving into the energy that tugged her forward.

Her stomach lurched and then everything turned white.

Tagged: Everland, fiction, sneak peek sunday, work in progress, writing

Sneak Peek Sunday

Welcome back to Sneak Peek Sunday. Before I get into anything else, I want to wish everyone a happy and safe Canada Day (which is Tuesday) and happy birthday to my baby brother, Jamie. Sure, he’s like, 31, and a dad, but he’ll always be the baby in my eyes.

This week I’d thought I’d share an excerpt of LIES WE TELL, which I hope to publish by the end of this year. It’s a pretty dark scene, and a major turning point for a couple of the main characters. Still needs some editing, but I suppose this is true of any work in progress.

By the way, if any of you would like to share something, the guidelines for Sneak Peek Sunday are HERE.

Okay, so here’s LIES WE TELL:

 

From his bed, Devon listened to the sounds coming from the living room. When his mom took him to the mall last week to see Santa, Devon had asked him for a new Daddy. Santa looked at him weird, like he had two heads or something, and Devon asked for a fire truck too. But he really wanted a different Daddy. His mom’s cries, as she begged him to stop hurting her, made his belly feel hot and sick. Daddy wasn’t listening. A loud thwack and Devon slipped further under his blankets.

Sometimes he wanted to yell at his dad, to punch him like he punched his mom. Devon wanted to protect her, to save her, but he was afraid. His dad was big. Sometimes he was like an animal, looking for something to eat.

Hayley moved in her crib. Devon sat up. His sister didn’t understand what was going on, she was just a baby. Devon was a big boy, three and a half years. He always took care of Hayley when Mommy couldn’t.

The little girl stood, looking around in the darkness, her brown curls standing straight out, her blue eyes, just like his and Daddy’s were wide, like they might pop right out of her face. Devon usually giggled when she looked like this, but tonight he didn’t. They were supposed to be quiet when Daddy acted like this and Devon had promised Mommy he would be quiet. They didn’t want Daddy coming in here, the last time he did that, he pushed Devon really hard and hit him with his belt. He couldn’t sit down for a long time because his bum hurt so much. Worse than that, Mommy cried so hard. She kept saying sorry like it was her fault. Devon knew it wasn’t. He shouldn’t have fed the crayons to the dog, but it was funny at the time. The dog puked a rainbow and it was cool.

Hayley lifted a chubby leg over the railing

Devon shot out of bed. “No Hay, go back to sleep.”

She paused. Devon thought she might actually listen to him, but then she continued to climb out. She was too heavy for him to put back in, and Devon knew she’d cry if he tried. He helped her out and tiptoed to their door. “Okay Hay,” he whispered. “I’m going to peek out there, see if Daddy is in bed. If he is, we can see Mommy. Okay?”

Hayley smiled. “Mama? Cookie?”

“No, it’s bedtime. No cookies. Now hush.”

Devon opened the door a crack, peering into the living room just beyond their door. His heart thumped in his chest. He felt hot all over. There wasn’t any noise, not enough to hear through the door, but Daddy wasn’t in bed. He was pulling Mommy’s hair and pushing her face into the carpet.

Devon smelled the strange odor that always seemed to be there when Daddy hit Mommy. It was sweet, yet not very nice. Devon didn’t like it.

His mom struggled to be free. “Garrett. I’m sorry.”

Hearing her say that made Devon mad. She shouldn’t have to say that. She didn’t do anything naughty. The darn stove didn’t work right; it always smoked and burned stuff. Mommy told him we needed a new stove, and Daddy knew that, but he’d been out with friends and when he was out with his friends, he came back angry. Mommy always got in trouble for something.

“I’m finished with you.” Daddy kicked her.

Devon flinched. Mommy didn’t even cry. She was so brave. Devon would have screamed and ran if Daddy kicked him.

“You’re not fit to live.”

Daddy walked toward him, Devon backed inside his room quickly.

Hayley pulled his pajama shirt, and he turned. “Cookie?”

“No Hay, go to bed. It’s almost over.” Devon heard his dad’s footsteps heading back to the living room. He never came back from the bedroom. Didn’t he say he was finished?

Devon opened the door again; Daddy had his gun, the one he liked to clean and sometimes pointed at Mommy to scare her. But this time was different. Mommy’s eyes were wide, her face pale. She backed away from Daddy, he held up a bullet. Devon thought they were neat, so small and shiny, but when Mommy caught him looking at them, she got really mad.

“Garrett this is stupid,” Mommy said. Her voice sounded high. “You can’t do this, the kids—”

“Don’t worry about your little bastards.”

He always called them that, especially Devon. Daddy liked Hayley better than him, Devon knew it was true. Mommy said it was just that Hayley was little and couldn’t get into trouble yet. She was wrong though. Daddy never liked him, because Devon was born bad.

“The boy will go with you.”

Mommy gasped, her hand going to her mouth. Where were they going?

Daddy put the bullet into the gun, then moved the round thing and closed it. Devon thought it was cool when they did that on T.V., but tonight it didn’t seem so cool. It scared him.

“Hay, you stay here,” Devon whispered, pushing his sister to his bed. “Don’t come out until I come back. Okay?”

“Kay,” Hayley climbed on Devon’s bed but he shook his head. No, if Daddy got too mad, she had to hide. Hayley didn’t know when she should hide.

“No, we’re gonna play hide and seek.” He pulled her off the bed, smiling when she clapped her hands. This was her favorite game. “Now you hide under the bed and I’ll try to find you.”

Hayley went willingly, giggling as Devon pushed her under and went back to the door.

Daddy pointed the gun at Mommy, who sat on her knees now. She was crying really hard.

“Let’s see what God thinks,” Daddy said to her. “I’ll pull the trigger, and if you’re not fit to breathe, a bullet goes in your brain. Quick and painless.”

Mommy cried and shook her head.

“If God thinks you’re worth keeping around, I’ll get an empty chamber and you’ll live.”

Daddy put the gun to Mommy’s head. Devon held his breath. Daddy started counting, and Devon knew he had to do something. Anyone who knew anything knew that a bullet in your head would kill you. He didn’t want Mommy to die, even if God thought she should.

Devon ran into the hall, his only thought to stop the bullet.

#

Hayley waited; there was a lot of noise in the other room. Daddy yelled. Mommy screamed. Hayley was scared, and it was dark under Brother’s bed.

Scrambling out, sneezing when something tickled her nose, Hayley ran to the door. Brother told her to hide, but she didn’t like the dark anymore. Not when she was alone.

She peeked through the open door and her body went stiff. She couldn’t move and she felt strange, her tummy hurt.

Brother held on to Mommy, who tried to push him away. They both cried, and Daddy laughed.

“Two of you in one go,” he said.

Mommy cried harder.

Hayley didn’t like it when Daddy laughed at Mommy. It sounded mean.

“Let’s ask God again.”

Daddy clicked the thing in his hand and Mommy screamed. Why was she afraid of that? It only clicked.

“I hate you!” Brother screamed, running at Daddy.

Oh, this wasn’t good. Hayley stuck her thumb in her mouth.

“I wish you were dead.” Brother punched at Daddy, his skinny arms flying.

Daddy picked him up by his hair, ouch. Then he tossed him away, a thud sounding on the opposite wall. Brother didn’t cry. Hayley leaned out to see where he was, and she suddenly didn’t feel good at all. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t. Brother said babies cry and she was a big girl. She stared, unable to look away from Brother’s body on the floor. His nose was red, like he put paint on it or something. It was kind of gross.

Daddy turned, saw her standing in the hall and advanced. Hayley backed away. Mommy screamed and ran at him. Hayley hurried to her room, scrambling back under her bed.

#

Dana watched in horror as Devon’s tiny body hit the wall, a sickening thud accompanying it. She froze. This was not happening. Garrett was no longer sane, his tenuous hold over his anger had snapped and now they would all die.

She still felt the cold steel of the gun against her head, although it was no longer there. He’d done this before, but she’d known it wasn’t loaded, and he was messing with her. Knowing that one bullet was in there, and he pulled the trigger anyway, forced her to see the reality. He hated them.

At Hayley’s cry, Dana turned away from Devon. The toddler stared wide-eyed at her father, unsure what to do. He’d never attacked Hayley before. He favored the little girl over her brother, but tonight Dana couldn’t be sure.

Dana stood, her legs trembling, her sides aching, the ribs that had only recently healed were surely broken again. Garrett walked toward Hayley, and Dana screamed. He would not do this to her children. She ran at him with everything she had, she would die before she allowed him hurt her babies.

At her voice Garrett spun around, shock and amusement in his bloodshot eyes.

If he thought she wouldn’t fight him he’d underestimated her. She failed to protect her sisters, but she would not fail her kids.

He caught her before she could land a punch, twisting her arm painfully behind her. At least his attention turned from Hayley, who scurried back to her room.

“You want to fight? Fine, I’ll give you a fight, bitch.”

Garrett yanked her arm higher and, after a sickening pop, he shoved her to the floor. Dana held her arm, the pain so intense she was on the brink of passing out. It hung limp at her side. Just above the elbow it bent at an awkward angle and she couldn’t move her fingers.

Garrett advanced and picked her up once more by her injured arm.

Dana whimpered. A cry would only fuel the fire.

He shoved her again, half-throwing her into the wall.

Devon murmured.

Dana turned her head, lifting herself on her good arm to look over at him.

Devon looked disoriented, eyes glazed, blood trickling from his nose.

“Both of you are pathetic,” Garrett sneered. He kicked her again forcing her back to the floor. “Get out of my fucking house. I don’t want to look at either of you again.”

Dana lay still, hoping that if she could avoid provoking him any more he’d just walk away.

“Do you hear me? Get the fuck out!”

“I’m sorry.” The words were out before she could stop them. He didn’t care, but she’d said it so often. It was pure instinct now.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it anymore.” He knelt beside her.

She stared at his boots, the steel toes showing through the worn tips. Boots that caused so much pain.

“I want you gone when I get back, or I’m loading enough bullets in this gun for both of you.”

“Yes.” Hope sprang in Dana’s chest. He never told her to leave before. Most times, he warned her that leaving would see her dead. Now, for the first time, if she stayed he would kill her.

“Leave Hayley with my mom.”

“What?”

His hand ripped across her cheek.

Lights danced before her eyes. Dana gasped, and tasted the acrid flavor of blood in her mouth.

He threw her down and stood. “You heard me. I won’t let you ruin my daughter. She’s worth more than the two of you put together.”

Dana laid there, her heart pounding, his words echoing in her head. She imagined Hayley growing up with Garrett, those big blue eyes so full of innocence and life suddenly dim, frightened. No, she wouldn’t leave her daughter with him. She’d already subjected her children to too much. Dana didn’t know if the damage could be undone, but she wouldn’t allow more to ruin their souls. They wouldn’t be like her or their father.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night. You better not be here.” Garrett called from the door.

The door slammed, rattling the walls. Dana eased herself up, her upper arm throbbing, but numb below her elbow. Devon crawled toward her, tears streaming down his pale cheeks. He climbed into her lap, pressing his face into her chest. Dana stroked his hair, whispering her apologies and sobbing with him.

“Mama?” Hayley’s cry from the bedroom brought Dana to reality. They had to leave.

“Come on buddy. Are you hurt?” She gently pushed Devon off her.

“My head,” he whispered and bit his trembling lip.

Dana searched for bumps, finding just one, small and close to his ear. She checked his face, his teeth were intact, his nose had stopped bleeding, and just a small bruise showed under his eye.

Her chest ached at the sight of the battered boy who had tried to be brave for her. She’d let things go too long, hoping Garrett would realize the damage he was doing, but he didn’t and he never would.

Whatever it was that made him so angry, whatever made him want to hurt those that loved him, had taken over his soul. She never saw him sober anymore, not even when he woke in the morning. He rose, still drunk from the previous night, drank a beer for breakfast and continued all day. He was a sick man, and she didn’t know how to make him better. He’d only gotten worse now that he was laid off. Dana couldn’t leave for work without ensuring someone would look after the children.

Dana stood, taking Devon by the hand and limping toward the kids’ room. Hayley wailed now, too frightened to come out, but needing her mother. Dana moved as fast as her battered body would allow, switching on the light after opening the door. Hayley sat in front of her crib, Devon’s tattered teddy bear clutched in her chubby little fist.

“Mama,” Hayley lunged at her, throwing her little body against Dana’s leg. Dana knelt, scooping her up in her good arm, wincing at the stabbing pain in her side. “It’s okay pumpkin, you’re safe.”

A clatter behind them and Dana spun around, her heart pounding. Devon packed favorite toys in his tiny backpack. She sighed in relief and smiled when he picked a few of Hayley’s things too. He was so sweet, always thought of his sister.

“I told her to stay here Mommy, but she never listens,” he said, stuffing toys into the bag.

“It’s okay buddy. You were a big boy, and I’m proud, but never, ever, do that again. Mommy can take care of herself. You’re not big enough to protect me just yet.”

Devon’s eyes widened. “But he was going to put a bullet in your head. That gets people dead, you know.”

 

 

Tagged: fiction, Lies We Tell, sneak peek, work in progress, writing

Vlog Attempt #1: My Writing Environment

I meant to record something about writing environments and how you’ll find the right environment if you’re determined to write. Then I thought, a vlog would be cool. Is it “vlog”? I don’t know. Anyway, I said “Why not test it out? See how I manage on camera and all that fun. Then when we were done, I thought, “Well, that was horrible.” But I’m going to share anyway, because I can.

Sneak Peek Sunday (Belated, I’m Sorry)

Welcome back to Sneak Peek Sunday. Sorry, it’s a little late this week, more like Sneak Peek Monday, because I had to work and forgot to schedule the post… but let’s not dwell on that.

This week Katrina Monroe, author of REAPER (Melange Books, Sept. ’14), is sharing an excerpt of her work-in-progress, THE BARD, which is set in the world of REAPER.

By the way, if any of you would like to share something, the guidelines for Sneak Peek Sunday are HERE.

I absolutely love REAPER (which I was honored to beta read), so I was excited to share an excerpt from BARD. Enjoy:

 

Bard woke the next morning to the sound of some jerk laying on a car horn right outside his window. He tucked his flimsy pillow around his head, shoving as much of the fluff into his ears as possible. It was no use. Whoever it was had no intention of letting up any time soon.

He shot up in bed. “What the fuck is your problem?!”

The horn stopped. Bard frowned then shook his head. Creepy timing, that’s all it was. He fell back against the mattress and sighed. The list crinkled in his pocket as he moved. Bard wondered how they planned to get him across the country. Relocation was a tricky business – one he’d not relished the last time. Transportation being what it was when Queen Victoria was on the throne, Bard spent the better part of January 1850 heaving over the side of a ship en route from England to New York, then walked from Brooklyn to the devil’s puckered ass hole, Florida. Once he’d spotted palm trees, he planted his feet firmly in the ground and refused to go any further.

Now, they wanted to uproot him once again.

Bard thanked whoever was listening that there existed no sailable river to Minnesota.

A knock on the door yanked him from his memories.

Keeping his eyes locked on the bedroom door, Bard groped the mattress for his dagger only to remember he’d left it on the table last night.

“Fuck me,” he muttered.

“No thanks,” a voice said behind the door.

He rolled his eyes. It was only Smalls. “What do you want?”

“You decent?”

Looking down at his bare, white-haired chest and yesterday’s jeans Bard said, “Yep.”

The door opened; Smalls peered around it and cringed. “Come on, dude. Put on a shirt.”

“Call me ‘dude’ again, and I’ll shove that pumpkin you call a head down the toilet.”

Smalls shrugged. While he’d been a reaper for nearly a hundred years, Smalls still acted as though he was as young as the day he died. He was an idiot most of the time, but didn’t ask too many stupid questions and was good at the job. Bard didn’t dislike him.

Bard sniffed a t-shirt he found beside the bed and, deciding it wasn’t too ripe, slipped it over his head. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this crack of dawn visit?”

“I’m relocating you. Didn’t you hear me honking outside?”

“That was you? Jesus, you could wake the dead with that racket.”

“That was the idea.” Smalls winked.

Bard groaned. It was annoying when Smalls tried to be clever. “You’re driving me the entire way?”

“No. Just to the airport. I’ve got a pick there, anyway.”

Bard stood and left the bedroom in search of his bag. He wouldn’t be bringing much. “Big one?”

Smalls leaned against the doorframe. “Nah. Just the one.”

In his tattered leather bag, Bard packed the dagger, extra lighters and enough clothes for a couple of days. He paused at the table. Should he bring the scribblings? No. What good would they do him once the job was done? Instead, Bard stuffed them into the box crate which he balanced on his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Smalls nodded and followed him out of the apartment.

Bard didn’t bother to lock up.

While Smalls continued out to the street where his car waited, Bard walked around the side of the building. An overflowing dumpster sat at the back of the alley, awash with flies and the fetid stench of decay. He dropped the crate next to it.

Smalls whistled from the street. “You coming or what?”

“Yeah,” Bard called. “Hold your horses.”

He lit the corner of a burger wrapper with his favorite zippo lighter and tossed it into the center of the crate. It didn’t take long for the pages to ignite.

Bard lit a cigarette and strode from the alley.

Smalls leaned against the car, fiddling with the music player Bard had traded him. He pointed to the plume of smoke rising out of the alley. “What’d you do?”

“Tied up a loose end. Let’s get out of here.”

##

People, Bard thought, were no better than rabbits. Thousands of people he’d delivered into the next life, yet here in the packed airport was proof that it’d made little to no impact on the population. He and Smalls snaked through the overflow from the ticketing line, past security, and out to the gates.

“Where’s your pick?” Bard said, readjusting the bag on his shoulder. It was old and tearing along the strap. He worried it’d snap before they got the plane. If Smalls’ pick had a nice bag, though…

Smalls tilted his head. “Over there. Gate forty-three. The woman with the pink hair.”

She was hard to miss. Breasts the size of cantaloupes and bright pink hair curled atop her head like cotton candy. Bard guessed she was somewhere in the neighborhood of eighty and vaguely deluded about it.

“Heart attack?” He said.

Smalls shrugged. “Maybe. Look at the way she’s shaking her head. My money’s on an aneurism.”

Bard grunted. He couldn’t help but notice the board behind her. Her flight was headed for Minneapolis. “Guess she’s my seat.”

“You’re going north? Man, I don’t envy you.”

The woman teetered in her seat.

“You’re up,” Bard said.

She pitched forward just as they reached her, thin body draped over her luggage like a doll. The gate attendants rushed over to help, barking orders into their walkie-talkies. Her Ba rose from her body without issue and Smalls attended to her while Bard took advantage of the chaos. A flight that full would have a list of on-calls ready to take her seat. A death would delay the flight by an hour maybe, but nothing short of a terrorist attack would cancel it. He scanned the computer screen for the on-calls list. Sure enough, they’d thought of that, too. As Bard watched, the names were deleted, one by one.

Smalls joined him at the counter. “All taken care of?”

“Looks that way.”

Smalls cleared his throat. Sniffed. God, he was going to get emotional and Bard didn’t want to deal with it.

“Thanks for the ride,” Bard said. “You should probably head out.”

Smalls nodded. “Yeah. Okay,” he said, but didn’t move.

“Don’t you have a –”

Bard was cut off by a suffocating hug around his chest. His arms were pinned to his side, making it impossible to wriggle out of the embrace.

“Oh, for fucksake.”

“Could you not be an ass for one minute, Bard? I know why you’re being relocated and I get it. But I’m going to miss you.”

He’d never admit it, but a small part of Bard was going to miss Smalls too. A microbial, almost invisible part. A part-lette.

Bard sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t cry or anything.”

He was finally able to pry himself out of Smalls’ grip when TSA agents okayed boarding. Without looking back, Bard slipped past the woman scanning tickets and sought out the pink-haired woman’s seat – a window seat at the very back of the plane. He tucked his bag beneath the seat and immediately buckled the seat belt.

It was irrational. More than that, it was stupid, but Bard was terrified of flying. The logical side of his mind tried to remind him that he was a reaper. He was an instrument of death. The less-logical side said, exactly. He couldn’t die again, but Bard didn’t imagine experiencing a fiery plane crash would be pleasant.

Other passengers boarded shortly after. A dark-skinned woman in a red and tan dress sat next to Bard. Her dreadlocked hair quivered as she snapped her seatbelt, muttering and taking deep breaths between each incoherency. She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

“You will not get me,” she said.

Bard frowned. “Excuse me?”

The woman didn’t respond.

Relax, he thought. She’s just scared.

The engines roared to life and soon they were airborne. Drink service came through and Bard cursed his oversight. Liquor would have deadened the impact turbulence had on his slowly crumbling composure. His neighbor obviously felt the same; she asked for vodka.

“Double,” she said in a deep, toffee-like voice.

The flight attendant set two small bottles of vodka on her tray, along with a plastic cup of ice. The woman didn’t touch them at first. Instead, she reached into the folds of her long skirt and retrieved a deck of tarot cards.

Bard snorted. “I can tell you more than those cards can, lady.”

She shuffled the cards, cut them twice, then held them between her hands for a moment before dealing. Each card she turned was identical – the classic image of a reaper, scythe in hand, skeletal face, shrouded in black. She nodded, flipping every card.

When the last one was laid, she poured the contents of the first vodka bottle into the cup. The second, she set on Bard’s lap.

He looked up and met her piercing gaze.

“I thought so, but could not be sure,” she said and took a long pull from her cup. She pointed to the scattered deck. “The cards do not lie. You are Death.”

“More or less,” was all Bard could come up with to say. It startled him that this woman could not only see him, but knew exactly what he was. But, it wasn’t unheard of. Those few people who had real psychic ability felt and saw things no one else could. The way most of humanity is repelled by Bard’s kind, seers are drawn to them.

“I am Zola,” she said.

“Bard.”

“Are you here for someone?”

“Nope. Just traveling.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “Then drink up, Bard. You look like you need it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. The entire contents of the bottle went down in two gulps. He wiped his mouth and nodded thanks. The alcohol hit him almost instantly, warming his face and softening his anxiety.

Zola gathered her cards and slipped them back into the folds of her skirt. “Death does not just travel,” she said. It wasn’t an invitation for explanation; it was a statement of cold fact.

“True.”

She sighed. “Neither do I.”

Her mouth set in a tight line and remained that way for the rest of the flight.

Tagged: Bard, Katrina Monroe, Melange, Reaper, work in progress, writing

Lies We Tell

I’m preparing a book for publication that’s a little different than everything else I’ve written. I’m writing a blog post about it because I’m Canadian and we like to explain shit up here. Now, you’re all used to my hilarious wit (if you don’t think I’m hilarious, we’ll have to break up), and I’m sure some of you believe I don’t take many things seriously. You’re right. However, I can be serious and there are a few things I don’t joke about. So let’s just get the feelsy shit out of the way.

Once upon a time, my mentor and one of my dearest friends, Carlos Cortes said I should write something from my heart. And of course I was all “Ew?” But he went on to explain how writing emotional/personal shit is actually good for your other writing. Turns out, he was right. Before writing LIES WE TELL, most of my work lacked something. The stories were good, the characters interesting, but there’s a certain something that makes a book personal for a reader. It’s what allows them to lose themselves in the story and relate to the characters. Whether you write something ridiculous or serious, this element can mean the difference between a good read and an amazing experience.

How do you give your story this certain something? Well, one very easy way (and when I say easy I’m totally lying) is to be able to empathize with ALL of your characters; the good, the bad and the ugly or whatever. If you can understand why they do what they do or say what they say, you can make said characters pop from the page for the reader. In order to empathize, you’ve got to get in touch with your feelings. Gross, I know, but necessary.

I admit, I didn’t want feels in my writing. I’m not a feelsy sort of gal. But I knew my writing lacked something important, so I said, “Fine, Carlos. I’ll write the stupid book, but no one will ever read it.” Then I made him swear he’d never tell another soul about it.

It took many tries to find the right story. Many, many, many tries. I examined my life, and came to a few conclusions. First, my father wasn’t a perfect man. He was an alcoholic, and he was angry for most of his life. He didn’t understand why he felt the way he did or why he hurt the people he loved, and he didn’t know how to stop. For many years, he blamed everyone else for the demons that haunted him. Second, my mother wasn’t always confident. Something changed her early in life, and she accepted the role of “victim” as though she had no other choice. For many years, she allowed life to just happen to her. She wanted help, but didn’t think she deserved it.

Then they both changed. It was like a light went on for each of them. I tried to pinpoint when it happened, but I suspect it was a slow process where they both eventually made a decision to stop the cycle and change their destructive behavior. My dad took responsibility for the wrongs he’d done, and he admitted he needed help. He stopped drinking and learned to manage his anger. My mom changed too. Instead of leaving, though, she stood by him, which is a controversial and sometimes dangerous decision. They found happiness, but it took many years before they could truly put their past behind them.

When I realized how hard it was for both of them to just be happy, I realized I had my inspiration for this feelsy story Carlos thought I should write. I created a plot, in which I tied the actions and consequences of several characters over about four decades. The reason I did this was to demonstrate how the cycle of violence repeats itself unless someone has the courage to walk away from it. Then I created good and evil characters, and added a few that hovered somewhere in between.

Finally, LIES WE TELL became a story. While it is fiction, its theme is very real.

As you’ve probably guessed, LIES is primarily about domestic abuse. I think it’s important to write about these issues because most of us know someone who has experienced some form of abuse or violence, but not many people truly understand it, even if we’re right in the middle of an abusive situation. Most of us don’t realize that abusers aren’t always “bad.” We don’t understand that “victims” aren’t weak. Many of us see the issue as black or white, when it’s anything but. I get frustrated when I hear people blame this or that, instead of trying to understand and HELP. The blame game helps no one.

Abuse, and I’m talking all forms of it—physical, psychological, etc.–leaves scars and wounds that never truly heal. It changes a person in ways you can’t imagine until you’ve experienced it. Even then, few of us realize how much damage it has caused. This is true for both the abuser and his/her victim. You never forget what happened, and sometimes you can’t forgive your abuser or yourself.

But this book is also about taking responsibility for your life and your happiness. At some point everyone has a choice: You can either let life define you, or you can stand up and define yourself.

I wanted to show how two people can be completely at odds, can do horrible and cruel things, yet still love each other deeply and without question. I wanted to show that sometimes a person does terrible things because he/she doesn’t know how to ask for help. I wanted people trapped in an abusive situation and those who’ve escaped to know they’re not alone. And I wanted to demonstrate why it’s not as simple as just walking away or saying no.

And I think I did all of that. Then I set it aside. Initially, I didn’t want to publish LIES because I was afraid some might say I’ve trivialized the issues surrounding domestic abuse. I was afraid I might offend certain groups or maybe I didn’t offend them enough. I worried the characters and their motivations might seem cliché, or illogical, but then I said, “Hey, life is illogical and cliché.” So after a few months, I took it out, revised, went through the whole shebang again, and set it aside once more.

Over the years, I’ve pulled it out, edited, and queried agents and publishers. Then after the rejections poured in, I lost my nerve and set it aside again. I repeated this process many times. A few months ago, I opened the file. I’m not sure why. Sometimes I do shit like that. Anyway, I hadn’t read it in more than a year. I was shocked at the emotions it stirred after all this time.

I concluded that it could be an important book. If just one person feels a little less alone while reading it, then it’s worth publishing. So I’m publishing it this summer. I wasn’t sure what genre it should be in, and I don’t like putting things in neat little slots, but the retailers like to know what shelf they need to place it on, so since I’m told it’s “domestic suspense” we’ll go with that.

Why am I telling you all of this? Because if you’ve read my other books, which I admit are purely designed to entertain the reader, you’ll be all “What the flying fuck is this, Renee?” You might love it or you might hate it. You might not even finish it. I had some beta readers who were so upset/disturbed by the first chapters they stopped reading. I want to get the origins of the story, my reason for writing it, and why I’m publishing it now, out of the way. (Seriously, I’m not explaining this all again. Okay, I probably will, but I won’t like it.) More importantly, in posting this, I’ve committed to publishing LIES, and I won’t chicken out again, because I know you guys won’t let me. ;)

Tagged: domestic violence, fear, issues, Lies We Tell, publishing, writing

Sneak Peek Sunday

Because I’m notoriously terrible at remembering to regularly post in here, I’ve decided I need a weekly feature. Then I thought, “Well, I like to share stuff.” So every Sunday, I’ll be giving everyone a sneak peek at a current work in progress.

But then I said, “Why should you get all the love, Renee? God, you’re such a selfish bitch.” And feeling ashamed of my selfish need for all the glory, I decided to open Sneak Peek Sunday up to you guys as well. I’ll share my WIPs and your WIPs (if you’d like to share). When I share someone else’s WIP, I’ll also post links to their social media stuff, such as blog, Twitter, Amazon page, whatever you like, so you get a bit of promotional benefits as well. Cool? Okay, so there have to be guidelines, because I can’t go around sharing just anything and we don’t want confusion and shit. They’re as follows:

If you want your WIP to be featured on Sneak Peek Sunday, simply email me at reneemiller (at) bell (dot) net, or say so in the comments.
A “work in progress” means an unfinished or UNPUBLISHED piece of writing you are working on. If it’s slated for publication, that’s fine, but if you’ve signed a contract for the work with a publisher, and need to include copyright info because it’s going to be published in the near future, I need that information so I can include it in the post. (Some publishers don’t like you sharing work they’re about to publish without their permission or without mentioning their name. Check your contract.)
I’ll need all the links you want shared in the post, as well as a short bio. Think 100 to 150 words. No more. God, your life story is for your own damn blog.

Too harsh? Sorry. Let’s move on.

Maximum 2,000 words. This is slightly negotiable. For example, your scene is 2100 to 2500 words, and would be seriously weird without the extra words, I’ll post it. If it’s 3000 words or more, I’m probably going to ask you to pick a different scene.
Spelling, typos, etc. should be minimal. This is going to be online, and you don’t want readers’ first impression of your work to be that it’s sloppy, even if it’s a rough draft. Edit the excerpt as much as you can to remove these things. While one or two typos is probably okay (I’ll fix them if I see just one or two, but I’m not an editor), I won’t post anything with more than that.
Language, sex, etc. is generally not an issue. This is an adult blog, and adult content is welcome. However, because my mother reads this from time to time, let’s use common sense. For example, I’m highly unlikely to post porn, unless it’s a fantastic, mind-blowing scene that makes you forget it’s porn. So, there’s your challenge perverts. Wow me and I might just agree to share it.
I reserve the right to decline an excerpt for whatever reason I deem reasonable. I may or may not share this reason with you. This is my blog, and if I think a piece of writing isn’t right for it, I’ll decline. If you can’t handle that, you probably shouldn’t offer to share, because you aren’t likely to get a detailed explanation, and whining about it will only make me add you to The List. If I think it just needs some edits, I’ll suggest that. If you don’t want to do said edits, so be it. We don’t have to share.

So, that’s it.

Today’s share is one of my WIPs, titled “NEFARIOUS” which is book three in my Greek gods series. The first two books, LUCKY and MENDACIOUS, will be published by Crescent Moon Press. LUCKY will be available in November 2014, while MENDACIOUS’ publication date is to be announced. I’ve finished the first draft of NEFARIOUS, but it still requires several edits.

So, here we go:

 

Gavin woke with a start. The apartment was quiet. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. The dreams he’d had the night before had been so real he still felt the teeth of the two-headed creature ripping his flesh. He rubbed his belly and winced.

It wasn’t real…

Lifting his shirt, although he knew it was silly, Gavin inspected his stomach. No marks, of course, but his skin felt so raw.

A knock at the door sent the dreams from his mind. Gavin got out of bed. The living room was as he remembered it the night before. He looked to the sofa, which was still covered in dirty clothes and books. The knock sounded again.

Gavin walked to the door. He slid the deadbolt across, and stumbled back as his visitor pushed inside. The redhead had returned. She walked past him without a word.

“Hey,” Gavin said. “Come right in.”

She turned. “I don’t have time to hold your hand, Gavin. We have a lot of work to do and we have to do it before someone realizes you’re not in Tartarus.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. So, the redhead had been real, and she knew his name. At least part of his night had actually happened.

“You’re not going to play the big, thick-skulled, stubborn guy, are you?” She sighed.

“Well, a strange woman walks into my apartment—which she shouldn’t be able to do, by the way—and tells me we have work to do. Then she talks about a mythical place as though it were real. Yeah, I’m going to be a little obstinate about this.”

She scowled. Gavin recognized something in her blue eyes. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like he’d stared into them many times before.

“Listen,” she said. “I’m going to go over this really fast, so don’t ask questions until I’m done.”

Gavin strode to the kitchen and pulled out the coffee pot. “Mind if I make coffee while you talk?”

“Go ahead. You won’t have time to drink it.”

“I plan to try.” He said.

She sighed again. “Okay, so you are a god, or a half-god. Your father is Dionysus, although no one remembers this but me for some reason. Yesterday you were taken to Tartarus, and then Olympus, where you met some of your family.”

“So that was real?” Gavin paused his scooping of the coffee. It couldn’t be true.

“I said no questions,” She reminded him. “But yes, it was real. So was Tisiphone. The Cerberus was an illusion, which is the only reason you’re still in one piece.”

“It felt real,” Gavin touched his stomach.

“It was and it wasn’t. The pain was very real. In fact, I think a human would have died.”

“Funny you mention that, because I am human.”

“Part of you, yes, but a larger part is divine, which means you can’t be killed as easily as other humans.”

“And how did you escape from the nuthouse? Don’t they use those leg bracelets now?”

“I recall telling you I had no time for questions.” She said. “I’ve been with you since the day you were born. You didn’t know it, but I was watching over you. There are a lot of… entities that would want you dead if they knew you existed, so I promised to keep you hidden.”

He closed the lid on the coffee maker and pressed the button. Turning, Gavin stared at the woman. She was nuts. That’s the only plausible explanation. “And you are?”

“Eris, Goddess of Discord. And we have to visit Hephaestus.”

“Hephaestus is who exactly?” This was truly beyond insane.

“He’s a god. Zeus and Hera’s son.”

“I’ve read a few Greek myths, and haven’t heard of this guy.”

“Seriously? Zeus’ staff? Ares’ sword? The golden throne?”

Gavin shrugged.

“Well, he doesn’t live on Olympus like the others. Zeus and Hera rejected him because—it doesn’t matter. We need his help to trap them. When they’re contained, Chaos will help me make sure you gain all of your power. Then, your true destiny will reveal itself and I can release them.”

Gavin dug around inside her mind. He found a familiar darkness in her head, one he felt an instant connection to. He also confirmed she believed every word she said. What the hell did he do with her information? It was ludicrous. Impossible.

“Gavin, it’s not impossible. How do you explain your powers? The killing? The mind reading? The coercion? By the gods, you can move things with your mind. Humans can’t do these things.”

He’d always believed he’d imagined moving things, since it only happened when he was drunk, but this woman couldn’t know that.

“I know everything about you, Gavin, because I’ve been here the whole time.” She said. Apparently, she read minds too. “I’ve protected you since the day of your birth, and I am doing my best to protect you now. The Fates will determine your destiny eventually, and you’ll be tied to it. There are a few who would like to eliminate you before Fate decides anything, so let’s do what needs to be done before someone ruins everything we’ve worked to achieve.”

He stared. This was crazy. While the previous day’s events seemed real enough, Gavin couldn’t wrap his brain around it. It was easier to believe he’d dreamed it all, but if he had, how could she know everything? Why would he recognize her? He rubbed his eyes. Maybe he was still asleep.

“Gavin?”

“Fine,” He said. “Let’s go find your Heph—this guy or whatever he is. I’m curious enough to play along, and you’re hot enough that your obvious insanity might be a quirky bonus. Do I need to buy a plane ticket or are we just flashing there like all mythical beings do?”

“Hephaestus lives on an island called Lemnos in the Aegean Sea, which I must take you to. However, to reach his workshop inside the volcano, we have to pass through a portal, and that is guarded by Satyrs, who I hope recognize you as Dionysus’ son.”

Gavin’s brain revolted against the nonsense spilling out of her mouth. He sighed. “Why does it matter if they recognize me?”

“They’re not going to let me in without a very good reason. Hephaestus and I had a bit of a… falling out. It’s Aphrodite’s fault. She’s such a snob. Anyway, if they realize who you are, I’m sure they’ll let us pass. After that, we have to convince Polyphemus to let us into the workshop.”

“There’s a lot of convincing going on here. Who is Polyphemus?”

“A Cyclops.”

“Of course he is.” The scent of coffee filled the room and Gavin inhaled. Maybe caffeine would set his brain straight and vanquish the demon woman spinning tales. “Can I have just one cup of coffee before we leave?”

“You don’t need these human vices,” She glared.

“Well I like these human vices, so…”

“Fine. Put it in a travel mug.”

 

Tagged: Crescent Moon Press, For the Love of Gods, Nefarious, sharing, WIPs, writing

Guest Bloggers

So you want guest writers for your blog. What do you do? You let them know. Maybe with a post or a little thing in the sidebar that says something like “Want to guest blog? Here’s how.” Either way, you invite people to write shit for you. Fantastic idea. Make sure you have a link to what you want, sort of like guidelines.

What? You don’t have those? Meh, I guess it’ll be okay. I mean, surely the rest of the Internet can read your mind, right? It’s obvious your blog isn’t meant for adults alone, right? So let’s move on then.

Let’s say a writer offers to write something, because you ask for tips on writing or something book/publishing related. She says “Sure. I can write something, but there might be mild profanity.”

Okay, here’s the important part of this post:

If you’re not okay with profanity, you should decline said guest post. But no, you’re like “Cool, write away.”

So the writer sends you the post and your panties become firmly entrenched in your ass because of the profanity she promised would be there. What do you do? You send her an email asking her to remove the profanity. Wait… what? You really did that? Oy.

Then she responds that she will not remove it and suggests you discard the blog post if it offends you. You, of course, do that. Wait… you didn’t? Oh my shit, you didn’t engage in a mini email debate about the severity of profanity? You didn’t say something like “Why offend fellow writers who would otherwise really appreciate your tips?” God, you really are an asshole.

Yes, I called you an asshole, but I’ll explain, because I know you’re wondering. Fellow writers, real, honest-to-God, professional writers, would not condone censoring anything to avoid causing offense. They might voice their opinion of profanity. They might even say “The f-bombs are offensive” but they would NEVER ask a writer to remove them simply to ensure their delicate sensibilities aren’t offended.

And let’s remember, there were no guidelines given. You didn’t say “No profanity.” What do we do about that? Well, we say:

Grow. The. Fuck. Up.

You’re right, profanity isn’t necessary. Sometimes it’s even over the top. But every swear word is just that: A WORD. It’s letters put together to make a sound. That sound is a word. Like every other word. You give it power when you get all bent out of shape about it. If you really have a problem with a writer who colors her posts with a few fucks and shits, then make this clear when you ask for guest bloggers.

This is a true story, although it’s not my true story. I’m sharing with all of you, because it bothers me when someone is made to feel like they’re going straight to Hell for word choices. If you invite guests to write blog posts, be up front about the content and your guidelines. I like to swear, and I like to write using a shit ton of profanities, but I never do so when the site I’m writing for asks me not to. See, I don’t have to go around offending people, although I must admit it can be great fun. I have the option of not writing for a particular site/blog, and I base that decision on their guidelines. If I choose to write, I know the rules. There’s no confusion and no need to ask people to not write like they always do. No need to trade insults or accusations. It’s simple.

And if your readers are offended by “Fuck” they’re probably going to be just as kerfluffled over ass, shit, and cock. Cock is usually pretty startling. I daresay it’s even more startling than fuck sometimes, particularly when you blend it with ass, fuck and shit. Wow, there’s a profanity cocktail with a few possibilities.

Sorry, tangent.

Do I invite bloggers to post here? Not usually. If I did, I’d ask only that you be real. I’m offended by folks with egos bigger than my own. ;)

Tagged: assholes, blogging, censorship, tips, writing

Captain Obvious Syndrome

I’m over at DeadPixel Publications today, talking about Captain Obvious Syndrome, just one of my many pet peeves. Come join the conversation. http://www.deadpixelpublications.com/blog

Promise, it’ll be fun.

Tagged: Captain Obvious, DeadPixel Publications, humor, life, peeves, writing

She’s Got Good News!!

News, news all over the place, folks. And it’s mostly good! Holy shit, right?

So I thought I’d write a little post about what’s going on in my writing world lately, because I know how fascinated you all are about the goings on around here. First, LUCKY has a publication date. Look for it in November 2014. Cover? Alas, they are torturing me by making me wait for a cover. I’ll share as soon as I have one, though. Unless there are lustful embraces and cleavage on it. I won’t be part of such things. This is my nightmare, guys.

And, the second book in the series, which is (possibly temporarily) titled MENDACIOUS, will also be published by Crescent Moon Press. (Squee!) I’ll be hooked up with an editor soon. You’ll know when by my increased irritability and self-loathing. Just look away until it’s over.

In other news, I’ve unearthed a manuscript I wrote ages ago. It’s now titled LIES WE TELL, and is a domestic suspense novel. I didn’t know that was a genre until recently, but LIES definitely fits the definition. I recall hating this book, but after sending it to beta readers, I edited, and it’s damn good. I don’t know what I was thinking when I filed it in the “Never to be seen” file. Maybe the universe knew it wasn’t the right time for me to put it out into the world or something. Anyway, as I do with all of my manuscripts, I’ve sent a few queries. If I don’t get any nibbles, I’m already making plans to publish it myself. When? Not sure yet. Could be before LUCKY, but more likely after.

And… Sex, Peanuts, Fangs and Fur is still up in the air. I queried a publisher as well as a few agents. Someone asked for a partial, then decided it wasn’t their cup of tea. No biggie. A partial request is still reason to celebrate a little in my world. Then a small press asked for the full manuscript. No news yet. I’ll keep you posted.

In terms of writing, I’ve been outlining the final two books in the SPFF trilogy. It’s not quite finalized, because I have some researching to do, but I’ve got the essentials figured out. And Nefarious, the third book in the “For the love of gods” series (which picks up where Mendacious leaves off), is about half finished. I am loving these books, and it’s fascinating how the subplots are evolving so that they work into new books that weave all the characters together.

Um… what else? I have a book plotted where I take the characters from Grimm’s Fairy Tales and turn them all upside down and inside out. If I do it right, the book will be damn cool. If I do it wrong, you’ll never hear about it again.

I have another draft finished for a book I’ve been working on for a few years. After rewriting it, completely changing the plot, I’m still not sure how I feel about it. So, it’ll probably sit on my hard drive a while longer.

In non-writing news, DeadPixel Publications, the fabulous group of authors I’m proud to be part of, celebrated its one year anniversary recently. We did a video chat thing on Google, which was weird and really cool at the same time. It was strange to meet these people I’ve only known online. I hate video chats, by the way. My introvert self finds them very uncomfortable, but I had a blast, so that should tell you a lot about this bunch.

That sounds an awful lot like smush, so let’s move on.

I’ve managed to keep a “real job” for about a month now, and everyone has survived the process. It’s actually been a really positive thing for me. First, it forces me to make nice with people, and I have way more time for writing. Weird how shit works out, eh?

So that’s all my news. I have to get back to writing or Netflix… why can’t I stop watching Veronica Mars? Someone needs to stage an intervention. No, I’m serious.

Tagged: books, Crescent Moon Press, deadpixel, life, Lucky, Mendacious, publishing, updates, writing