Renee Miller's Blog, page 35

Oh No She Di'int

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Well, this week is looking up. I have an internet provider that so far is awesome. Things connect fast, they don't have a seizure when I pick up the phone and the guy that hooked it up? Definitely didn't have to twist my arm to let him in the door. He was all wet and sexy from the rain, slightly worried at the dogs jumping at the door, vulnerable, far too young for me...oh, right. Blog.



Also, I've figured out how to make comments on here. Apparently, I must use Firefox, not Explorer. S'okay, I can do this.Whatever makes Blogger happy, I will do. Why? I'm an agreeable sort of person. (whoever just laughed can piss off)



So, what wonderful insightful things will I say in this post? To be honest, I've got nothing of the sort planned, but perhaps I'll surprise you and me and say something so profound we're both left speechless. I do that sometimes. Okay, I've never done that, but there's a chance it could happen. If you get bored and wander off, you'll miss it and then when people are quoting me all over the Internet, tweeting my awesomeness, you'll be the last to jump on the bandwagon. Then what?



I've gone on a tangent again. Sorry. Let's see, what was my planned post? Here it is. Warning: You may not like what I have to say. That's okay. Just put the glass down and back away from the bar. Clive will show you out.



Now that they're all gone, let's continue. This past month or so (I lose track of time so frequently I can't be sure) I've been working on a few new projects. One, about a man, his wife, and the woman they're both sleeping with, has kind of stalled. No big deal. I have a plan. I plotted it all out and it just isn't quite what I hoped. I'll shred the original outline and start over. It's how I do things. Why? Because my brain can't function properly if I'm not feeling a tiny bit stressed. I blame my mother.



Aside from that project, I started another less planned, more seat-of-my-pants but still somewhat outlined project. This one makes me so excited but terrified at the same time. You see, I'm taking the Bible (gasp!), Greek mythology, and paranormal fiction elements...and I'm smashing them all together in a big ole plot that will surely anger this person or that for it's frivolity in dismissing all theories as fiction. What? Yeah. That's what I'm doing. All tongue-in-cheek, of course, meant to be humorous and entertaining, but still, that's the gist of it. Bible, mythology, organized religion = great stories but most of it about as believable as vampires in my backyard. By the way, you like that "frivolity"? It's my word of the day. I might bump it to word of the week, I like it so much.





Back to the novel that will probably never be published because I don't know yet if I'll allow anyone to read it. No, I don't hate religion or the bible or even mythology. I don't think it's stupid to believe any of it or none of it. I think we should all just let others do and think what they want, as long as no one else is harmed in the process, and shut the hell up about it. What do I truly believe? Well, that's personal and my business, but I don't think I'm right (or wrong) or have the right to try to convince you that my side is the right one. I'm like Sweden, completely neutral on most of it. This is why I can mix it all up and not go straight to Hell. The Powers That Be know I'm just funning with them.



Now that we're all clear on why I'm not going to Hell even if you say I am because you're angry, let's continue. It's still untitled, but written in the voice you all are familiar with. The one you read here. Au natural. Is that how you write that? I don't know. Anyway, it's my voice, the one I use when I speak, write emails, joke, bitch; you get the idea. A friend mentioned that my regular voice was far more appealing than the one I apparently drag from out of my ass to write everything else I've ever written, so I thought, why not give it a shot? No holds barred. Don't worry about what might be offensive or weird, just go with it. I have to admit, I haven't had this much fun since I wrote the first draft of Jack. Bianca is definitely an extension of me. It's really gonna suck if no one likes her. Okay, so I won't lose sleep over it, but it'll bug me.



Don't worry, it's not only religion I manage to get myself in trouble with, I managed to throw a little politics and sex in there too. Oh yeah, all or nothing baby. That's how I roll. Do you realize how bent out of shape people get about politics, the right to vote, etc.? I mean, sure it's a right we have, but what about the right NOT to vote. Do we not have the right to opt out when every choice that is available feels like we're signing our souls over to the devil? Why is it so wrong to say, "No thanks, I'm sitting this one out?" And if we feel this way, why are we guilted into lining up anyway to do our "duty"? Why is it our duty? I know, other people who aren't in my position, free, living in a Democracy, paid health care, equal whatever, would kill (and have) to be able to be heard. I get that. But, having grown up in such an awesome place (and I do believe Canada is a damn fine place to live) I look at that freedom and wonder why I can't use it as I choose? Why can't I NOT vote? Got news for you all, I've rarely voted. I watch the debates, the hoopla, and all the other bullshit that goes on and if I find one I think could do some good, I vote. If not, well, I have the right to say, "No thanks" to all of them. Before you start, I do not bitch about the government if I opted out of having a say. I am not happy with some things, but I don't complain or moan. I suck it up. As I should. So, yeah, don't get all up in my face.



Are all the voters, political snobs, etc thoroughly pissed at me now? Good. Couldn't have just the folks who like to come to my door with pamphlets and free Bibles angry with me. I want it all.



And that is the basic tone and content of this WIP. Throw in a few immortal-types, some really hot guys, gals and creatures, and it's an awesome-soup. See why it gives me a little thrill while making me really hesitant to let anyone read it? Of course, someone will HAVE to read it. I'm a writer. Not sharing it would be like...impossible.



I guess what I'm saying after that horribly confusing rambling post is that I think, in fiction, you should be able to tackle all sides of an issue, not just the popular one, without being despised, ridiculed, hate mailed, or stoned. Fiction, for me, should be a)entertaining, b) an escape, and c)thought-provoking. If you can't make someone say "hmmm," or get them to feel something, then what's the point in using all of those words?



Also, I never did feel comfortable on the popular side of things. I like it down here in the deep, murky trenches, with the rest of the crazies.

Just Give me the Bullet, Please

[image error] Once upon a time there was a girl named...Annabelle, who lived in a small, but not at all redneck community we'll call Silk. Annabelle was a nice girl. She had two lovely daughters and worked hard to be nice to everyone, even if everyone didn't deserve her kindness. Often she said many things in her head, but spared these idiots the reality of their assholeness by nodding and smiling at whatever nonsense came from their mouths.



Annabelle lived at the bottom of a hill on a quiet street full of mostly nice people. There were a few jerks, but she had little to do with them. Every year the town of Silk tore up the road in front of her house. She endured months of gaping holes in front of her driveway, water shut-offs and strange men tossing garbage in her lawn which she would shred with the lawnmower, earning a stern lecture about proper mower care from her significant other...Kip. She often pretends to listen to him, knowing full well that Clive will someday come and rescue her. He just isn't aware that his soul mate exists yet.



This year, Annabelle waited for the dreaded roadwork to begin. March passed and they laid sod instead of trenches. April waned slowly away and they removed the gas and phone line markers instead of spray painting the areas they would dig up. As May began, Annabelle believed maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't dig. And they didn't. Life was good.



But Karma is a bitch. She knows it, and Annabelle was a horrible person in her past life. It is believed she may have been Satan or the person that invented the thong bathing suit, because Karma really had it out for Annabelle.



All Annabelle ever wanted to do was write. Fiction, nonfiction, it didn't matter. She liked creating shit with words. And she was good at it too. She queried agent after agent with her work, amassing a large collection of rejections. That was okay. She could handle rejection. All part of the process, right? After all, the nonfiction work she produced did get published and did earn a decent wage with which to feed and cloth her children.



But then her Internet provider...Assholes Online decided Annabelle should not be able to rely on such niceties as connectivity and paychecks. Assholes began cutting out, freezing up and all kinds of other annoying things that Annabelle calmly endured, making few phone calls and uttering a mere shit and damn on occasion. Not once did she drop the F-bomb on them. True, she said it quite loudly in private, but never to the poor soul on the phone.



When Annabelle thought she'd licked that battle, disaster struck. Well, all right, a storm. But it knocked out power in Annabelle's town for several days. No, that's not right. It knocked out power to the rest of the town for about 24 hours. Annabelle's street remained in the dark for three days. The only damn street in the entire town.



Karma thought that Annabelle's internet and electricity woes were a paltry price to pay for her earlier crimes, so she gave Annabelle's beautiful daughters lice on the very day the power went out. Annabelle cried. She broke things. She cursed whoever would dare give her such a thing to battle as the purposeless insects whose only task in life was to dole out mental breakdowns. She dosed the children with natural insecticides, pulled nits and whatnot from their hair and dutifully cleaned her entire fucking house from top to bottom once power was restored. (a task Annabelle usually saves for the maid she doesn't yet have) Thinking the epidemic over, Annabelle sent the girls to school.



Three days later...the lice returned. Annabelle cried again. Brought out the big guns, treating with actual kickass chemicals. Cleaned. Picked. Cursed. And when the girls were clean, she sent them back to school again.



Several days later...you guessed it. Annabelle wondered just which dirtbag in her child's class might be the gift that keeps on giving. She had a few suspects, but couldn't be sure. And really, Annabelle, children can't be called dirtbags. Their parents, perhaps, but children are merely products of their environment. But I've gone on a tangent. Back to Annabelle.



Whilst fighting the dreadful scourge that is head lice, Annabelle's computer went on a little vacation. Distressed because she needed that computer, and decent Internet service, in order to earn money to feed her bug-infested daughters, she went out and found a newer, better, prettier computer. Really, it's very fancy and she quite likes it. However, Assholes Online seemed to have trouble with such a fancy device and her connectivity woes worsened.



Annabelle also had two dogs. A pretty, but rather dim, black lab who chews obsessively causing his hind end to be completely bals, and an ugly, but far too smart Boston terrier. The terrier developed clogged anal glands while Annabelle was busy going crazy. Anal glands, you see, are little pockets in a dog's ass which enable the animal to "mark" their scent on a given area. The terrier marked a lot and overused his glands. The glands said "Screw you, we're tired" and refused to expel whatever it is they're supposed to expel, causing a bulbous tomato-like growth to develop just below his stubby tail. Annabelle stared at this, knowing what she must do but hating the idea of her finger, gloved or not, in any creature's ass, and promptly called the vet. "Only $15," the girl on the phone said. So she took the terrier to the vet an emerged $200 poorer and with a dog whose ass was still clogged. Not only did she have to pick bugs, but now Annabelle had to wipe the dog's ass hourly, apply Polysporin to the busted growth (which oozed a yellowish-white creamy substance that smelled of fart and death) and dose the dog with meds twice daily for ten days.



Alone in her office/garage, Annabelle ranted and railed against Karma's unfair treatment. Surely whatever she'd done in the past was paid in full, and then some. What else could she possibly have to endure?



"Let's see," Karma answered. "Another dose of lice, $100 more to the vet, and oh, let's have the Internet completely blow the fuck up. Yes, that will do nicely."



Annabelle sits, teeth grinding, head itching, and contemplates how one might get even with Karma.



I wish this story had a happy ending, but I never was very good at fairy tales.

I Don't Even Know

[image error] I probably shouldn't be writing a blog post when I'm pissed off, but often those are the most entertaining posts, so what the hell.



Writers, have you read THIS ? Yeah. Let me gather my thoughts here...never mind, I'll just let it fly.



For several years I've bashed my head against many hard surfaces in my efforts to find an agent and/or a traditional publisher. This is the route I want to go for several reasons. I've thought long and hard, resisted the temptation to just publish my novels myself and sucked up a buttload of rejection in order to do this. I've cursed, cried, lost sleep, and generally lost my fucking mind to achieve my goal, which is to be published the good old fashioned way.



Now, along that winding road with the ruts and the bumps and the nasty trolls, I was told (as were many, many writers) that self publishing anything is a dodgy choice if you EVER hope to attract an agent's attention.



Rrrreeeeaaallly?



Seems the agents (and no I'm not lumping every single agency into this, but there are a frightening amount turning to this model) have changed the fucking rules again. Why do we even bother? Why query for years and endure what can sometimes be brutal rejection? Why waste all of the time and effort and money on conferences and workshops when the damn people who are supposed to get your work to the right publisher might just offer to help you self publish anyway?



When I started this insanity, I was told this was not "ethical" for an agent to offer publishing services. Agents serve a purpose, as Victoria points out in her blog, and this purpose is compromised by acting as a publisher. This is why agencies that do that are supposed to be the ones that we avoid.



I will be damned if I'm going to pay someone to help me self publish my work.



I call shenanigans.



That is all.

When I Grow Up...

[image error] I will write intensity a la Stephen King, dialogue a la Dennis Lehane, sex a la Anne Rice (really, she does it well) and Nora Roberts, characterization a la Ted Dekker, and emotion a la Danielle Steele (say what you will, that woman is the only author that has EVER left me in tears). I will also have a white pony, a moat filled with fun balls and snakes, a yard full of gators, and a room with a glass floor where you can view my pet sharks. Clive will be my pool boy/chauffer/toy.



I've got all my goals laid out. Now to reaching them with a perfectly logical, achievable plan. What?



But seriously, I do read these authors, who are among my favorites, because I enjoy them, and because I hope one day I'll suck up their talent through osmosis. People can say what they will about Stephen King, and they have, but the man can strangle every last drop of intensity from a scene without breaking a sweat. That is the consistent element in all of his work, whether I like the novel or not, they're all so intense I have to keep reading. I want to be able to do that. Even if the reader puts it down at the end and says "Well that sucked." He'll still feel an overwhelming need to finish the book. My goal is to force them to continue to the last page.



I'm still working on intensity, and I think I'm improving, But I think dialogue is my favorite part of writing a novel. When I see a story in my head, it's almost entirely in dialogue. This is why I often forget setting. I get wrapped up in what's happening and who is saying what and how they're saying it, that I forget they can't just float in space while they carry on. Dennis Lehane, in my opinion, is a dialogue god. I want to take that man and stuff him in a bottle until I can steal all of the dialogue he has left in him. Brilliant. I loved Shutter Island and Mystic River, but I couldn't pinpoint just what it was that I related to in his writing. As I read those books, I felt like I'd "come home" and it was just so easy and natural to read. Then I picked up Moonlight Mile (READ THIS BOOK) and the lights went on. The man writes like nobody's business to begin with, but dialogue...wow. I'm breathless just thinking about it. I finished Moonlight Mile and started reading it over again immediately. I've never done that. I would marry the man simply for his dialogue skills. No, so far he's not interested. But you know, it could happen. Clive's okay with it.



My other favorite thing? Sex. Or rather, writing about it. Not that I don't enjoy...never mind. Recently I read some articles on writing sex in fiction. Many feel it must have romance in order for it to NOT be porn. I disagree. Sex can be written very tastefully without the romance. In reality, romance rarely enters into sex. Be honest, folks. Sometimes it's simply an itch you must scratch and there ain't enough hearts and flowers in the world that can make it go away in these cases. Sure, you might love the person scratching said itch, but that doesn't mean it's romantic. I think fiction should reflect that. But I'm rather into novels that are raw in many ways. Nora Roberts, though she may be the romance queen, can write sex without romance and it is very believable and not at all pornographic. She can also write scenes that have me gagging on the unlikelines of the whole event, but you know, it happens to the best of us. Sex is a tough thing to write. Now, Anne Rice; the woman can write a love scene without anyone inserting anything anywhere. You just know it happened. And it was awesome. She can also write some pretty interesting erotica. But I'll save that for another post. I'd like to think I can write sex scenes like they appear in my head, but until I have some reviews from people who don't know I'm crazy and might tear their faces off (I kid, I kid) I won't know for sure.



An important element to writing all of the above is your characters. Characterization is crucial, as we all know, to a great story. You could have a kickass plot, but if the reader can't relate to your characters, you might well have spent your time knitting a pretty sweater no one will ever wear. Ted Dekker is an artist (most of the time) when it comes to his characters. So are the others I've listed, mind you, which is why these are among my most favorite authors of all time, but Ted, he adds a little extra to even the most minor character. When I read his work, I recall characters that appear for one paragraph. That is damn good. His major characters are so developed, I feel as though I'm reading about someone I know. As though I must have met them somewhere because I know exactly what they'll do and why. This is good. Why? Because it makes them more real when their actions make sense. Even when he throws a twist in there, makes them do something really retarded, you think, "Why didn't I see that coming? Of course he'd do that!" I think my writing is more character driven than plot driven, although I do try to keep an equal balance between the two. I don't think you can have one without the other and still have a good story, but now and then, one will outshine the other. I'd rather my characters remain with the reader. If they can't recall the ending of a story, I can handle that. If they can't remember the name of the character they just spent 300 pages with, well, there's a problem.



And emotion. I think in I Do, I managed to suck the last drop of emotion left in my body and put it into the pages of this story. I'm a very emotional person, but I'm not often expressive or demonstrative of those deeper emotions. You know, the ones I can't easily show with a well-placed curse or three. I actually cried while writing some parts of I Do. I still get weepy when I read them. I don't know that I could do that novel after novel after novel as Danielle Steele does. I've read many, many novels by Ms. Steele and I must say, she really puts the reader through hell. Emotional hell. Letters From Nam is a book I'll never, ever forget. I had to put it down several times because I just couldn't read through my tears. There are a few others, but that book almost put me on medication. I want to do that to a reader, but on all levels. I want to make them laugh, cry, scream, rant, hate me, love me, you know; all that stuff.



Those are my writing gods. This is what I try to learn from them. I've had a few readers say that this work reminds them of King, that work reminds them of Rice, etc. but I didn't know why. My writing isn't really close to theirs, not at their level and not like their style. So why did the readers connect certain works with writers I love so much? We absorb what we love to read. That's why. I take the parts that make me continue to pick up these writers, and this is how I develop my voice and style. It's how they developed theirs. We all have influences, even the greats, and it shows I think, to anyone who looks close enough.



Who are your writing gods? Why do you love them? Has your work ever been compared to a writer you love? What about one you hate?

The Sun Will Come Out...

[image error] So the week from hell is behind me. I hope. Things are sort of looking up. If you don't count the continuing lice infestation (which is getting better slowly) and the fact that my dog is addicted to pain killers (he's whining at this moment because I'm making him wait until the designated time), or that I turned down a publishing contract only to have the damn manuscript rejected by the last outstanding agent I queried, then things are really looking up.



But really, I'm not that depressed. I sound it, but I'm not. You see, I've decided that it can't be worse than it is now in terms of my publishing prospects. It can't. At the moment, I've got none. So anywhere I go from here, things are looking up. By "I've got none" I mean the last of the queries have either expired (as in enough time has elapsed with no reply for me to safely assume that's a "fuck you and your damn story") and I must go through my list of agents I'd love to have and determine which projects I didn't send them a query for might tickle their fancy. You know, that might be the worst sentence of all the sentences ever written in the history of the entire world. Really. Fantastic stuff, Renee. Keep it coming.



When I manage to steal an extra few hours somehow...I'm sure I've got a few coming up soon...I'll compile a list for each novel (there are five) and start the query-rejection train rolling again. I've checked out the publishers worth having and the ones worth at least a gander, and most want that damn agent. So as much as the process pisses me off, I must keep plugging away at it if I hope to do this traditionally.



This week I did have a moment where I wondered if perhaps the continual rejection was because I sucked or was slightly suckish at this writing thing. Then I read through a few of the finished manuscripts I'm querying and, no, that's not it. I'm quite adept at writing. In fact - and I'll say this at the risk of sounding cocky and arrogant - I've become rather good. I read through these pages and I can't believe I wrote some of it. Now, what I write isn't for everyone. I'll give them that. Perhaps that's the problem. I always manage to include something that bunches panties somewhere.



So maybe I need to buckle down and write a novel that appeals to everyone. Just to get that foot in the door. Know what I mean? Maybe. I could probably do that. No. I can't. I write the story as it comes to me. I balance the elements based on what makes sense to each character and the action. As I do this, I slip away from the "genre" themes and things begin to merge and blend so that I can't slot the damn thing anywhere. Plus, there is not a chance in hell I can write something that appeals to EVERYONE. I mean, jeeze.



But isn't that what writing is all about? Pushing boundaries, crossing lines, trying new things, questioning what is and what might be? When you do that, you always ruffle someone.



My goal last year was to at least have an agent by June 2011. Well, here we are. June 2011 and no agent. Twice I almost published, but the contracts were not very good. I didn't work this hard to toss it away because of a desperate moment. It will come.



I'll set new goals. Just not today. Today I just want to be able to set aside regular time to write something other than why your tree has black leaves, or how to know if you have bed bugs. I've written more than 500 articles with this freelancing thing in less than a year. I had to learn the ropes and get myself into a routine, so my fiction writing slowed down considerably. So every evening, when the kids go to bed, I'm going back to my old schedule. I'll write until my eyes slam shut. That's when I'm most creative after all.



This is how I deal with feeling discouraged. I rationalize the shit out of it until I feel better. Or I just ramble on and on until I forget why I was so depressed in the first place. It actually works quite well most of the time. How about you? How do you keep your head in the game? Whether traditionally published, unpublished, or self published, this industry can really hand out an emotional beating. Do you have any special coping mechanisms? Erm...aside from tequila and strippers.

The Longest Week Ever...

Usually I don't like blogging too often about daily life. I like to relate my posts to writing and publishing as this is supposed to be an "author" blog. But you know, so much has happened this week, it's actually inspired a bit of writing, so I suppose it's kind of related.



First, the lighthearted stuff. I have not been able to sign into Blogger in months. WTF, Blogger? Get your shit together. I can sign in to post at the moment, but for some reason, I'm not allowed to comment on my own damn blog. Whatever. That's minor. I just wanted you all to know I haven't forgotten the Edge or even gotten lazy, as I sometimes do. Blogger is just being an ass.



Second, on Wednesday night an awesome storm ripped through our little area. The winds gusted enough to sway the big tree in front of our house, making Kurt and I a bit nervous to go to sleep. I mean, waking with a tree in your living room isn't exactly my idea of a good night. Plus, with a tree in the living room, our only exit is through the windows…also not my idea of fun.





The lightning filled the sky with shades I've never seen lightning produce before. Pink, yellow, orange…beautiful. I barbequed in the downpour, because if we wanted to eat, there was no choice. Kurt arrived home to take over the barbeque shower, while I went inside to reassure Kennedy. She doesn't like storms, and Kurt and Court were not helping matters by telling her tornado stories. Why? I don't know. They're knobs, both of them.



When the power first went out, I searched for a flashlight. I found the big yellow one I find every time the power goes and I try it, knowing full well it won't work. Four fucking years we've had this flashlight but it's never had a battery in it. On Thursday I picked up the big battery it requires.



Eventually we went to bed, with the power out, fully expecting to wake with lights on, coffee maker able to make the bitter elixir that turns me from dragon to human each morning. Alas, it was not to be. We woke to nothing but debris. No, not our house. It's standing, the trees are fine, but up the road trees cover power lines and roofs and yards. At the schools, giant oaks that have stood for more years than I can recall are either split in two or completely down. Going through town more trees are broken, and cable antennas are attached to the wrong homes.



Oh, storms are awesome, but damn it, why do they have to be so disruptive? We were out of power until Friday night. Some have it far worse and are still living without lights or internet or phones. Awful. I work online, so I'm rather dependent on this thing we call electricity. My paycheck this week will suck very much I'm afraid. Meh, what are you gonna do, right?



We lost everything in the little freezer, but it was pretty much crap anyway. My poor parents had to jam the meat and other items from the big freezer into theirs. My parents are quite awesome, I must say.



Really, I would have said before this that I could handle a couple of days without electricity, but you know, I would have been wrong. I hate it. I hate having no hot water. I hate that I'm limited to a single coffee or if I'm lucky, a thermos made by someone else. I hated warm drinks, cold food and barbequed anything. Seriously, only three days and I never want another barbequed anything. I hated that my kids were driving me insane. Bored? Go OUTSIDE. Jeeze. I guess I had more to do than they did. I'm trying to keep a house clean in the midst of a lice epidemic (LICE! Bastard insects with no purpose) without the benefits of hot water, light or vacuuming, oh and a washing machine and dryer. Is it fair, Mother Nature, that I finally get a dryer and you steal its juice? I think not.



Kennedy blamed the whole fiasco on me. I called Mother Nature an asshole a while back and this is my punishment apparently.



So, yes, I admit it. I'm completely dependent on electricity and technology. I hate that my hair looked like a big old ball of fluff because I couldn't use the wonderful gadgets that burn it into submission. I hated that my coffee maker stood dark and empty. I hated using a phone with a cord. I hated having no access to the internet, my work, or my lovely cyber-friends. I hated that by 8pm I was ready for bed because it's just too damn dark to do much else. I was even irritated that I couldn't vacuum or do laundry. Yes, imagine that. I was angry because I couldn't clean.



The hydro is back. I am happy.



The final event that I wanted to post about is what fired me up to writing this week. I won't say I was "inspired" as much as writing was the only way to unload my utter sadness and explosive rage at what happened. A young mother, only 19 years old, was stabbed to death (this is putting it mildly) by her boyfriend on Tuesday. This happened right downtown in Tweed, where the couple argued all day according to neighbors. I'm not going to repeat details, because as with all small towns, they're many and likely inaccurate. What I do know, from news sources and people close to those involved, is that not one person in their building called the police despite the girl's cries for help. Not one. The murderer (that's what he is and I refuse to call him anything else) took their two children (a toddler and an infant I'm told) down to another apartment so that he could kill her. This person didn't call 911 either. Another neighbor, who wished to remain anonymous, told the local news that he went to a friend's house just to get away from the noise caused by the two. He didn't call 911 either. Why? I'm not really sure.



Here's the thing; she may be alive today  or maybe not, if someone had called. But we'll never know because no one did call. The murderer called the cops to tell them what he'd done. That's the first they knew this girl was in danger. Sad? Disgusting? Oh, very much so and so many more things I don't have the words to express. The murderer also attacked the police, injuring one before being shot twice. Last I heard he's in critical condition. Honestly, I hope he doesn't make it.



What kind of world is this that a woman can be in obvious distress and no one cares? If they do, they're too worried about themselves and their lives to get involved. I would much rather call the police and have it turn out that I was wrong then EVER risk someone's life. It costs you nothing to pick up the phone. No one has to know it's you. You need never be involved beyond that single phone call. What's it worth to save a life? Those kids might think it's worth far more than your short-term inconvenience.



So, that was a week in my life. I hope never to have a week like this again and I hope that what happened to that poor girl at least serves to make at least one person pick up the phone the next time they hear a fight. Sorry, but you can never be sure what is actually going on. I hope the people that heard her cries and opted to do nothing, or to leave the building are haunted every day for the rest of their lives by the sound of her screams. I hope they are never able to get her final moments out of their heads. Maybe if they can't ignore it, they'll do something next time.

Happily Ever After?

Now that blogger has decided to grant me access to my blog, I thought I better post something before I'm back in Blogger hell for another unknown crime.



This week has been long. Interesting, but long. First, editing is always a hoot. So much fun that the minutes seem to creep by painfully slow. Second, lice. I don't think I need to say more on that. I'd be happy to home school at this point. Ugh.



On the editing front, In the Bones is off to Beta Readers and already I've received awesome feedback. I love that I have such an amazing group of readers. I am truly a lucky gal. A few comments focused on my ending. I opted, against my first instinct, to go with a happy ending where the good guys did what was "right" according to our laws and societies morals. Well, I should know better than that. I mean, the only novel I've written with a "classic" happy ending was one that couldn't go without it. It was so dark that the readers needed to see that light, to have that reward for sticking with my characters through their journey to the bowels of Hell and back.



That's not to say the endings aren't happy. They are. I believe the reader deserves that reward. However, they aren't what you'd call a "morally correct" happy ending. I don't want to give away too much, (You never know, these might actually be published one day.) but Dirty Truths, The Legend of Jackson Murphy, Ancient Blood, and a couple of others (let's not forget several short fiction pieces as well) have satisfying endings that are not what a good girl would write. In other words, the baddie gets what's coming, and then some. The good guy isn't always squeaky clean and he (or she) doesn't always resist the urge to take the law into his (or her) own hands.



Some don't like these endings. A few believe that they're unrealistic. I mean, in real life, we must always follow the law. Right?



Meh, I don't think so. Think about it for just a moment. Ted Dekker, a favorite author of mine, once posed a question on his Facebook page. Actually he posed several, but the gist of them all was if you wouldn't get caught for taking out a very bad person either before he could commit a horrific crime or after, would you do it?



I love this question. Why? Because it's really interesting to see what people answer. If I had the power to eliminate someone who went around hurting children (for example) and I knew I wouldn't be tossed in jail for it, that no one would ever know, you can bet I'd do it. Actually, I have a list here...oh, right. Blog. I'm kidding...no list. Just a...look, Clive is naked!



You're always over-sharing. Really, Renee, you just need to stop and think before you type. Honestly. Give me the list. Now we'll have to burn it.



Ahem, so anyway, my point is that fiction should be satisfying for the reader and sometimes satisfying is not necessarily morally, ethically, or legally "right". Some villains deserve to suffer. No?

Pitching Your Novel

[image error] Every writer, even self published writers, must pitch their novel. A pitch is usually (based on my research) around 50 words. This might be a bit more, but that's a nice fast summary of what your novel is about. Holy shit, it's an awful thing to write.



Sorry, just had a melt down thinking about it. We also have to write a blurb. I have fun with these. In fact, I like to make a game of blurbing novels I've read. Yes, I need a life, but aside from that obvious fact, isn't it odd that I can blurb everything but my novels? Seriously, I've blurbed a shopping list just for fun. You should try that. Swear, you'll love it.



In this month's On Fiction Writing Challenge (Goodreads), I've asked fellow writers to write pitches in blurbs for current WIPs or finished novels. The results so far have been very educational. This is a good thing.



I decided on this challenge because I hate shrinking my novels down at all. Seriously, I get physically ill when I try. Why? I don't know. I like to include twists and turns, little quirks and subplots that give what may be an otherwise "typical" story a unique spin. Of course, we all do this, but how do we convey those in under 100 words for a pitch? Even a longer blurb, where I just have to tease the reader into wanting to read the story is tough. Synopses? Let's not discuss those right now.



The key to great pitches and blurbs? I know that your choice of words is crucial. Strong verbs and short, to the point sentences tend to grab a reader's attention immediately. Longer sentences with weak verbs elicit yawns and the occasional eyeroll.



Other than that, I think it's basically remembering that both of these have one function: To make an agent/publisher/reader want to read the book. Sounds so simple, doesn't it?



I posted a pitch and a blurb for four completed manuscripts and two seemed to grab OFW members immediately. I'll share those of course. The other two, well one is a really tough, thought-provoking, emotional read. It's hard to blurb or pitch because of this. No, it's not impossible. I know that. But so far I haven't figured out the right words and how to place them. The last, I've confused things and somehow I have to untangle the plot twists to make it sing.



The two that (seemed to) work:



In the Bones:



Pitch





Ryan Cassidy receives an inheritance—with a catch. To claim his grandparents' estate, he must live in Albertsville for one year. An easy task, he thinks, until he meets the town's reeve, Carroll Albert.



The mysteries pile up faster than the bodies and Ryan finds "living" in Albertsville is difficult when someone wants him dead.



Blurb



Albertsville, Ontario: Population 397, and falling.



Ryan Cassidy inherits a windfall from his estranged grandparents, with a caveat: to claim it he must live in Albertsville for one year—and survive.



Fear and deceit bind the locals in psychological chains. Ryan struggles to unravel their mysteries, but each clue forges new links to the bonds making the townsfolk hopeless prisoners.



Murder is nothing new to Carroll Albert, the town's reeve, and if Ryan gets too close to Albertsville's secrets, he'll meet the same fate as the Cassidy's before him.



After Ryan discovers that Carroll tormented his mother, and ordered his grandparents' murder, he promises to avenge them. The proof he needs is buried with the bones of a family murdered long ago by the town's founding fathers, but only Carroll knows where to find them.



Ancient Blood



Pitch





Vampires are fiction. Natalie Perry believes this until her new love, Gabriel, bares his fangs, thrusting her into a world of darkness and hunger. Newly changed and not a little confused, Natalie is left in the care of Aedon, the coven's prince, while Gabriel leaves to take the Test of Ancients. Has Gabriel forgotten that Aedon believes in sharing?



Blurb



Natalie Perry is a singer and exotic dancer. To audition for a job, she enters The Bite, an underground vampire bar where Gabriel catches her eye. Natalie doesn't know it, but the tall, dark, and handsome Gabriel, has fangs.



An old enemy of Aedon, the coven's Prince, wants to take over. To stop him, tradition dictates Gabriel must have a Second. He nominates Natalie. Too bad she has no idea what's going on.



Aedon's enemy ups his game, forcing Gabriel to go for broke and he takes the Test of Ancients— leaving Natalie to fend for herself among a group of creatures bent on tasting their newest member. If he passes, Gabriel will rule over their kind. But the test is a bitch, two months a long time, and Aedon wouldn't mind stealing Natalie's heart before Gabriel returns.



These are still a WIP, and I'm tweaking each time I look at them, but of the four, my fellow writers wanted to read these immediately.

 

Now the other two?

 

Dirty Truths

 



Pitch



Divorced from her abusive husband Daniel, Kristina Riley hopes to begin again. If only Daniel would let her.



Wade Bowen, a much older married man, offers her a job—and his heart. Kristina takes both. Then she looks inside a box Wade leaves at her house. Its contents tell are far more terrifying than her ex-husband.



Blurb



Kristina Riley finds the courage to divorce her abusive husband, Daniel, and determined to make a better life for her infant daughter, she accepts a job at Dirty, a bar owned by Wade Bowen, a much older, married man.



Wade offers more love and security than she's ever known with Daniel, but his connection to a mob-type organization called the Brotherhood, and his unfaithful wife's determination to destroy him, weighs heavily on Kristina's mind.



Wade leaves a box at her home; its contents reveal that he has much more than an association to the Brotherhood. Her problems escalate after a brutal assault from Daniel, when she discovers someone has taken the box.



Now the police have it.



In a tiny room at the police station, fate offers Kristina a solution that would end Daniel's reign of terror and give her the life she desperately wants. Freedom is within her grasp, but does she have the courage to take it?



Yeah, I know it's suckish. The plot twists rapidly and there are a couple of subplots involving secondary characters that impact this main plot. My problem is how to show this in a tiny amount of words and still keep it clear? Ugh.



I wasn't going to share the last, but meh, why not? Maybe some of you have a few ideas that would improve things. I know I'm out of ideas on this one at the moment. It's an awesome story, but it's dark. Anyway, here's my pitch and blurb for I Do...And other Lies We Tell:



Pitch





Four damaged souls clash on one destructive path. As Dana Parsons, Garrett O'Brien, and Ronny Sampson become irrevocably entwined in each other's fates, the child they all love will challenge them to break the age-old cycle of violence and abuse.



Blurb



Dana Parsons is trapped. Abused by her brother, dirt poor, and miserable, she is desperate to break free. Garrett O'Brien is angry at his father's cruelty, his mother's weakness, and the world that has given him no choices. Dana and Garrett meet as teens and eventually marry. After a violent wedding night their marriage tilts into a downward spiral.



Ronny Sampson is not a retard, though everyone calls him one. He meets Vicki Karson and they have a daughter, Amy. Vicki leaves the two year old Amy in an alley, and Ronny returns from a long haul to begin a desperate battle to reclaim his child. He loves Dana, but the demons of his childhood threaten to destroy his chance at happiness.



Years later, Dana's daughter, Hayley, is desperate for love and approval. This hunger leads her on a familiar path. Dana prays her daughter has the strength to make the right decision, not the easy one.



Now that I've bored you with mine, please, feel free to pitch your novel to everyone here on The Edge. No, I'm not looking to critique them, unless of course you want me to. I'm hoping you'll show me how it's done. If you've got any tips or tricks, I'd love to hear them too.

Friday the 13th: Pffft!

I had to write a blog post today. But we're chilling out because it's Friday, the 13th, a day many stay inside and avoid the world, or skulk around all day waiting for something awful to happen. I figure these folks don't need to read about writing and publishing. They need a bit of fun.





Paraskevidekatriaphobics—that's you weirdos who are superstitious about this day, might be happy to know that the maximum number of Friday the 13th's we can have in a year is three. That is, as long as we continue to use the calendar we do. If someone were to change that…wouldn't that be cool?



Anyway, the bad news is, it's impossible not to have a Friday the 13th at all. We will always have at least one. Yes, I'm serious. National Geographic says so. Some really smart mathematician figured it all out.



In 2009 paraskevidektriaphobics, I LOVE THAT WORD, also called friggatriskaidekaphobia, (triskaidekaphobia is fear of the number 13) nearly had heart failure because there were three Friday the 13th's and two fell in consecutive months. I mean, come on, how much stress can one paraskevidektriaphobic take? Well, don't worry guys; we won't have another year like that until 2015. Gives you something to look forward to, eh?



I love superstitious people; they make excellent characters in fiction. No, I'm not making fun of you all, just saying you tend to be a bit…crazy-ish in your superstitions. My best friend, Michelle, used to be hilarious. Why, we couldn't even put a new pair of shoes on the table. Gasp! I don't know why, but she nearly passed out in fright when I set some baby shoes I'd received on the table to do something. When she was pregnant, her due date passed and she realized she approached a Friday the 13th. I tell you, she went into labor using sheer willpower—on the 12th. She also hates broken mirrors, birds slamming into the window and things happening in threes. When things happen in fours, it completely messes her up.



So where does this Friday the 13th fear come from? Well, partly in the ancient bad-luck associations with the number 13 and the day Friday. I thought Friday was a good day, but apparently it's very unlucky. Not good at all. Combine that with the evil number 13 (buildings are still constructed today without that floor number, but don't we all realize that floor 14 is really 13 in disguise?) and we have a day worthy of trembling and pants wetting.



There are several tales in folklore and mythology that are believed to explain the badness of Friday the 13th. In the bible Judas, you know, that bastard who betrayed Jesus and caused a big old shitstorm, was the 13th guest at the Last Supper. Just think, if he never showed up, there might never have been a last supper. I jest people, please don't hate me for having fun with the Bible. Besides, even the heathens among us are crazy that way. Apparently in ancient Rome, witches only gathered in groups of 12. If someone crashed their party, that 13th guest was believed to be the devil. That would have been an interesting evening.



Another theory, which is less insane-sounding is that because 12 is considered a complete number, 13 is given its badness because it comes after 12. It's a victim of circumstance. Think about it, 12 months in a year, 12 signs of the zodiac, 12 gods of Olympus, 12 apostles…the 13th of any of those is beyond complete. That makes some people nervous.



I know many who are so afraid of this day, they won't make major decisions and go absolutely nowhere on that day. Come on folks; if bad luck is in the cards, it will just happen on the 14th when you reveal your hiding place. Or…it comes to you. Just saying.



Now, why is Friday bad? Well, it's said to be the day Jesus was crucified. And according to my research, some believe that Eve tempted Adam with that damn apple on a Friday. Oh, and Cain killed his brother on Friday the 13th. Or that's what I hear. This isn't proven obviously, because there wasn't some scribe hiding in the bushes recording the murder. It's all hearsay.



Again, relax, I'm joking. These are all facts gathered by scholarly types who study these things. I'm just saying they're not 'concrete' facts.



The fear is so strong that some hospitals and hotels don't even have a room number 13. But you folks in Room 14 really know where you're staying, right?



Okay some other reasons you whackjobs cite as proof that Friday the 13th is unlucky:



Apollo 13 launched at 13:13 CST on April 11, 1970. Turns out the sum of that date equals 13. (I checked). Google it to find out its fate if you don't already know. The problems started on the 13th, not a Friday, but still…creepy.



Dan Marino wore Number 13 while with the Miami Dolphins. It's said that is the reason that despite being a crackerjack quarterback, he only made it to the Super Bowl once where the team was thoroughly stomped. Shall I point out that there were other players on the team which may have contributed to its lack of Super Bowl awesomeness. You know that whole thing about a team's success relying on more than a single person. There's no I in team? But still, if he hadn't worn number 14, maybe he'd have a ring. You might be right but it's more likely you're not.



Fidel Castro and Butch Cassidy were both born on a Friday the 13th. Depending on who you ask, these guys are evil and so their birthdate must be as well. But some people think these guys are pretty cool, so does that mean Friday the 13th is lucky for them? I don't know.



Mark Twain claimed he found bad luck when he was the 13th guest at a dinner party. "They only had food for 12." He later told a friend. Methinks Mr. Twain might have been having a bit of fun, but again, I don't really know. He might not have even said that at all . You know how gossip is. Maybe he said something like "I'd say I was lucky. Got their late, missed dinner, but 12 of the guests died of food poisoning. Man, if I'd shown up an hour earlier..." but the friend he said it to might have thought that sounded rather cold. So instead he said to the guy next to him who wasn't paying attention (you know those guys, "What was that? What'd he say?") "They didn't have enough food for Mark because he was the last guest." And there you have it. But I'm rambling, so let's go back to the original topic.



Bad things happen every day, but when they occur on Friday the 13th, we tend to remember them and just further the insanity. For example, if we'd decided that 2 was unlucky, then anything happening on that day or in that amount might be given as evidence of its unluckiness. Are you going to tell me nothing bad ever happens on the 2nd?



Now, for your amusement, or horror, depending on what you believe, here are some other bad luck inducing things you should avoid.



* Breaking a mirror brings 7 years bad luck – Let me point out that I am a klutz and I've broke numerous mirrors. So far, nothing horrible has happened. Yes, I said so far, I'm not ruling it utter nonsense entirely.



* Unless you're born in October and the opal is your birthstone, it's unlucky to wear it – Now you listen all you greedy October-born bastards, I'll wear opals whenever I want to. This is a conspiracy to keep those beautiful stones all to yourselves.



* If three people are photographed together, the one in the middle will die first – Do I even need to comment? I make the kids move around in photos, so that we can confuse the gods of superstition. They don't know who to pick first, …and also, it's bullshit.



* Spilling salt is bad luck unless a pinch is thrown over the shoulder of the spiller. Apparently this signifies throwing it in the devil's face. I'd say throwing anything into the face of the devil would be the bad luck action, but that's just me. Apparently salt is evil's kryptonite though…so, toss away if you want. Me? I gotta sweep that shit up once it's tossed, so no thanks.



* Don't kill a sparrow because our souls do not go to heaven. That's all a myth. The damn sparrows get to carry them around. I know! The sparrows are so cute. Who'd have thought they carried dead people around? So…all you folks with sparrow guts in your headlights—beware.



* Never open an umbrella inside and definitely DO NOT put it over your head. Yeah, um, Kennedy's screwed.



* Knock on wood when you mention something good so those evil spirits can't come rain on your parade. Yeah, cause wood is also some kind of evil kryptonite.



* Yawning means danger is near. Yes because the yawner is tired and obviously should not be operating heavy machinery or making dinner. I know this. It's not bad luck, just common sense. Oh and another I heard from someone is that you should cover your mouth when you yawn so your soul can't escape. Apparently our souls are desperate to get the hell out of our bodies so they can fly around with the sparrows.



* If you see a bee in your house, you're going to have a visitor. (in case you didn't notice you already have one: the bee). But don't kill the bee because you'll have bad luck or the visitor will be unpleasant. That explains much at my house. And a swarm of bees on your roof, better call the fire department. Your house will burn down. Didn't you know that bees are firebugs? Bunch of stinging pyromaniacs, those guys.



* If a bird gets in your house, it's a sign of death – yeah, the death of a bird. But don't kill a sparrow. Yikes, don't want to release the souls. And if the bird flies into your window, he's not retarded or blind, he's the harbinger of death. Just so you know.



Personally, I think Friday the 13th gets too much bad press. I find it a very lucky day. But that's because I don't tend to be superstitious. If you think bad things will happen, they will. Kind of like if you think you can't, you never will. Simple, really. So go on out, offer Friday the 13th a smile and a nod. I bet it rewards you.



Any crazy superstitions you believe or that you've heard? Don't worry, we won't make fun of you…much.

You Talkin to Me?

I've heard several writers say that dialogue is hard, possibly one of the most challenging parts of writing. This baffles me, because I LOVE writing dialogue. Sometimes I have to scold myself and pull in the instinct to make my novels entirely dialogue. Seriously, if I could, I'd write 99% of my stories through dialogue and that just doesn't work, does it?



Actually....No, you can't, Renee. Just stop.



I don't know what makes dialogue easy for one person and a bitch for another. I doubt that I could explain how I know what will sound ridiculous and what will sound natural. When I'm writing I'm able to play it through my head as I write. When editing, I can pick up dialogue problems rather easily. Now, narrative is another matter entirely. I miss things that should be blinking at me like a neon sign.



Anyway, I thought I'd share some of my tricks, things I'm aware I do in order to create natural dialogue that flows easily for the reader and enables her to slip into my characters' worlds a little more.



1. Limit your tags and attributions.



To me, this is not just a fad in the industry at the moment. As a reader I find the fewer tags I see, the easier it is to get lost in the story and the characters. Use only what is absolutely necessary to make it clear who is talking and utilize action to show as much as possible to avoid talking heads. For example, after about four lines, perhaps character A shoves character B. He doesn't say and shove, just shoves. "You're an ass!" Joe shoved Bill. (not "Joe said and shoved Bill")



2. Use slang and dialects sparingly.



Real people use slang. Real people speak with an accent. But when you go overboard, it becomes an exercise in translation rather than an enjoyable read. Don't write everything the way it sounds, because the reader must pause to recognize what you're doing. Instead, pepper it through lightly, which gives the 'feeling' of real dialogue, while still leaving the reader's brain stress-free.



Dialect...it's really tough to write a novel where every character shares a certain dialect. No, not tough to write, tough to read. I have a character who speaks with a heavy 'backwoods' dialect, but rather than write the dialogue exactly as it sounds, I utilize grammatical errors instead of spelling things wrong. How?



"He don't know nothing. Christ, his panties get all bunched when the wind blows crossways. Can't judge a problem by his blustering."



The speech is a grammatical nightmare, but gives the character a distinct speech pattern without resorting to "He don' know nothin'. Christ, his pannies git all bunched when de win blows crosswhys. Can't judge a prollem by his blusterin'." See the difference?



3. The best way to write natural dialogue. Listen. Wherever you go pause and listen to how others speak. When you're watching television or movies, pay attention to word usage, pauses, emphasis, and tone. You'll notice a lot of things that you might overlook when trying to rely on just your memory. Everyone has little quirks in their speech. I have trouble saying "caterpillar" and "vinegar", for example. Just a thing. What? Stop judging me. If you're writing a character who is younger, go to an area where kids that age are playing. You want to watch them while they're relaxed and speaking naturally to pick up on little details many writers miss. Er, don't be creepy about it. Go to a park with a friend, a restaurant, or something like that. Don't follow them around. That's weird. People don't like it. If you listen carefully to children, they have a rhythm of speech that is very different from a teenager or an adult. It can help make the dialogue more authentic to become familiar with this rhythm. While you're listening, watch. Mannerisms, facial expressions, etc. all play a role in dialogue.



So, that's what I do in addition to 'just writing' dialogue. How about you? Any tips?