Bethany Maines's Blog, page 17

Suprise! It’s a Book!

The most surprising thing for me about being published was how much fun it sucked out of writing. I don’t suppose an agent, editor, or marketing person ever intends to suck the joy out of someone else’s life, but my experience with the publishing industry has been that mostly it’s a joy suck. I went from writing with a gleeful eagerness to staring at the computer screen in annoyance and spending far more time on marketing than I ever predicted.

 

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised by it. As a graphic designer by trade, I have a keen understanding of the collaborative nature of creating art that meets the needs of multiple user groups. If you don’t know what that means, then may God bless you and keep you in that state. Graphic Design (in my case specializing in print and signage) is an artistic endeavor designed to inform a consumer about a particular item, message, or company. I could spend a books worth on the craft of graphic design, but basically it is a balancing act between my vision as an artist and the vision of a client. In an ideal situation, both visions mesh to create art. In the worst case scenario, someone who thinks they could do your job if only they knew more about “the Photoshop” stands behind you and tells you what to do.

But writing was something that was mine – completely, gloriously – mine. I wrote my first published novel Bulletproof Mascara to please myself. Every day of writing was like falling down the rabbit hole and discovering what came next. Some days were harder than others, but each day I spent with my imaginary friends was fun. When the manuscript was complete, I made the edits suggested by beta readers because I agreed with them. Everything I did for that first book was because I liked it that way.

Then came New York. There were changes (more changes), changing editors, (changing economy) and suggestions that I “work on plotting,” work on this… work on that… Basically, stop pantsing it. Stop dropping down the rabbit hole. Stop having fun. Sit up straight. Brush your teeth. Cut your hair. Get a real job.

OK, maybe no one ever actually said those last few. But it felt like that.

So why stick with it?

Oh, sigh. That’s the worst part. Because it made me a better writer. My plotting did need work. My “perfect” text can always stand to be pared back, because damn, but I do get verbose on occasion. And let’s face it, the things I don’t know about grammar will continue to infuriate copyeditors for years to come even as I slowly improve. Then, it turns out, that marketing (AKA talking to readers) is actually enjoyable. Who knew?

It took me awhile to reclaim the joy in writing, but self-publishing a few short stories and the kind comments of readers helped. I now look forward to my next adventures in writing and hope that you will too.

Writing for Real(ism)

My brother and his wife recently sent out some new baby pictures and an update on how  they’re doing.  With the baby at 10 weeks old they are getting approximately 5-7 hours of sleep and they declared it “luxurious”.  Oh, I remember those days! If you read my post on Mom’s vs. Navy Seals “Hell What Now?” you know that I’m sympathetic to the trials of sleep deprivation.  But now that I’m a bit more on the other side (next stop – terrible two’s!), I’m intrigued by the idea of how I can apply this knowledge to my characters.

Writers are told to add physical characteristics to their characters and bring realism to the fictional world.  And I think all writers enjoy building a character dossier – eyes, hair, height, tattoos.  But I think until I had my child it didn’t occur to me to build in the psychological effects of physical changes and stresses.  When one gains weight, there are changes such as bumping into things you didn’t used to (I swear I didn’t whack my baby belly with the car door more than 8 or 12 times).  With weight loss people can find themselves turning sideways to go through doorways that fit them just fine.  And what about memory and focus problems that come with hormonal changes, sleep deprivation, or trauma? And as if these very physical realities weren’t enough, I think I should be asking not only “How does my character deal with this physical limitation or stress?” But also “What does my character feel about their reaction?”

Now I just have to figure out how to write all that around a dead body,  3 – 10 suspects, and a three act structure and I’m sure I’ll have a best seller on my hands.

State of Emergency

 

This Carrie Mae ultra-short story takes place before the events of High-Caliber Concealer.  Read High-Caliber Concealer to find out what happens next!

 

“Thanks for giving me a ride, guys,” said Jenny, jumping into the back of my convertible blue ’67 Impala. Jenny works with me at Carrie Mae.

“No prob,” I said, checking traffic and pulling away from the curb.

“Did they tell you what was wrong with your car?” asked Z’ev, turning to look at Jenny.  Z’ev is my boyfriend.  He works for the CIA.  He’s dreamy.  Yeah, I said dreamy – deal with it.

“Alternator or something.  I think I stopped listening after I heard how much it was going to cost me.”

The wind whipped her long blonde hair around her face in a way that made her look like a Ralph Lauren ad and I sighed enviously.  My red curls were always in a giant rats’ nest by the time I got out of the convertible.  “I’m serious!  I really think…”  Jenny’s thought was cut off when both our phones rang at the same time.  I made eye contact with Jenny in the rear view mirror.  I know about Z’ev’s job, but Z’ev doesn’t exactly know about mine.  The last thing I needed was a work call to interrupt one of our rare weeks together at home in LA.

There are several problems with working for Carrie Mae.  First, everyone assumes that I sell make-up.  I understand. Carrie Mae is most well known for their millions of independent beauty consultants.  The Carrie Mae Foundation, the non-profit charity branch and my employer, isn’t as well known and has the extremely simple goal of “helping women everywhere.” The Carrie Mae founders realized early on that helping women sometimes requires a silk glove of diplomacy and sometimes an iron fist of enforcement.  Basically, the Carrie Mae Foundation is part non-profit, part black ops force.  My second problem with working for Carrie Mae is that I can’t tell my family, or my boyfriend, that I’m part of the iron fist.

“It’s Ellen,” said Jenny, flipping open her phone.  “911 to her place right now!”

I nodded and pushed my foot into the gas pedal.

Ten minutes later, I had barely parked before Jenny was out of the car and running up the front walk of Ellen’s townhouse.  I followed slightly more cautiously, taking in the scene, looking for bad guys, wishing I was carrying.  The door burst open and Ellen stepped out dressed in a slip, her short silver hair in curlers.  Ellen, our team’s sniper, was usually the calm to our storm.  Periodically, she’s been known to lose her cool.  With Ellen if you behave like a misogynistic, racist jackhat, don’t be surprised if you suddenly end up with a bullet in your butt.  Anyway, she didn’t appear to be raging, she appeared to be having a panic attack.

“You have to help me.  This is…  I can’t do this.”  She flapped her hands, breathing heavily. “I have nothing to wear.”

Z’ev was half way out of the car, but froze in place at Ellen’s announcement.

“I’ll just wait in the car,” he said.  I gave him a thumbs up and went in.  I came out a few minutes later.

Z’ev had turned off the motor and was watching clouds maneuver across the sky like wide-bellied sailing ships.

“What’s up?” he asked, leaning back to look up at me.

“Ellen has a date,” I said.  Z’ev made ‘so what’ sort of gesture.  “It’s her first date since her husband died.  And she doesn’t know what to wear.”  Z’ev’s faced sucked in like he’d chomped down on a lemon.

“Ah.  It’s one of those issues.”

“Jenny is in there now on tissue and dress patrol.  I’m going to go in on make-up.  We’ll double team on hair and shoes and be out in no more than 24 minutes.”

“Why 24 minutes?” asked Z’ev, automatically synchronizing his watch.

“Because he arrives in,” I flipped over my wrist and checked the time on my watch, “25:20.”

“I’m going to turn the car around.  I’ll be parked in front, motor running,” he said.

“Good man,” I said, nodding approvingly.  I looked with dread at the house – some missions were tougher than others.  “All right, I’m going back in.”  I marched toward the door.

“Duck and cover, baby.  Duck and cover,” Z’ev called after me.

Twenty-four minutes and forty-two seconds later Jenny and I sprinted out of the house and leapt into the back seat.  Z’ev threw the car into gear and launched us down the block, just as a black sedan turned the corner.

“Z’ev, slow down, we want to see what he looks like!” said Jenny.  I leaned over the passenger seat to pull a set of binoculars out the glove compartment.  Z’ev slowed down and we crouched in the back peering over the trunk.

“Not bad,” I said, handing over the binoculars to Jenny.

“Car’s a Lexus, but four door.  Says stable, with good taste.  Khakis and button up,” said Jenny, adding her assessment.

“Fashionable without being trendy,” I agreed.  “Looks fairly fit.”

“Full head of hair,” commented Jenny.

Ellen opened the door and the man went inside.

“We’re not going to follow them on their date, are we?” asked Z’ev adjusting the rear view mirror so that he could watch the action.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” said Jenny.

“We would never spy on our friend,” I added.

“Uh-huh.  Do you want me to put the binoculars back?”

Jenny and I dissolved into giggles, which only caused Z’ev to roll his eyes.  I continued to laugh, but inside I was worried.  Sometime soon, Z’ev and I were going to have to talk.  How much longer was he going to believe I was a project manager for a regular non-profit? Who always keeps binoculars in her glove box?

 

 

Equal Rights for Positives

A funny thing happens when you read your own reviews – you start thinking about them.

I’m about a month away from completing the manuscript for Glossed Cause, the fourth book in the Carrie Mae Mystery Series, and I made the mistake of checking out a few of the reviews on High-Caliber Concealer (CM #3).  I knew it was a bad idea.  It’s always a bad idea.  What happens when I get to a bad one, hmmm?  It’s not like I can look the reviewer up, knock on their door and explain how monumentally wrong they are.  But you think, “I’ll just look at the good ones.  Just one.  I can stop there.”

You know this a total lie, right? Reviews are like Pringles for the eyes.  Like I can stop with just one.  I open up Amazon, I’m looking and… then I read this: “If you enjoy reading about Stephanie Plum, you’ll love Nicki! Maines is getting better with each book.”

And I thought, “Hell, yeah!”

Just one?  But I have popped – I cannot stop. I should read more!

Eventually, of course, I got to one with a complaint. I’d spent too much time on Nikki’s personal life. Gah! But, but, but… Glossed Cause is about her FATHER (among other things).  What do I dooooooo????

 

Now I’m stuck staring at the screen, half way through the book, trying to figure out if I should turn the ship or stay the course.  “Stay the course!” my internal editor yells.  But it’s hard to hear over the crashing waves of doubt.

I was complaining a negative comment on another project to my husband he said, “Well, I think it was awesome and my vote counts more.” 

Why do the negatives get more votes?  Shouldn’t the positives get equal rights?  Here’s what I and anyone else who is stuck in this trap are going to do:  We’re going to go back, we’re going to read the first positive review, and we’re going to believe that one.  Because Maines really is getting better with every book.

There’s a Double Meaning in That

In Much Ado About Nothing Beatrice and Benedick, the worst of rivals, are set up by their friends to fall in love.  So that by Act 2, Scene 3, when Beatrice says, “Against my will I am sent to bid you come into dinner,”  Benedick believes that Beatrice is madly in love with him, while Beatrice believes him to be an ass.  After she exits, he says in all smugness, “Ha! Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner. There’s a double meaning in that.”

Someone I know once asked an English teacher how he knew the author intended the symbolism the teacher was accusing him of.  The teacher replied, “It doesn’t matter.”  As an author this makes me want to poke him in the eye just a little bit.  But in the end he’s right; stories mean something to a reader independent of the writer’s intentions.  Each reader brings their own experiences to a book and a writer can’t predict them.  So how can an author prevent his readers from pulling a Benedick and seeing double meanings where none are intended?

It’s a very secret and advanced technique called (wait for it): educated guessing.  And good beta readers.  As an author I try to learn about other points of view, so that I can write stronger more realistic characters and then I rely on my writers group to read through a piece and throw up flags around text that might unintentionally carry a subtext that’s either offensive or poorly thought out.  It’s hard to think that something I’ve written could be construed as offensive, because after all, I am I and I’m awesome and I have only the best of intentions.  But we all have prejudices or periodically spout unexamined notions that have been fed to us by society.

An easy example is “pink is only for girls”.  This statement is both observationally false (been to the mall lately?), and historically inaccurate (pink used to be a boys color). Color is a product of light bouncing off a surface or being absorbed (we see the portion of the spectrum bounced back); any deeper meaning has been assigned to a color by humanity. So unless my character is a sexist and I need him or her to say total nonsense about gender roles, I probably shouldn’t write that and a good beta reader should flag it as a problem.  With any luck I can keep the unintentional double meanings to a minimum.  I don’t want to be a Benedick.

The Accent Mark Goes… Here

You know how Madonna now talks with a British accent?  And everyone kind of mocks her?  It is annoying to have someone you know grew up in Michigan try and sound all posh, but at the same time… I would be the same way.  I once realized that I had been watching twenty minutes of a cooking show with an Australian host and I had no idea what was being made.  I’d spent the entire time watching her mouth trying to figure out how she was murdering pronouncing her vowels that way.  I sounded like a monkey on the couch as I clenched and unclenched my teeth trying “ehhh-oooh-uh” my vowels.  I was two seconds away from throwing a shrimp on the barbie when my husband came home and gave me the look that implied that while our marriage was a joy and a blessing, it was also occasionally weird.

The unfortunate thing is that, just as I’m addicted to copying other people’s accents, I find that I’m also prone to picking up the language of whomever I’m reading.  I’m sure my writing/reading group can tell when I’ve been reading Regency Romances.  One cannot help but be addicted to the opulent turn of phrase.  And if I could work some sort of line about puce satin and a cravat into the paragraph all the better.  What if I’m reading fluffy chick lit?  Pretty sure that my character needs to mention her thighs and a cupcake in the next sentence.  Taut thrillers? Sentences get shorter.  Characters become brutal. And adverbs?  Kill ‘em.  Kill ‘em all.

The brutal snuffing out of “suddenly” aside, this habit does real damage to my narratives.  Characters don’t sound like themselves (why does that Texan sound English?) and plots can veer wildly off course as I spend a page (or three) describing clothing.  So when I’m writing I have to take a bit of a hiatus from reading unless I can find that wondrous book that matches the tone that I’m writing.  I think it’s incredibly unfair that my reading has suffered as a result of my writing, but currently it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.  Of course, if I could just figure out how to retire with a million dollars so that I could segregate my year into reading quarters and writing quarters life would be awesome.

Author Diaries: Day 1

I was recently sitting with a group of friends discussing a book we’d all read recently (Perfect Likeness by J.M. Phillippe – group consensus: two thumbs up, funny and touching!).  But then the conversation turned to whether or not the author had left room for a sequel.  Some thought there was definitely going to be a sequel, while others read the slightly open-ended conclusion as the perfect metaphor for the books message about depression.  Since we happen to know the author, it was a simple matter of waiting until she returned from the bar with her cocktail, so that we could ask her.  But the entire argument reminded me of the very first public reading I did of my own writing.

I was 19 and I’d just won third place in a contest for Just Between You and Me, a short-story of a high-school girl who sells her English teacher a sense of humor.  There was an awards ceremony and the top three all read their stories.  I was incredibly nervous.  I’d practiced, but still read too fast and killed one of the jokes.  But by the time I was done, I felt triumphant.  I’d read, and people had clapped.  And not just people in my family.  Actual people.

And then the audience was allowed to ask questions.

Whoever invented audience participation was a sadist.  Who wants the audience to participate?  Don’t you know that when they participate they ask questions?  Questions that I had never considered in the entire breadth of my imagination that anyone would ever actually ask.  A few years later, I discovered that I might be a masochist, because audience particpation suddenly seemed fun.  But this was my Day 1 as an AUTHOR and I was totally unprepared for THE QUESTION.  It was delivered by forty-something guy who seemed to have really enjoyed the story, but asked this doozy: “Did she really sell a sense of humor?”

But… but… that questions the very foundation of my story.  If you didn’t buy into the premise how could you like it? I left ambiguity on purpose.  Did you not enjoy the ambiguity?  Does this mean the story was bad?  How do I answer that?  What does this meannnnnn???!!!

A few years later, with more writing and more experience, I would have replied, “Yes, she did.  How did you enjoy your first visit to the Fantasy section of the bookstore? There are many more books like this out there – don’t be afraid to experiment.”  Instead, I sort of fish flapped my mouth for a second or two and said something vague like, “That’s something you’ll have to decide for yourself.”  Which, again, with more years and writing experience later, I’ve recognized as sub-conscious code for, “I wasn’t able to decide either, but I’m not telling you that, you impertinent person.”

I did eventually decide.  Ariana, the young person in question, really did sell a sense of humor.  You can read Just Between You and Me and more about Ariana’s adventures in my collection of Tales from the City of Destiny.  And as for the sequel status of Perfect Likeness?  Well, you will either have to read and decide for yourself, or follow the authors suggested solution – bribery.  Preferably with cocktails and cake.

Everybody Rotate

It’s almost time to change the art in my office.  I’ve had the same art since I moved in five years ago and it’s now covered in layers of other art.   It’s time to relocate, re-shuffle and change up.  Maybe you are not one of the people who feels that deep need to redecorate periodically, but I happen to have it in my genes.  Returning home to find my mother peeling wallpaper was cause for eyerolling, but not surprise.  It works both ways though.  On more than one occasion in my teen years I decided to re-arrange my bedroom after midnight.  My mother never once questioned these decisions.  Because she fully understands that sometimes life would just be better if the furniture were NOT where it is right now.

These are also good occasions for spring cleaning and decluttering.  Someone once said that clutter items are just decisions you didn’t make.  If you had decided where that item needed to go, it wouldn’t be lingering there on the desk or kitchen table.  Although, I suspect that the person who originated that idea never had children.  Because the garbage can is not lingering on top my desk; it’s hiding from my toddler.

The problem with decluttering art, is that I’m either removing my own work or the work of an artist I admire.  It’s unfortunate, but apparently, I cannot have ALL the art, ALL the time.  I’m not a Getty.  I don’t get to have my own museum.  This makes me infinitely sad.  My perfect house would probably look like a library mated with the Guggenheim and married the Orsay.  Unfortunately my current house looks more like the product of a library and a 1910 bungalow who married a carpenter in the 1950’s. Which means we have books in piles and art in piles and we had to remove the weird scalloped molding over the sink when we moved in.

So some art will have to go back in the closet and some new pieces will have to get matted for display.  And then, maybe, I can get back to writing.

Holiday Strategy

It’s that time of year again. The holidays.  Starbucks is apparently hating Jesus because they continued their paired back design aesthetic and put out simple red cups.  (Yes, because from Hell’s heart they stab at Christians with a red cup filled with the artfully foamed blood of the saints – muwahhahahahah!!) Black Friday ads are starting to pop up everywhere (stampede!!) and relatives are booking flights and scrambling to arrange schedules so that everyone can see everyone and be annoyed by everyone all in a very short amount of time.

As yet, I have made no moves on the great holiday game board. I’m still trying to determine strategy. Do I try and ride the “I have a baby” thing for another year and do practically nothing? Or do I pull out all the stops and try to get the best gifts EVER for everyone?  Should I shoot for every holiday party I’m invited to, or do I try and find out everyone’s dates in advance and RSVP according to the level of food awesomeness at each?  Generally, I try and do a really fun Christmas card, but that takes energy, forethought, and great idea for some artwork.  Maybe I’ll just skip that one and move straight to the Christmas letter stage where I make friends and relatives barf with the saccharine sweetness and absolute perfection of my life. BECAUSE YOUR ENVY FEEDS MY SOUL. That’s definitely what the holidays are all about, right?

Below are the following factors I’m using for determining my holiday event strategy:

 Pie. 


Is there pie?   If the answer is yes, move to the top of the list.
Is it home made?  If the answer is no, then I don’t go.

 

 Sleep.


Will it cause my baby to be awake far longer than a tiny human should be?  If the answer is yes, your event will not be considered.  Unless there is enormous amounts of pie.

 

 Husband.


On a scale of 1 to 10, how badly is he going to complain about this event?  If the answer is ballet, then he will not be attending.
Can I bribe him with pie?

 

What are your strategies for coping with the oncoming storm?  Hunker down or go fly a kite?  What is your favorite way to do the holidays?

Entry Fee Collected at the Door

It’s election season. And you know what that means. Lot’s of people talking smack about candidates, and trying to persuade me to vote, give money, participate, belong, think about the future, just doooooooo something. And it’s true. I should do one or all of those things. After all, isn’t the entry fee to any society the participation in their events?

As I was pondering this deep, philosophical point, I got distracted by an idea on how to create a light saber for my daughters Halloween costume (she’s going to be Yoda) and then I pondered lunch, then work, then I wondered who was in charge of Princess Leia’s hair on set. Was there a hair wrangler? By the time I made it back to democracy, I had clearly demonstrated how easy it is to NOT perform my civic duty – simply get distracted by life. Which led me to wonder, is connecting with the writing community difficult for the same reasons? Do writers miss out on connecting in person, on being a literary citizen, because… Star Wars?

Probably not. My reasons for occasionally not participating in the greater writer community, aren’t generally because I’m building a death star. (Although, really, death star’s take a lot of time, so jeez, get off my back Emperor.) My reasons for not participating usually looks more like this comic from The Oatmeal.

The original entry fee to the writing community, the one I paid when I was quite small, was to read, quietly in the privacy of my own home and then write something, usually a bad something. I have paid that fee about 16million times over. But progressing in one’s writing career means paying a different kind of fee. You must talk to people – actual people – as opposed to the fictional people I usually talk to.

I recently participated in my local Lit Night, put on by Creative Colloquy. Each literary night, allows time for a roster of readers, and then some open mic time. The Colloquy group is incredibly supportive of writers and encourages an atmosphere of positive support. Participating reminded me that actual people aren’t that bad, and that listening to others works gives perspective on my own. My political party of choice, might Introverts Unite!, but being with other writer’s does give me the warm glow of community that is hard to achieve from my couch. So, if you have the urge to be a literary citizen, I recommend paying the fee – go, interact, don’t build a death star. You’ll have a good time, I promise.