Jennifer Probst's Blog, page 3

A Day in Deadline Hell…

September 15th.

30 days until deadline.

Gotta get my shit together. I look at my calendar and ruthlessly scrub everything I can from it. I will write night and day. 3K minimum. No excuses, no whining, no time left for my intellection to ponder or my connectedness to try and think of ways to blend the theme together with the ARCS of the characters – I need raw words on the page.

Kids off to school. Gotta answer email. Crap, I forgot I have those copyedits and those FB ads I was supposed to schedule. Kohls credit card is due already? I’ll just pay that and move on to the rest later.

Set up my headphones and playlist. Are you kidding me? My headphones are dead – I forgot to charge them. I’ll have to listen on speaker while they charge up.

Manuscript up. Read the last few paragraphs. Ugh, what happens next? Why are there endless scenes of them in the conference room and diner? Is that all I can write about?

I write a few hundred words. My mother calls. I pick up eagerly.

Half hour later, I’m back. Oh, I forgot that podcast I need to promo on social media. I’ll do that, then back to work. Also more coffee. Oh, dogs need to go out.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m back. Where was I? In the conference room again? Ugh, they have to have sex soon because I don’t know what to write next. They’re not even close to sex. Can I speed things up?

Write 1K.

Yes, I’m on the move! Who cares if they’ve eaten more pancakes- they’re talking and bantering. Banter good. Need to stretch. Eat lunch. I deserve a little break, right? Better to write like the wind all afternoon. Oh, new Real Housewives episode is on – I’ll watch for a bit, eat, then back at it.

Two hours later.

Shit! What happened? OMG I’ll make more coffee – no, I’m supposed to be drinking more water for my diet, I’ll open up some seltzer. Dogs again?

Fifteen minutes later.

Back to it. Headphones are charged at least. Why does my editor need this now? The release isn’t till February. I’ll do it later. No, better to do it now while it’s fresh in my mind.

Half hour later. Okay, I’m on this book. I got this. I am a goddess. I’ve written NYT bestsellers. This is my fiftieth book I know how to write! Where’s the GMC again? Not here. Fine, I’ll worry about that in edits I need WORDS. Ugh, I need 1700 more to keep to my deadline.

This book sucks.

500 words more. I need to check Facebook real quick. Super quick. Hey, that looks like a good book to read I better buy it. Will help with my craft. Oooh, reverse harem on sale? Click on that baby. Where did those shoes come from? Do I need more shoes? No. But maybe I do? Let me just check.

One hour, two books, and two pairs of shoes later.

Are you kidding me? I have to get to work, no more messing around! The dogs AGAIN? More water. Better music. Ugh, I hate this book. Can they have sex yet?

500 words.

Are the boys home? You gotta be kidding me -I’m so tired. I better go check on them and chat about their day.

Much later…

Dinner? I’m ready!

Much later…

I still have to write 1K and I may die. This book sucks. But I can’t watch Big brother until I do. And I forgot to meditate today dammit. Plus exercise. Maybe I’ll dance around the office for a few minutes to loosen up? I like this song…

Back to it. Where was I? Banter. Sexual tension. Why do I keep writing about this secondary character? Do I care? Will a reader care? There’s no description—it’s like the entire book is taking place in a white, windless tunnel. My editor is going to kill me.

Focus. Write.

500 words later.

I’m going to die. I’ll write 3500 tomorrow and make up for it. I’ll do anything to get away from this book. Isn’t it supposed to be better by the halfway mark? I’m only writing 70K this time and it’s over. No more 100K books that’s too hard. Maybe even 65K it still counts enough toward my contract, I think. They have to get to sex that will be a lot more words.

Shut down the computer and leave.

Snack. Watch Big Brother. Read. Hang with kids. Stay up way too late.

REPEAT.

I cannot wait until October 15th.

 

 

Using Travel to Spur Inspiration in your Writing

 

 

I’m so excited to share this post regarding my travels and how it affects my writing inspiration. Just click on the link to read – thanks! Hope everyone is having a wonderful summer!

 

“I Do.”

“I Do.”A Short from Temptation on Ocean DriveTheme Song: A Thousand Years by Christina Perri

 

“Mama, are you ready? We can’t be late or Gabe will be looking for us and see you in your dress and get bad luck!”

Bella laughed and stared down at her daughter with a heart so full it nearly exploded in her chest. She looked like a Disney princess, from her tiara, poofy white dress, and blinged-out shoes they’d almost had a fight over.

Almost. Because they were so damn pretty, she’d let Zoe win even though they had a slight heel. “That’s just a superstition,” she said. 

“Is that a lie?” her daughter asked, nose crinkled in sudden thought.

“No. More like something we used to believe but found out later the facts don’t add up.”

Zoe nodded. “Like when Theresa said she was the most popular in the class so everyone believed it but me and Meg counted and found Theresa doesn’t have as many friends as us or Alicia so I think now it’s just a superstition.”

“Close enough.” She stopped herself from ruffling her perfect golden curls arranged under her tiara. “Are you ready to do this?”

 “Yes. Come on, Aunt TT and Avery and Grandpa are all waiting!”

 Bella followed her daughter out of the private suite where she’d asked to have a few minutes alone with Zoe before walking out. Not that she was worried. Zoe loved Gabe like hero worship, and they’d spent enough time easing into a transition for their family that worked well. Zoe was just as excited to make this official as Bella, but there was something bittersweet about leaving her past truly behind. She’d always miss Matt because he was her first love and Zoe’s father. But finally, her heart had truly moved on with joy. She’d wanted to honor stepping into a brand new chapter of marriage with Zoe and a little girl talk before they joined the crowd.

 But now, it was time.

 Minutes passed in a blur. Her father fussing with her dress and blinking back tears. Her sisters trying to enjoy being part of the wedding instead of planning for it, even though Bella caught Avery’s bridal emergency bag tucked discreetly under her arm, always prepped for disasters. Taylor grabbed Zoe and led her into position. The sun beamed warmly on her bare shoulders and the breeze rustled her veil. She blinked through the blur of lace as the music cued up, and her father led her down the stairs to pause under the floral trellis.

Endless faces turned. She watched the procession with a lump in her throat as the people she loved the most preceded her. Then began to walk.

 Bella took a deep breath to calm her nerves, then fixed her gaze on the man waiting for her at the end of the aisle.

 Time stopped. 

 Devastatingly handsome in his classic black tuxedo, dark hair pushed back from his brow, full lips curved in a smile that was sexy, male, and held the tiniest bit of possessiveness. Each step toward him felt more right until he was taking her hand in his, and she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

 With Gabe. The man she loved. The man who’d had endless patience and kindness and loved her daughter with a full heart. The man she was about to spend the rest of her life with, no matter how long or short. 

 He’d taught her the risk of love was worth it, and as he lifted her veil to push it back, a joyous laugh broke from her lips.

 “I’m almost afraid to touch you, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice low and husky against her ear.

 “You better get over that issue because tonight starts our official honeymoon.”

 He winked and squeezed her hand. “I recover quickly.”

 The preacher cleared his throat with a smile and began the ceremony.

 The platinum ring slid over her finger, simple and elegant. She recited the vows. Gabe repeated them back. 

 “You may now kiss your bride.”

 His lips skated over hers, gentle and tender, but Bella knew tonight, in the dark, under the sheets, they’d demand things she couldn’t wait to give.

 Applause rose. Zoe raced over between them and they walked back up the aisle together; a true family.

 

***

 

After the speeches, dancing, and cake, Gabe carried a snifter of expensive brandy to the back deck, where his friends waited for him.

 “Must’ve been a pricey wedding,” Carter said. “They gave the good alcohol out for free.”

 Pierce nodded. “Plus, you kept with traditional instead of those fancy tails or white suits too many beach weddings cater to. You done good, dude.”

 Gabe shook his head, settled into the third chair, and took a sip. “Glad you noticed the important details,” he said with a grin. “Wait till it’s your turn and you become swept into the madness.”

“Hell, no. Taylor and I already discussed an impromptu wedding in Paris. Neither of us wants the pomp and circumstance.”

Carter began laughing and Pierce shot him a look. “What’s so funny?”

“Avery and Bella will never allow you to escape.”

“They won’t have a choice.”

Gabe joined in with the laughter. “You should know her sisters better than that, Pierce. Go ahead and have your lovely Paris ceremony. When you get back, you’ll be stepping into the wedding of the year, planned personally by Avery and Bella. They won’t be able to help themselves.”

Pierce groaned.” God, you’re right. I didn’t think about that. How’d you pull this off without pain? Both of you are planners—you must’ve driven each other crazy.”

“A little. We had a lot of the same vision and taste so things were easier.”

Carter waved his hand in the air. “I told Avery I’d help as little or as much as she wanted.”

“And?” Pierce prodded.

He grinned. “I showed up. Job done.”

“Bastard,” Pierce murmured.

“Bottom line is we got the women we were meant to have. Remember all those nights out when we bitched about our love lives? Finally, things worked out,” Gabe said.

The two men who’d become his best friends nodded in agreement and lifted their glasses. “No more Ben & Jerry’s mixed with whiskey,” Carter said solemnly.

“No more using Lucy to do your dirty work,” Pierce said.

“No more paintings with your ugly mug on them,” Gabe said.

They clinked glasses and drank. A sense of peace and happiness mixed with the alcohol and flowed through his blood. From the moment he’d laid eyes on Bella, he’d known she was the one. It may have taken him a few years, but she was finally his, along with a beautiful six-year-old daughter he loved like his own.

Yeah. Life was good.

“Better get your ass back out there and do some dancing,” Carter said. “You wanna get lucky tonight.”

Gabe laughed. “You’re right. I’ll cover you for a bit, but you better take your own advice.” He turned, then paused. “Guys?”

“Yeah?” Pierce asked.

“Thanks for everything.”

He didn’t wait to get emotional. Just strode back in to look for his wife. 

***

Gabe lifted her in his arms in a cloud of lace and tulle. Zoe was blinking awake, a smile on her lips. “Hi, Gabe.”

“Hi, princess. Did you have a good time?”

“It was the best wedding ever. Is it over?”

He chuckled and laid her down in her bed, tugging the pink blanket over her. “Yes. You can just go to sleep, we’ll talk all about it in the morning.”

“No teeth brushing?” she asked with a yawn.

“Not tonight. Just sleep.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and adjusted the butterfly pillow under her head. 

“Gabe?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Are you my Dad now?”

His body stilled. His heart thumped in his chest as love and need exploded inside of him. “You’ll always remember and love your real Dad, who’s watching you every day from Heaven. But yes, I’d love to be your Dad here. If you want.”

She lifted her hand and patted his cheek. “I’d like that. Now that you’re married to Mama, I want to call you Dad and have you come to the Father’s Day parties and dances and give me away when I get married one day, okay?”

The strange sting of tears blurred his eyes. He managed a nod. “I’d love that very, very much. Because I love you and you’re my daughter, Zoe.”

A sweet smile curved her lips. Her hand dropped and her eyes closed. “Good night Dad.”

“Good night, sweetheart.”

He turned on the nightlight, closed the door gently, and left the room.

Bella was waiting for him. She’d changed out of the dress into a blush pink satin negligee that struck him dumb and mute for a few moments. 

Damn, these females were powerful. His Kryptonite and his greatest strength. Part of his heart and soul. It was almost too much to handle.

“Why do you look weird?” she asked. Her Goldilocks hair tumbled over her shoulders. Her gaze narrowed suspiciously. “You don’t like my outfit?”

He practically choked. “Yeah, you can come over here and feel how much I hate it.” Her blue eyes flared with heat and light. “I had a talk with Zoe that has my head reeling.”

“Good or bad?”

“She wants to call me Dad.”

Her face softened and she crossed the room. Sunk her fingers into his hair and tipped her chin back so he could see her full expression. “I can see how much you hated that.”

The lump in his throat was back. “I may have cried.”

“God, that’s sexy.” She pressed her mouth to his and the sparks turned to familiar flames. His hands rubbed her back, over her full breasts, greedy and mad for the taste of her, this woman who completed him. “I love you, Gabe. Thank you for never giving up on me and my daughter. Thank you for being my husband and Zoe’s father.”

There were no more words to be said, not after hers. So, Gabe picked her up, slowly stripped the piece of silk from her body, and showed her with action for a long, long time. 

 

The End

Thoughts on The Writing of Fiction by Edith Wharton…by Jennifer Probst

 

The idea of “High Concept” was addressed in Edith Wharton’s book, The Writing of Fiction, which just came into the public domain.

This is what she says:

First, ask: What judgment on life does the story contain for me?

Quote: “A good subject, then, must contain in itself something that sheds a light on our moral experience.”

I’ve been pondering this question lately as I’m ready to begin my next book. One of the biggest questions asked today from agents or publishers or editors revolves around high concept.

What’s the hook? What’s the driving question/theme that will demand readers buy this book? What will stand out the most in this overcrowded market?

When you’re a writer excited to create and build on a seed to a developing story, this could either be a challenge and motivator, or an energy suck and negative force. Many writers feel their way through the first draft and may not even have figured out this question yet. But in order to pitch a three book series; you need to have this figured out beforehand.

How can you do it? Especially when Wharton drives home the fact that everyone sees a hook or theme differently, depending on their viewpoint?

I think, therefore, publishers/agents look for common place themes that fall across wider categories. Something that can resonate with most people in broader terms, yet contain elements of excitement to drive them to read the blurb or purchase.

But how do we go about creating those high concept ideas that will resonate in our stories?

I believe as a career author, it’s important to focus on elements that drive your own curiosity and that warrant a deeper explanation. For instance, with Our Italian Summer, I was fascinated with digging into the dynamics of mothers and daughters. My hook was based on a multi-generational tale of mothers and daughters set against the backdrop of Italy because it allowed me to follow my own goal of the story—unveiling hidden truths and exploring how roles may limit us—but the setting and dual romances offered an interesting hook for a publisher to want to buy.

Go back to Wharton’s eternal question when asking yourself if this is the story you need to tell.

What will shed light on YOUR moral experience? What judgment on life does your story contain?

Those are the ultimate questions. What seeds will you plant to get there?

I am consistently telling writers this is a highly individualized process and journey because we are all unique individuals. I cannot write like you do. I do not see the world the same. This is the beauty of our career – the same story told over and over can be different each time.

If you’re a trope driven writer, strip away the mechanics and figure out what judgment will your story contain?

All of this traces back to the all eternal growth ARC of our characters. Where they begin is not where they will end up. They must grow and change for a satisfying story.

Then, add theme. An overall idea of what you want to explore with all of your characters. Forgiveness? Second chances? What does home mean to you? Am I truly worthy of love? It’s a mad, crazy world?

The final piece will answer Wharton’s question. It will be an imprint of how YOU saw these characters—your telling of this story—your visual of the world.

Don’t be afraid of it. Be unapologetic.

#Write True.

#Write Naked.

Lessons in Solitude…by Jennifer Probst

 

I was re-reading Michael Ventura’s brilliant piece, The Talent of the Room, and began thinking again about the power of solitude. *The full piece is printed with permission in my book, Write Naked.*

In a world where everything moves so fast, from a tap to like an IG post to a swipe left to show interest in a person to busy talk shows crammed with opinions in rapidly rising voices as if the loudest can still win the argument—our world is created for noise.

After the pandemic hit, and people began to quarantine, the notion of solitude was a new element many struggled with. They went from busy offices bustling with activity to a computer at home in their office. Expensive lunches making big deals morphed into static emails. And weekends full of social commitments such as dinners and festivals and parties slowed to nothing.

Depression hit. Boredom. Relationships were tested. And as the world slowed to silence, some of us began to embrace this mysterious quality that we match to Buddhist monks or priests or people we like to term hermits.

Solitude.

In order to be a successful writer, we learn to thrive in solitude. But I’ve also learned this past year in my discovery of meditation, that within the quiet is so much more. There are answers that have been blocked by the endless voices of the mind, consistently planning, critiquing, pushing, and achieving.

I’ve begun to learn that by sitting in silence, I do more soul work than I do when I’m busy. Beyond the thoughts is more than quiet, it’s a way to figure out what’s important and what’s not. Who I am. What I want to say.

It’s been a gift I want to bring with me so even if it’s for 3 minutes of coming back to my breath, of focusing on one thing rather than my scurrying mind telling me I suck, or I better edit, or cook dinner, or do something useful, beyond that is a portal of endless opportunity and amazing stories, almost like a child giggling in a hidden closet while the parent stomps around trying to drag the child back to chores.

I like who I’m finding there. She’s certainly not perfect, and has issues, and most of the time she’s a big fat mess, but that’s okay too. I don’t write about perfect characters either, because I couldn’t relate.

Within imperfection and mess is the good stuff. That’s what you find when you sit alone in a room to write, or when you sit in silence with yourself for those precious three minutes.

I’m beginning to like it there.

Maybe you can, too.

#writetrue #writenaked

The Power of Story…by Jennifer Probst

“Story doesn’t allow us to escape reality but navigate reality.” – Lisa Cron, Story Genius

Excuse me, while I blow the dust off of this blog. I’ve been gone the past few months finishing up writing two brand new books and diving into extensive edits. When I go that deep into the hole, I step away from social media and too many distractions, so it’s nice to be back in the world. I’ll have a few regular blog posts now lined up for the next few weeks, so let’s get to it!

I’ve been thinking about this quote lately as I navigate my own life and my writing.  I remember back in the day, critics would warn women about the dangers of romance novels, citing how we will forget it’s fiction, and believe some dashing, romantic pirate will steal us away from our lives of boredom and give us a happily ever after.

That still pisses me off.

Even before I heard the well thought out and rational arguments, I remember thinking it was bullshit because when I read Stephen King or Sidney Sheldon or even Jackie Collins, I didn’t necessarily believe monsters were under my bed or I’d turn into a jewel thief or become a sexy mogul of a hotel empire with men dropping at my feet.

I mean, I WISH.

But story is such a powerful vehicle for people to heal fragments inside themselves and realize we are not alone. That to be human is to love, hurt, hope, fear, and dream mightily. It pushes us to the edge and then sometimes over. It saves us the same exact time it destroys us. Within the pages of a book I read, and the stories I craft, I’m consistently looking for that element to tie everything together, so when the last page is finished, someone will not only feel more connected, but a bit changed. It offers a new viewpoint – a lens into the world no one else may see except me.

That’s powerful stuff. It’s the stuff of legends and magic and we can’t forget it during the endless tedious hours of editing line by line, and feeling frustrated and blocked by the Muse who taunts us.

The hours put in gets us to the magic. There’s no mysterious portal we get to step through in order to reach the end of a well written book. It’s mostly blood, sweat and tears, but when we hold the finished book in our hand, the cover glossy, the pages clean and crisp and smelling of sweet paper, our name in raised font scrolled in brilliant color—it’s all worth it.

When I’m in the weeds, I go back to the heart and soul of what I’m creating which is built on emotion and being essentially human. Flawed. Yes, grammar, and plot, and theme, and well-crafted dialogue is needed to bring it all together, but the core is always the guts, the messy stuff, and as Lisa Cron teaches, the STORY. The more we practice and write, the easier we can recognize when we’re there and learn how to let go.

I just wrote THE END on my forty ninth book, which means I will begin writing my 50th book in August. *Stay tuned because I think I’m going to launch a huge book party celebration with all of you!*

This doesn’t count the 8 books I wrote that will never see the light of day in during my learning process.

That’s a lot of writing. And a hell of a lot of stories that guided my way these past fifty years.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

#writenaked #writetrue

 

Win signed books from Jill Shalvis and…ME!

Hi friends!Jill Shalvis and I are celebrating our new releases by giving away some signed paperbacks.All you have to do is hit the enter link below!•Enter now: https://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/06bb592760/  Read Our Italian Summer: books2read.com/jpitaliansum“…the novel is carried by the rich interactions between the women, as well as the lush Italian landscape, city descriptions, and culinary pleasures. Probst consistently charms.”–Publishers WeeklyRead The Forever Girl: https://books2read.com/u/3kAJPN“Tender … Believable, realistic characters are at the heart of this novel. Shalvis will immediately grab the reader’s attention with a strong heroine and caring connection between two wounded souls.”— Publishers Weekly

A Letter from Mom on your 16th Birthday

I wrote this letter to my son this morning. Since I post a blog every year on his birthday, I thought I’d just copy and paste it here so I’ll never forget. Time is a funny, squiggly, tricky thing. Posting milestones through my writing to mark events helps me make sense of my world. I know many moms out there can relate. 

Dear Jake,

Today, you turn 16.

I remember the day you were born. The doctor lay you on my chest and for one moment, you stopped crying and just looked at me. It was like we recognized each other after those nine months of you growing in my belly, and suddenly, the world fell into place for me. Then we both started crying.

I remember your first day of pre-K at Footprints. I left you, and you tried to race out the door into the parking lot and the teachers needed to lock the door. I went to the nearby gym and stood on one of the tables where there was a hole in the wall. I spent half the class peering through the hole to make sure you were okay. Many of the other moms were there, too. You cried and Miss Joanne rocked you and I remember thinking I was a horrible Mom for leaving you, but I knew it was the beginning of a long life with many steps of training you to leave me. Unfortunately, that’s a mother’s job.

Unfortunately, it sucks many times.

I remember the first day of kindergarten. You wore this bright yellow tag around your neck so you wouldn’t get lost with the bus. After you got on the bus, I began crying and shrieking and the bus driver opened her window to ask if I needed help or an ambulance. I told her no, then jumped in my car, so I could follow you to the school. I ran inside and peeked into your kindergarten class where you were sitting quietly at your desk and waved. You looked puzzled by my presence. You waved back, and I left.

I remember the first day of middle school. Being my usual organized self, we missed the bus. I had to speed over to drop you off, all the while I was sick to my stomach with nerves. You looked nervous too. I pulled up at the door and saw your face and my heart dropped so I said, “You got this.”

You looked at me, nodded, and said, “Yeah, Mom. I got this.” Then you left with your backpack and your shoulders squared in determination. I watched you and drove away but you didn’t know I had to pull over to cry because I couldn’t see the road. Just another step toward adulthood.

The first day of high school I kept it together. I remember your first cross country meet and how you were one of the leaders. You won one of the races, and I wanted to run over to you and jump up and down and give you water, but you were surrounded by other kids on your team who were high fiving you, and I stood back, just a bystander. I remember thinking how proud I was you seemed to have a gift and you loved running but it was something I couldn’t help you with. It was yours alone. You’d found a niche and made all these friends and bloomed. You knew who you were.

I remember when the girl you crushed on since the second grade became your official first girlfriend in eight. In fifth grade, you said you dreamed of taking her to the prom one day in a limo, and I knew it would happen. I love the way you think carefully over what gifts you’ll give her. I enjoy seeing that side to you and how you interact, especially with such kindness and respect I wish more boys/men showed the opposite sex.

Today, you turn 16.

You’re on the track team. You’re on the national honor society. You have close, good friends. You have a sweet, beautiful girlfriend. You work hard. You’re actually nice to your younger brother.

And now you’re about to drive. Another step into the world and away from me. Another thing to worry about and pray over that I have no control of.

But you are my greatest lesson, because through you, I’m learning how to let go. I’m learning how to live happily without always being in control. I’m learning that I’m your guide and not your owner, even though I’d like to be many times, lol! I’m learning about real love, true love, the kind that takes my breath away and humbles me and makes me happy even though it’s sometimes painful.

Happy birthday, Jake. Mom and Dad love you.

It’s going to be a great life.

 

Mom

Making the Switch from Romance to Women’s Fiction

 

Hello, my peeps!

I was thrilled to blog over at Writer’s Digest regarding the change from romance to women’s fiction.

I think you’ll find the post informative and fun – click below to check it out!

 

Behind the Scenes of Our Italian Summer

 

 

I did a special post delving into all the intimate details of planning and executing the perfect trip – inspired by my newest release, Our Italian Summer.

Get your Italy on click to read more: