Ginger Voight's Blog, page 14
June 10, 2015
#WriterWednesday Episode 2: I think it's time we have The Talk About Reviews.
I'm trying to structure these #WriterWednesday posts in order, so that I can properly prepare even the newest newbie to the life of a working writer. I was going to save The Talk we're going to have today for the upcoming weeks, past all the stuff about the craft, etc. You gotta crawl before you can walk, as it were. In my opinion reader reviews happen so far down the line after you publish, it's like putting the cart before the horse to talk about them while we're getting the whole writery thing ironed out.
This is Episode 2, where we're still in the "enlistment" part of process. This life isn't cut out for everyone. In Episode 1, we talked about what it takes to "make it," which encompasses a lo-ho-hot of work. This is not a career for the fainthearted, and you need to know that from the jump. I'm sure I'll bleed more and more people every week, but that's kind of the point. If you're going to succeed, and I really do want you to succeed, then you need to know what you're getting into so you can make the best decisions you can. I've been in the trenches a few years now, so I can tell you where the pitfalls are, so you can avoid them if at all possible.
(Hell, I'm still learning these ever-changing rules myself, which means a lot of these won't just be information for you, but reminders for me.)
The more I see some of today's writers virtually shoot themselves in the foot regarding reviews, the more I realized that we have to move The Talk up ahead of schedule. Apparently this is something writers need to know going in and somehow don't, putting their entire careers in jeopardy as a result. So we're going to chat about this a bit today, and it's going to cover quite a bit of ground. I suggest you grab a drink and get comfortable. We're going to be here a while.
Ready? Okay.
REJECTIONS, CRITIQUES AND THE OLD PROCESS
Back in the old days, rejection and critique were built into the old model of publishing. You wrote a first draft? Congratulations. Now try to sell that puppy to an agent who has to get excited about your work. That process took time and effort, with a lot of failure along the way. Even books that turned out to be bestsellers were rejected many times before they finally saw the light of day. It took Agathe Christie five years to land her publishing deal. Dr. Seuss, Louis L'Amour, J.K. Rowling, J.D. Salinger, Stephenie Meyer... all these writers who went on to astonishing financial or critical successes originally had their work rejected by scores of editors and agents. Kathryn Stockett received 60, count 'em, 60 rejections on The Help, which not only went on to be a bestseller BUT an Oscar-winning film. Even the Master (and one of my personal writing heroes,) was well acquainted with rejection, from the time he was a teenager.
Only the battle-scarred few who persevered through this grueling process made the cut, something Stephen talked about in regards to his father. Pick up on this biography at 8:00 minutes in:
As you can see, rejection worked a little bit like the warped wall on American Ninja Warrior.
You usually don't scale a curved, 14-foot wall on the first go, no matter how physically fit you are. You have to train yourself. For writing, this means you have to brave criticism about your work. You'll still fall on your face from time to time, especially at the beginning. This will bruise your ego instead of your body, but it hurts just the same.
The fear of rejection, and the reality of rejection, facilitated the need for honest, often brutal, critiques. Each rejection was a stepping stone, and every critique was a hand up to get you to the next step. They worked together to help make your book, and you, the best you can possibly be so that you would eventually get that "yes," but also be better prepared for the next step beyond it.
That's what made the pursuit of excellence more important than the sale itself. There was (is) no guarantee of money when you sat down to write a book. Back then, you knew that you had to first convince an agent or publisher to get behind you, which was (is) hard to do for untested writers. Some really good books never saw the light of day because the people who needed to make a living wouldn't risk the gamble. The only way you could get anywhere was with a spectacular book that the right person found at the right time. (Another topic we'll eventually get to: Nobody Knows Anything.)
We all understood that was part of the process. More importantly, we understood it was a good thing overall, even if rejections and critiques suck the big one. And let's be real here... they do suck. Readers and critics will tell you to take it on the chin. Don't publish if you can't handle it. But that shit can hurt, I don't care who you are. Writers spend a lot of time and energy, pouring our little hearts into our books. No one wants to hear anyone speak ill of our babies, which we love unconditionally. Everyone wants that gold star or that A+.
And when you're a writer, you've spent those weeks or months inside your own head, with only your voice to guide you. It's easy to lose perspective along the way. There's a lot of euphoria in the creation process. You finish a particularly grueling chapter or write The End after sleepless nights hopped up on nothing more than caffeine and a dream, you want to celebrate... not decimate.
But you need guidance. We all need guidance. If you're writing for yourself, then you can write the story however you want to. But when you're creating a product for millions of consumers, you need perspective. That will only happen when you have someone who can honestly evaluate your work. (And no, your mom generally doesn't count.)
I'll give you an example of perspective. I started writing when I was 11 years old, after a school writing assignment got me some extra attention. After my dad died just the December before, I ceased feeling special. Writing gave that back to me. I latched onto it with both hands. Over the next ten years, I wrote poetry and short stories and even a novella, most of which was received really well. My novella was critiqued in 1985 by my sweet English teacher, who offered a gentle evaluation of where I was weak and where I could be stronger, but generally, overall, I was praised for my efforts. (I believe that English teacher even wrote something about my writing in my yearbook that year.)
So when I wrote my first book, I wasn't at all intimidated about sending my work out to an agent almost the very instant it was written. I maybe tinkered with it a little bit before I sent it in to a local agency in the town where I lived. When I got the response back, the agent said thanks but no thanks, though she gave me a fully edited version of my manuscript.
I don't think there was one page that didn't have at least five red marks on it. It was *dripping* with blood-red ink. My beautiful baby had been figuratively massacred.
I. Was. Devastated. Here I was thinking that I had something special because everyone in my life had always said as much, yet it failed to stand up to scrutiny from an industry professional. It was a rejection and a critique all in one dream-crushing package. And because I was so new to the harsh realities of this business, it wrecked me. I shelved that book and went back to "real life." It took years for me to understand what kind of gift that agent gave me. She edited an entire manuscript - for free - so that I, a clearly brand-new writer, could improve. She wouldn't have done that had she not seen the potential. By the time I returned to writing, because quitting was never really an option, I had a different outlook on the critiquing process. The truth was that I learned more from that brutally honest critique than I had ever learned from years and years of praise. Her words stuck with me, even to this day. That lesson was priceless. It made me a better, stronger writer.
It was part of the process.
By the time I dipped my tippy-toe in the shark-infested waters of screenwriting in 2002, I was ready to show my work and take my licks. I joined a community called Done Deal, which had a forum where you could post your work and get feedback. It became instantly clear that these guys weren't messing around. They'd tell you what they thought and they didn't really bother assuaging your feelings in the process. Buck up, buttercup. This is a business. If you want to be a pro, you are expected to act like one, especially in a collaborative field where content (and sometimes the writers themselves) can change all the way up to the film's completion. (Sometimes even afterwards. Case in point Pretty in Pink, which changed the entire ending based on the feedback of a test audience. We'll talk about this more next week, when I tackle Trusting Your Gut.)
One notorious DD reviewer took particular joy out of ripping these kinds of pages to shreds. He was a bit of an asshole, but most of the time he was right. So I decided to wade out into the deep water and ask him to read my script. Like the manuscript I sent to the agent, this was my first screenplay. I knew he'd tell me the truth and that was vitally important to me. I can stand a few tender feelings as long as I didn't embarrass myself in front of another agent or producer. You only get one chance to make a first impression, and I wanted mine to sparkle.
And yes, he did pick it apart. One of notes said, "This AGAIN? I may need to take a cyanide pill," when I kept repeating the same scene over and over again. When he was done, however, he told me that I had promise AND talent and to keep going. Like the agent... he invested in the potential, showing me how I could reach it. There are things from his critiques (and yes, I asked him to do more than one,) that I still hear in my head today when I write. Why? Because Critques. Are. How. You. Learn. This is why it's imperative that you find someone who is stages ahead of you in your career to help you. That kind of feedback is the finest education you'll ever get.
One of my husband's favorite sayings is if you don't tell someone what they're doing wrong, how are they going to know? (Which is why he's usually reader #1 for everything I write.) Even if it sucks big, blue donkey balls, you have to make peace with the idea that your work will always, always, need improvement. Art is never completed, merely abandoned. I can't read anything I've written in the past without cringing and tinkering and toying and editing - even those books that have already been published. By the time a digital proof of CHASING THUNDER was sent back to me from the publisher to approve nothing more than the formatting, I was still fiddling with content. This was after it had gone through several passes between the publisher and the editor. With each new book, you learn something new. It's impossible not to implement these lessons with everything new you write or everything old you've written.
So trust me when I tell you that there's no greater asset in your life than to have a long list of honest folks who will keep it real when they read your work. They can shine you up like a new penny if you let them.
People who like you will be a little gentler with you, granted. But in a professional forum, you need to know what the problem is so you can fix it. Shortly after finding Done Deal, I joined Zoetrope, another screenwriting community. I had to review several scripts from other writers in order for my work to be read, which taught me how to be an honest, helpful reviewer. This is another imperative skill to learn before you publish, which is probably why that site operated that way. How can you tell what's wrong in your own work if you can't objectively assess the work of another? If you can't figure out what's wrong, or why it fell flat, or didn't connect with you, how are you ever going to know what's wrong in your own work, where it falls flat, and why it doesn't connect? Taking things apart is one of the ways you figure out how to put something together.
Through this process of giving and accepting these critiques, and a lot of them, you gain that valuable perspective I mentioned earlier. You'll find that not all critiques are created equal, and you don't have to make all the changes suggested to you. The plain truth is that sometimes you can do everything right and the material just won't connect with the reader. That's nobody's fault, really. Different strokes for different folks and all that. The more critiques you get, the more you learn which critiques to keep and which to dismiss, which is why it's so damn critical to put your book through these paces. My general rule of thumb is that your gut already knows where you missed the mark. A good critique will force you to deal with it before you blow it with the fickle reading audience that has far too many books to choose from to indulge second chances. An ineffective critique (meaning, one that you don't necessarily agree with or heed,) will teach you how to shrug your shoulders and declare, "You can't please everybody." Not everyone is going to like what you do or agree with how you do it. *And that's okay.* Part of the growth process is filtering all this information to your benefit.
So what does all this have to do with the review process?
I'm so glad you asked.
NEW BOSS SAME AS THE OLD BOSS
Since the beginning of the self-publishing age, many writers got to skip that brutal obstacle course full of rejections and critiques at the very dawn of their writing careers. They went from newbie to professional in the click of the button, without all the steps that used to get you from point A to point B, and in doing so, prepared you for point Z. Those steps were necessary so that amateur writers had all that glorious perspective by the time the reviews from the public came. Like I said, not all critiques are created equal. Every single writer in the world has had that one review that was so outrageous, you almost had to laugh. In fact, an entire Tumblr was created to highlight the one-star reviews for classic literature. These are some of the greatest novels of our time and even they cannot escape the vitriol of a frustrated reader, who simply wanted to love a book but didn't.
A review simply captures a reader's feelings, whether good or bad. Here's an example of a 1-star review that I wrote for an author who was a long-standing favorite of mine when I was a young adult, but wrote a bestselling book that both disappointed and offended me entirely. As you can see, I minced no words expressing how I felt about it. It wasn't to correct her work, but to simply state what I got out of it as a reader, which wuddn't good.
Unfortunately, that's something that many newly professional writers are missing. They are so ill-equipped for criticism that they see every review as such a life-or-death thing. They abhor low-rated reviews and the readers who post them, because that low-rated review could put off potential new readers, blocking the writer from inching further up the wall. This has led to the whole Authors Behaving Badly phenomenon, where authors and reviewers clash over negative reviews, and the ease and temptation of cyber-bullying rears its ugly head in some ridiculous "them" vs. "us" scenario.
You have to understand something. For readers, nothing has changed. How we get our books to them has undergone a complete revolution, but how they get the books they read hasn't. How they treat the books they read hasn't. What they expect from a book, an author and the reading experience itself, hasn't. When they plunk down hard-earned cash for a book, they expect to enjoy it. If they don't, they have no problem telling all of their friends, same as before. Good word of mouth will make an unknown book soar right up the bestseller charts, while bad word of mouth will push the book further down the slush pile we all must navigate now that anyone can publish a book, whether it's been put through the paces or not. Those first drafts that delusional newbie writers used to send to publishers are now online, right along with a price tag. It's a product now, and consumers are going to state their opinions accordingly, even if they're "wrong," even if they're mean, and even if they're unfair.
A reader review is nothing more than an editorial piece where they can and should write what they think about it. And we, as writers, should encourage them to be honest, even if it's not glowing. In the end, the passion that they demonstrate to even *write* a review is a good thing for you. My whole career started with a timely review from someone who had a lot of influence. And you know what happened? Some of the things that people loved about the book, others hated. It's a numbers game eventually, particularly the better you sell and the more of a splash your book makes, and yes... that attention will draw those who get off on crapping all over something popular just because they can. For some folks, going against the grain is a way to get some attention. You see this more and more if the author becomes a celebrity of sorts, because the fight for their attention is even harder. If ten people tell you your book is wonderful and they love it, and one person says it sucks, who is going to stand out?
It still boils down to preferences and perspective. What leads one to post a 5-star rating would force another to leave a 1-star rating. There are nearly 2300 ratings over on Goodreads for GROUPIE, and 76 of them are 1-stars. Does it hurt? Of course it does. I'm human, made of flesh and bone. But I don't fight them or challenge them... hell, most times I don't even read them. Eventually I came to realize that even a negative review isn't always negative for the book. If someone writes something ridiculous, such as bullying reviews that do little else but attack a writer, savvy buyers will recognize this. Many readers I've seen read the bad reviews first and skip the glowing, 5-star reviews entirely. (Thanks to yet another industry, 5-star reviews are easy to buy and fake without a reader ever even touching a book, which makes current readers distrustful of very highly rated books with no balance.)
They know that not everyone can love the same book, or even rate/review fairly and objectively. But somewhere along the line, we authors have seemed to forgotten it.
Thanks to today's market, we writers put way too much emphasis on the reader review. It's only one small part of what sells a book. What does your cover look like? How does your blurb read? Are your first five or ten pages as killer as they can be? Are there other reviews on the book, to help balance the dialogue? All of those factor into a reader's choice to buy your book. A 1-star rating/review is not the end-all, be-all. It just feels like it, because like I said... everyone wants the gold star. Everyone is looking for the A+.
You're not always going to get it, just refer to the Tumblr I referenced above.
You need to keep it all in perspective. Some writers can't or won't do this. When they see a negative review, they feel the need to engage the reviewer, particularly if the review was nasty. I understand where they are coming from. It hurts to get a bad review. It's scary to get a bad review. We all worry about our ratings. It's impossible not to, considering negative ratings and rankings hurt our overall brand and jeopardize every new sale that we need in order to survive. And by survive, I mean money-in-your-pocket, food-on-your-table, paying-your-electric-bill, keeping-a-roof-over-your-head survival. Our brand is sacred to us. It has to be.
But nothing, NOTHING, torpedoes your brand more than how unprofessionally you act in the face of these reviews. Remember nothing has changed for the reader. They expect you to take it on the chin just like those other writers who have been through the ringer and back simply to get their book published. If you're not used to harsh or brutally honest critiques, it can come as quite the shock to the system to read something harshly written about your work. Like I said before, used to be that you became accustomed to that PRIOR to publication in the olden days. Today, you take it as it comes. And some people are ill-prepared to handle it.
AUTHORS BEHAVING BADLY: A CAUTIONARY TALE
The most egregious example of this occurred last year, when a well-connected new writer wrote an essay for the Guardian on stalking one of her online critics. And when I say stalked, I mean she physically drove to this lady's house and went up to her door. She had the burning need to confront this person face-to-face over what she felt was an unfair review from a cyber-bully. The problem apparently started prior to her book's publication. She had a traditional publisher, (which should have prepared her for what she was about to face, but apparently there were more issues at play with this particular individual.) Said publisher sent preview copies to bloggers and such, a common practice to generate buzz on an upcoming novel. This aspiring novelist decided to go to Goodreads and check out what people were saying, even while, admittedly, she was still in that "post-partum" phase of writing.
If you're unfamiliar, this is when the euphoria from creating your book subsides and crippling doubts and insecurity creep in, whispering the five scariest words any writer can hear, "What if nobody likes it?" You start to second-guess everything, even those things that got you so excited to write the damn book in the first place. Like I said, without a litany of honest feedback, your perspective is skewed. All you hear is your own voice. Well, she decided to add reader voices to the din, which is where it all started to go horribly, horribly wrong.
She claims that most of these reviewers were giving either one-star or five-star reviews, with no real gray area in between. It's kind of hard to keep perspective when you volley between such extremes, especially when you, yourself, have questionable confidence about the material. And then... Blythe happened.
Ouch.
That review is lifted right from Hale's own account from the Guardian. If you check Goodreads, Blythe's review now reads simply, "Fuck this." Not sure if she's talking specifically about the book or the troubling events that followed, but it's apt either way. (I haven't read the book in question, but no matter if it was a great book or a sucky book, this reviewer is entitled to her opinion on the matter either way. She's allowed to word it the way she wants and post it for others to read. It's simply an opinion, it doesn't need to be right or wrong.)
Hale was told, repeatedly, not to respond. “DO NOT ENGAGE,” another writer told her. “You’ll make yourself look bad, and she’ll ruin you.” But Hale found that she couldn't let it go. Her curiosity turned into a quest. She began to research (i.e. stalk) Blythe online, finding more and more information on her behavior, which allegedly been called into question before. The whole demented story ends with an admittedly obsessive Hale essentially catfishing what she believed to be a catfisher - a blogger who posted negative book reviews under an assumed identity.
You know how you never hear Stephen King physically tracking down his detractors? He's too busy writing his next book to worry about it. Which is why he has a career spanning more than four decades, with more nearly 60 titles to his credit in books alone. He has perspective.
The whole thing was just crazysauce. If Hale's career is "ruined," it wasn't the reviewer's fault. We got to witness someone in their professional infancy, shooting themselves in the foot and wrecking their own brand in the dawn of their own career. Even if Blythe wasn't really who she said she was online, her biggest crime was that she snarked about books she was believed were bad on a website that was created for readers to share their thoughts about books. The fact that Ms. Hale decided to make it an epic holy grail resulting in sketchy, nay criminal, behavior says way more about her character than it does any legion of "bullies" online.
Granted, you can get shaded as an author behaving badly for a variety of reasons, not all of them fair. There are some who expect you to put aside being an individual as part of your brand, so you end up bound and gagged behind your keyboard, chained to your own limitations as a public figure. This can impact participating in social media, where you become an extension of your brand, rather than a person with thoughts, opinions and the permission to miss the mark every once and a while. You'll fuck up sometimes. You're human. It happens. Things are going to hurt, and you're entitled to feel the pain. You just have to be very, very careful how you handle it.
It sucks to get a bad review. It sucks even more if that reviewer has any kind of influence. The only thing that sucks worse is when an author makes a fool of him-or-herself trying to take a stand against something that is as subjective as personal opinion. Over the course of your career, if you're lucky, you'll write several books. Some readers will read them all, some will only read the ones that interest them. But your brand is the umbrella over all of it - and the best way to alienate people who don't even know your name is to stomp your foot and act like a five-year-old, crying about how unfair it is when you get a bad review.
Tell me where in the world it was written that only the people who love your book are the ones who get to review it?
Oh, that's right. New writers have now implemented that rule when they send out their books to promote them. I belong to several reader groups and they have shared this troubling new trend. New writers, or PR reps for new writers, will send out their work with a caveat that if anyone feels the need to write a lower-rated review, to wait until after the book has launched so it won't affect its initial sales.
Usually that opening week or two is the highest sales period for your book, so negative reviews, they feel, will jeopardize those critical sales.
In an industry where only a scant percent make any kind of money doing this, that's a legitimate concern. By the time it reaches the public, however, you're no longer in control of it, and that's the part that so many new writers just don't seem to get. The genie is out of the bottle. Just learn what you can from it and take it to your next book as part of your ongoing pursuit of personal excellence.
THE MORAL OF THE STORY
Keep it all in perspective.
Not everyone is going to love every single book, any more than you love every single book you read. Your odds go up the more polished and perfected a book you produce, which is why honest critique prior to publication is so crucial.
You'll note by this point that I do not use the terms "critique" and "review" synonymously. They are NOT the same things. The critique is for you, usually done before anyone else sees the work. It breaks down the essential workings of the story, from character development to dialogue to structure and pacing. It's written for you to read and to implement, to help you improve and help the book improve. The other is for your potential reading audience, an opinion of a product that is already for sale and available to the public, written for anyone who may be interested in buying it. Though some will say they write these negative reviews to help the writer, most don't think about the author (or their feelings) at all. It's not written for you, but rather written and posted in a safe space to share one's own opinion. One is your business, the other isn't. Once you realize this, you won't have to put such ridiculous (and unrealistic) restrictions on your readers, many of whom will shy away anyway because their voice is being curtailed. What is a review except for another person's opportunity to be heard?
No one owes you a damn thing, even if you offer the book for free. They don't owe you a review at all, that's a courtesy. As a courtesy, how they decide to rank it is completely up to them. How they word it, what they say, all of it is up to them. They're doing you a favor reading your book. Don't be a douche and demand they like it or stay silent. Instead of asking the readers to read down, write UP. Do the hard work to make it the best damn book you can write, and let the chips fall where they may.
You're a professional. Act like one.
You are going to hear no way more than you hear yes in this business, even if it's with a customer's hard-won dollar. If they don't buy your book, guess what? That's a rejection. Sometimes they'll leave scathing critiques of your books thrown in for good measure. Unless you've toughed your hide prior to hitting that publish button, it's a harsh wake-up call.
No writer anywhere, no matter how beloved or successful, avoids this. So your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to make peace with the idea that reviews are none of your business. Emulate the writers who have long-standing careers: put your head down and write your next book.
This is Episode 2, where we're still in the "enlistment" part of process. This life isn't cut out for everyone. In Episode 1, we talked about what it takes to "make it," which encompasses a lo-ho-hot of work. This is not a career for the fainthearted, and you need to know that from the jump. I'm sure I'll bleed more and more people every week, but that's kind of the point. If you're going to succeed, and I really do want you to succeed, then you need to know what you're getting into so you can make the best decisions you can. I've been in the trenches a few years now, so I can tell you where the pitfalls are, so you can avoid them if at all possible.
(Hell, I'm still learning these ever-changing rules myself, which means a lot of these won't just be information for you, but reminders for me.)
The more I see some of today's writers virtually shoot themselves in the foot regarding reviews, the more I realized that we have to move The Talk up ahead of schedule. Apparently this is something writers need to know going in and somehow don't, putting their entire careers in jeopardy as a result. So we're going to chat about this a bit today, and it's going to cover quite a bit of ground. I suggest you grab a drink and get comfortable. We're going to be here a while.
Ready? Okay.
REJECTIONS, CRITIQUES AND THE OLD PROCESS
Back in the old days, rejection and critique were built into the old model of publishing. You wrote a first draft? Congratulations. Now try to sell that puppy to an agent who has to get excited about your work. That process took time and effort, with a lot of failure along the way. Even books that turned out to be bestsellers were rejected many times before they finally saw the light of day. It took Agathe Christie five years to land her publishing deal. Dr. Seuss, Louis L'Amour, J.K. Rowling, J.D. Salinger, Stephenie Meyer... all these writers who went on to astonishing financial or critical successes originally had their work rejected by scores of editors and agents. Kathryn Stockett received 60, count 'em, 60 rejections on The Help, which not only went on to be a bestseller BUT an Oscar-winning film. Even the Master (and one of my personal writing heroes,) was well acquainted with rejection, from the time he was a teenager.
“By the time I was fourteen the nail in my wall would no longer support the weight of the rejection slips impaled upon it. I replaced the nail with a spike and went on writing.” - Stephen King
Only the battle-scarred few who persevered through this grueling process made the cut, something Stephen talked about in regards to his father. Pick up on this biography at 8:00 minutes in:
As you can see, rejection worked a little bit like the warped wall on American Ninja Warrior.
You usually don't scale a curved, 14-foot wall on the first go, no matter how physically fit you are. You have to train yourself. For writing, this means you have to brave criticism about your work. You'll still fall on your face from time to time, especially at the beginning. This will bruise your ego instead of your body, but it hurts just the same.
The fear of rejection, and the reality of rejection, facilitated the need for honest, often brutal, critiques. Each rejection was a stepping stone, and every critique was a hand up to get you to the next step. They worked together to help make your book, and you, the best you can possibly be so that you would eventually get that "yes," but also be better prepared for the next step beyond it.
That's what made the pursuit of excellence more important than the sale itself. There was (is) no guarantee of money when you sat down to write a book. Back then, you knew that you had to first convince an agent or publisher to get behind you, which was (is) hard to do for untested writers. Some really good books never saw the light of day because the people who needed to make a living wouldn't risk the gamble. The only way you could get anywhere was with a spectacular book that the right person found at the right time. (Another topic we'll eventually get to: Nobody Knows Anything.)
We all understood that was part of the process. More importantly, we understood it was a good thing overall, even if rejections and critiques suck the big one. And let's be real here... they do suck. Readers and critics will tell you to take it on the chin. Don't publish if you can't handle it. But that shit can hurt, I don't care who you are. Writers spend a lot of time and energy, pouring our little hearts into our books. No one wants to hear anyone speak ill of our babies, which we love unconditionally. Everyone wants that gold star or that A+.
And when you're a writer, you've spent those weeks or months inside your own head, with only your voice to guide you. It's easy to lose perspective along the way. There's a lot of euphoria in the creation process. You finish a particularly grueling chapter or write The End after sleepless nights hopped up on nothing more than caffeine and a dream, you want to celebrate... not decimate.
But you need guidance. We all need guidance. If you're writing for yourself, then you can write the story however you want to. But when you're creating a product for millions of consumers, you need perspective. That will only happen when you have someone who can honestly evaluate your work. (And no, your mom generally doesn't count.)
I'll give you an example of perspective. I started writing when I was 11 years old, after a school writing assignment got me some extra attention. After my dad died just the December before, I ceased feeling special. Writing gave that back to me. I latched onto it with both hands. Over the next ten years, I wrote poetry and short stories and even a novella, most of which was received really well. My novella was critiqued in 1985 by my sweet English teacher, who offered a gentle evaluation of where I was weak and where I could be stronger, but generally, overall, I was praised for my efforts. (I believe that English teacher even wrote something about my writing in my yearbook that year.)
So when I wrote my first book, I wasn't at all intimidated about sending my work out to an agent almost the very instant it was written. I maybe tinkered with it a little bit before I sent it in to a local agency in the town where I lived. When I got the response back, the agent said thanks but no thanks, though she gave me a fully edited version of my manuscript.
I don't think there was one page that didn't have at least five red marks on it. It was *dripping* with blood-red ink. My beautiful baby had been figuratively massacred.
I. Was. Devastated. Here I was thinking that I had something special because everyone in my life had always said as much, yet it failed to stand up to scrutiny from an industry professional. It was a rejection and a critique all in one dream-crushing package. And because I was so new to the harsh realities of this business, it wrecked me. I shelved that book and went back to "real life." It took years for me to understand what kind of gift that agent gave me. She edited an entire manuscript - for free - so that I, a clearly brand-new writer, could improve. She wouldn't have done that had she not seen the potential. By the time I returned to writing, because quitting was never really an option, I had a different outlook on the critiquing process. The truth was that I learned more from that brutally honest critique than I had ever learned from years and years of praise. Her words stuck with me, even to this day. That lesson was priceless. It made me a better, stronger writer.
It was part of the process.
By the time I dipped my tippy-toe in the shark-infested waters of screenwriting in 2002, I was ready to show my work and take my licks. I joined a community called Done Deal, which had a forum where you could post your work and get feedback. It became instantly clear that these guys weren't messing around. They'd tell you what they thought and they didn't really bother assuaging your feelings in the process. Buck up, buttercup. This is a business. If you want to be a pro, you are expected to act like one, especially in a collaborative field where content (and sometimes the writers themselves) can change all the way up to the film's completion. (Sometimes even afterwards. Case in point Pretty in Pink, which changed the entire ending based on the feedback of a test audience. We'll talk about this more next week, when I tackle Trusting Your Gut.)
One notorious DD reviewer took particular joy out of ripping these kinds of pages to shreds. He was a bit of an asshole, but most of the time he was right. So I decided to wade out into the deep water and ask him to read my script. Like the manuscript I sent to the agent, this was my first screenplay. I knew he'd tell me the truth and that was vitally important to me. I can stand a few tender feelings as long as I didn't embarrass myself in front of another agent or producer. You only get one chance to make a first impression, and I wanted mine to sparkle.
And yes, he did pick it apart. One of notes said, "This AGAIN? I may need to take a cyanide pill," when I kept repeating the same scene over and over again. When he was done, however, he told me that I had promise AND talent and to keep going. Like the agent... he invested in the potential, showing me how I could reach it. There are things from his critiques (and yes, I asked him to do more than one,) that I still hear in my head today when I write. Why? Because Critques. Are. How. You. Learn. This is why it's imperative that you find someone who is stages ahead of you in your career to help you. That kind of feedback is the finest education you'll ever get.
One of my husband's favorite sayings is if you don't tell someone what they're doing wrong, how are they going to know? (Which is why he's usually reader #1 for everything I write.) Even if it sucks big, blue donkey balls, you have to make peace with the idea that your work will always, always, need improvement. Art is never completed, merely abandoned. I can't read anything I've written in the past without cringing and tinkering and toying and editing - even those books that have already been published. By the time a digital proof of CHASING THUNDER was sent back to me from the publisher to approve nothing more than the formatting, I was still fiddling with content. This was after it had gone through several passes between the publisher and the editor. With each new book, you learn something new. It's impossible not to implement these lessons with everything new you write or everything old you've written.
So trust me when I tell you that there's no greater asset in your life than to have a long list of honest folks who will keep it real when they read your work. They can shine you up like a new penny if you let them.
People who like you will be a little gentler with you, granted. But in a professional forum, you need to know what the problem is so you can fix it. Shortly after finding Done Deal, I joined Zoetrope, another screenwriting community. I had to review several scripts from other writers in order for my work to be read, which taught me how to be an honest, helpful reviewer. This is another imperative skill to learn before you publish, which is probably why that site operated that way. How can you tell what's wrong in your own work if you can't objectively assess the work of another? If you can't figure out what's wrong, or why it fell flat, or didn't connect with you, how are you ever going to know what's wrong in your own work, where it falls flat, and why it doesn't connect? Taking things apart is one of the ways you figure out how to put something together.
Through this process of giving and accepting these critiques, and a lot of them, you gain that valuable perspective I mentioned earlier. You'll find that not all critiques are created equal, and you don't have to make all the changes suggested to you. The plain truth is that sometimes you can do everything right and the material just won't connect with the reader. That's nobody's fault, really. Different strokes for different folks and all that. The more critiques you get, the more you learn which critiques to keep and which to dismiss, which is why it's so damn critical to put your book through these paces. My general rule of thumb is that your gut already knows where you missed the mark. A good critique will force you to deal with it before you blow it with the fickle reading audience that has far too many books to choose from to indulge second chances. An ineffective critique (meaning, one that you don't necessarily agree with or heed,) will teach you how to shrug your shoulders and declare, "You can't please everybody." Not everyone is going to like what you do or agree with how you do it. *And that's okay.* Part of the growth process is filtering all this information to your benefit.
So what does all this have to do with the review process?
I'm so glad you asked.
NEW BOSS SAME AS THE OLD BOSS
Since the beginning of the self-publishing age, many writers got to skip that brutal obstacle course full of rejections and critiques at the very dawn of their writing careers. They went from newbie to professional in the click of the button, without all the steps that used to get you from point A to point B, and in doing so, prepared you for point Z. Those steps were necessary so that amateur writers had all that glorious perspective by the time the reviews from the public came. Like I said, not all critiques are created equal. Every single writer in the world has had that one review that was so outrageous, you almost had to laugh. In fact, an entire Tumblr was created to highlight the one-star reviews for classic literature. These are some of the greatest novels of our time and even they cannot escape the vitriol of a frustrated reader, who simply wanted to love a book but didn't.
A review simply captures a reader's feelings, whether good or bad. Here's an example of a 1-star review that I wrote for an author who was a long-standing favorite of mine when I was a young adult, but wrote a bestselling book that both disappointed and offended me entirely. As you can see, I minced no words expressing how I felt about it. It wasn't to correct her work, but to simply state what I got out of it as a reader, which wuddn't good.
Unfortunately, that's something that many newly professional writers are missing. They are so ill-equipped for criticism that they see every review as such a life-or-death thing. They abhor low-rated reviews and the readers who post them, because that low-rated review could put off potential new readers, blocking the writer from inching further up the wall. This has led to the whole Authors Behaving Badly phenomenon, where authors and reviewers clash over negative reviews, and the ease and temptation of cyber-bullying rears its ugly head in some ridiculous "them" vs. "us" scenario.
You have to understand something. For readers, nothing has changed. How we get our books to them has undergone a complete revolution, but how they get the books they read hasn't. How they treat the books they read hasn't. What they expect from a book, an author and the reading experience itself, hasn't. When they plunk down hard-earned cash for a book, they expect to enjoy it. If they don't, they have no problem telling all of their friends, same as before. Good word of mouth will make an unknown book soar right up the bestseller charts, while bad word of mouth will push the book further down the slush pile we all must navigate now that anyone can publish a book, whether it's been put through the paces or not. Those first drafts that delusional newbie writers used to send to publishers are now online, right along with a price tag. It's a product now, and consumers are going to state their opinions accordingly, even if they're "wrong," even if they're mean, and even if they're unfair.
A reader review is nothing more than an editorial piece where they can and should write what they think about it. And we, as writers, should encourage them to be honest, even if it's not glowing. In the end, the passion that they demonstrate to even *write* a review is a good thing for you. My whole career started with a timely review from someone who had a lot of influence. And you know what happened? Some of the things that people loved about the book, others hated. It's a numbers game eventually, particularly the better you sell and the more of a splash your book makes, and yes... that attention will draw those who get off on crapping all over something popular just because they can. For some folks, going against the grain is a way to get some attention. You see this more and more if the author becomes a celebrity of sorts, because the fight for their attention is even harder. If ten people tell you your book is wonderful and they love it, and one person says it sucks, who is going to stand out?
It still boils down to preferences and perspective. What leads one to post a 5-star rating would force another to leave a 1-star rating. There are nearly 2300 ratings over on Goodreads for GROUPIE, and 76 of them are 1-stars. Does it hurt? Of course it does. I'm human, made of flesh and bone. But I don't fight them or challenge them... hell, most times I don't even read them. Eventually I came to realize that even a negative review isn't always negative for the book. If someone writes something ridiculous, such as bullying reviews that do little else but attack a writer, savvy buyers will recognize this. Many readers I've seen read the bad reviews first and skip the glowing, 5-star reviews entirely. (Thanks to yet another industry, 5-star reviews are easy to buy and fake without a reader ever even touching a book, which makes current readers distrustful of very highly rated books with no balance.)
They know that not everyone can love the same book, or even rate/review fairly and objectively. But somewhere along the line, we authors have seemed to forgotten it.
Thanks to today's market, we writers put way too much emphasis on the reader review. It's only one small part of what sells a book. What does your cover look like? How does your blurb read? Are your first five or ten pages as killer as they can be? Are there other reviews on the book, to help balance the dialogue? All of those factor into a reader's choice to buy your book. A 1-star rating/review is not the end-all, be-all. It just feels like it, because like I said... everyone wants the gold star. Everyone is looking for the A+.
You're not always going to get it, just refer to the Tumblr I referenced above.
You need to keep it all in perspective. Some writers can't or won't do this. When they see a negative review, they feel the need to engage the reviewer, particularly if the review was nasty. I understand where they are coming from. It hurts to get a bad review. It's scary to get a bad review. We all worry about our ratings. It's impossible not to, considering negative ratings and rankings hurt our overall brand and jeopardize every new sale that we need in order to survive. And by survive, I mean money-in-your-pocket, food-on-your-table, paying-your-electric-bill, keeping-a-roof-over-your-head survival. Our brand is sacred to us. It has to be.
But nothing, NOTHING, torpedoes your brand more than how unprofessionally you act in the face of these reviews. Remember nothing has changed for the reader. They expect you to take it on the chin just like those other writers who have been through the ringer and back simply to get their book published. If you're not used to harsh or brutally honest critiques, it can come as quite the shock to the system to read something harshly written about your work. Like I said before, used to be that you became accustomed to that PRIOR to publication in the olden days. Today, you take it as it comes. And some people are ill-prepared to handle it.
AUTHORS BEHAVING BADLY: A CAUTIONARY TALE
The most egregious example of this occurred last year, when a well-connected new writer wrote an essay for the Guardian on stalking one of her online critics. And when I say stalked, I mean she physically drove to this lady's house and went up to her door. She had the burning need to confront this person face-to-face over what she felt was an unfair review from a cyber-bully. The problem apparently started prior to her book's publication. She had a traditional publisher, (which should have prepared her for what she was about to face, but apparently there were more issues at play with this particular individual.) Said publisher sent preview copies to bloggers and such, a common practice to generate buzz on an upcoming novel. This aspiring novelist decided to go to Goodreads and check out what people were saying, even while, admittedly, she was still in that "post-partum" phase of writing.
If you're unfamiliar, this is when the euphoria from creating your book subsides and crippling doubts and insecurity creep in, whispering the five scariest words any writer can hear, "What if nobody likes it?" You start to second-guess everything, even those things that got you so excited to write the damn book in the first place. Like I said, without a litany of honest feedback, your perspective is skewed. All you hear is your own voice. Well, she decided to add reader voices to the din, which is where it all started to go horribly, horribly wrong.
She claims that most of these reviewers were giving either one-star or five-star reviews, with no real gray area in between. It's kind of hard to keep perspective when you volley between such extremes, especially when you, yourself, have questionable confidence about the material. And then... Blythe happened.
“Fuck this.... I think this book is awfully written and offensive; its execution in regards to all aspects is horrible and honestly, nonexistent... I can say with utmost certainty that this is one of the worst books I’ve read this year, maybe my life.”
Ouch.
That review is lifted right from Hale's own account from the Guardian. If you check Goodreads, Blythe's review now reads simply, "Fuck this." Not sure if she's talking specifically about the book or the troubling events that followed, but it's apt either way. (I haven't read the book in question, but no matter if it was a great book or a sucky book, this reviewer is entitled to her opinion on the matter either way. She's allowed to word it the way she wants and post it for others to read. It's simply an opinion, it doesn't need to be right or wrong.)
Hale was told, repeatedly, not to respond. “DO NOT ENGAGE,” another writer told her. “You’ll make yourself look bad, and she’ll ruin you.” But Hale found that she couldn't let it go. Her curiosity turned into a quest. She began to research (i.e. stalk) Blythe online, finding more and more information on her behavior, which allegedly been called into question before. The whole demented story ends with an admittedly obsessive Hale essentially catfishing what she believed to be a catfisher - a blogger who posted negative book reviews under an assumed identity.
You know how you never hear Stephen King physically tracking down his detractors? He's too busy writing his next book to worry about it. Which is why he has a career spanning more than four decades, with more nearly 60 titles to his credit in books alone. He has perspective.
“If you write (or paint or dance or sculpt or sing, I suppose), someone will try to make you feel lousy about it, that’s all.” - Stephen King
The whole thing was just crazysauce. If Hale's career is "ruined," it wasn't the reviewer's fault. We got to witness someone in their professional infancy, shooting themselves in the foot and wrecking their own brand in the dawn of their own career. Even if Blythe wasn't really who she said she was online, her biggest crime was that she snarked about books she was believed were bad on a website that was created for readers to share their thoughts about books. The fact that Ms. Hale decided to make it an epic holy grail resulting in sketchy, nay criminal, behavior says way more about her character than it does any legion of "bullies" online.
Granted, you can get shaded as an author behaving badly for a variety of reasons, not all of them fair. There are some who expect you to put aside being an individual as part of your brand, so you end up bound and gagged behind your keyboard, chained to your own limitations as a public figure. This can impact participating in social media, where you become an extension of your brand, rather than a person with thoughts, opinions and the permission to miss the mark every once and a while. You'll fuck up sometimes. You're human. It happens. Things are going to hurt, and you're entitled to feel the pain. You just have to be very, very careful how you handle it.
It sucks to get a bad review. It sucks even more if that reviewer has any kind of influence. The only thing that sucks worse is when an author makes a fool of him-or-herself trying to take a stand against something that is as subjective as personal opinion. Over the course of your career, if you're lucky, you'll write several books. Some readers will read them all, some will only read the ones that interest them. But your brand is the umbrella over all of it - and the best way to alienate people who don't even know your name is to stomp your foot and act like a five-year-old, crying about how unfair it is when you get a bad review.
Tell me where in the world it was written that only the people who love your book are the ones who get to review it?
Oh, that's right. New writers have now implemented that rule when they send out their books to promote them. I belong to several reader groups and they have shared this troubling new trend. New writers, or PR reps for new writers, will send out their work with a caveat that if anyone feels the need to write a lower-rated review, to wait until after the book has launched so it won't affect its initial sales.
Usually that opening week or two is the highest sales period for your book, so negative reviews, they feel, will jeopardize those critical sales.
In an industry where only a scant percent make any kind of money doing this, that's a legitimate concern. By the time it reaches the public, however, you're no longer in control of it, and that's the part that so many new writers just don't seem to get. The genie is out of the bottle. Just learn what you can from it and take it to your next book as part of your ongoing pursuit of personal excellence.
THE MORAL OF THE STORY
Keep it all in perspective.
Not everyone is going to love every single book, any more than you love every single book you read. Your odds go up the more polished and perfected a book you produce, which is why honest critique prior to publication is so crucial.
You'll note by this point that I do not use the terms "critique" and "review" synonymously. They are NOT the same things. The critique is for you, usually done before anyone else sees the work. It breaks down the essential workings of the story, from character development to dialogue to structure and pacing. It's written for you to read and to implement, to help you improve and help the book improve. The other is for your potential reading audience, an opinion of a product that is already for sale and available to the public, written for anyone who may be interested in buying it. Though some will say they write these negative reviews to help the writer, most don't think about the author (or their feelings) at all. It's not written for you, but rather written and posted in a safe space to share one's own opinion. One is your business, the other isn't. Once you realize this, you won't have to put such ridiculous (and unrealistic) restrictions on your readers, many of whom will shy away anyway because their voice is being curtailed. What is a review except for another person's opportunity to be heard?
No one owes you a damn thing, even if you offer the book for free. They don't owe you a review at all, that's a courtesy. As a courtesy, how they decide to rank it is completely up to them. How they word it, what they say, all of it is up to them. They're doing you a favor reading your book. Don't be a douche and demand they like it or stay silent. Instead of asking the readers to read down, write UP. Do the hard work to make it the best damn book you can write, and let the chips fall where they may.
You're a professional. Act like one.
You are going to hear no way more than you hear yes in this business, even if it's with a customer's hard-won dollar. If they don't buy your book, guess what? That's a rejection. Sometimes they'll leave scathing critiques of your books thrown in for good measure. Unless you've toughed your hide prior to hitting that publish button, it's a harsh wake-up call.
No writer anywhere, no matter how beloved or successful, avoids this. So your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to make peace with the idea that reviews are none of your business. Emulate the writers who have long-standing careers: put your head down and write your next book.
June 8, 2015
Memories, Meghan, #MeatlessMonday and Me.
In all of my books, I insert little "Easter Eggs." These are the things that are lifted right from my life, either my experiences or preferences, things that you'd recognize are totally me if you know me. I create dozens and dozens of characters, but each, at some point or another, will embody me in some form or fashion. It's a bit like immortality, really. Even decades after I'm gone, a piece of my life experience remains.
I guess I'm not unlike Bender from Futurama, when he was copying himself ad infinitum. Eventually his creations took over the world. But *cough* you know... that's not what I'm trying to do... *cough*.
The most blatant example of this is THE LEFTOVER CLUB, which has my fingerprints all over it. It was a pet project, granted, inspired by READY PLAYER ONE, a sci-fi book heavily influenced by 80s pop culture. I decided I wanted to play around in the past a little bit, so I crafted a sexy romantic romp through the decades where I'd get to stroll down my own memory lane.
Roni, the lead character, channeled me in so many ways it was like she became a Mini-Me. She met her first crush when she was six years old, like me. He would later give her her first kiss on a dare, like me. Her best friend was a gay boy who became her saving grace through the perils of high school and young adulthood, like me. She and her mother moved in with another single mom, which is exactly what happened to me. I got an instant brother who wasn't a brother, a good looking kid that all the girls at our school wanted to claim, and usually befriended me to do it.
From the music she liked to the movies she watched to her thoughts, mannerisms and a few key scenes lifted right from my life or the lives of my friends, this book is a virtual time capsule, for good or bad.
Present-day Roni has a contentious relationship with her teenage daughter, who resents her for the breakup of the family. The funny thing about Meghan is that she usually served as a walking, talking Chatterbox - that's the annoying voice in our head that makes us second-guess everything and doubt or degrade ourselves. I have a loud, obnoxious one that constantly tries to undermine my worth and make me feel like I don't deserve to be happy - and Meghan was that *in spades.*
Imagine my surprise when even she began to take on some of my traits, like passionately following a movement that she thinks can positively impact the world. In that way, she really is my kid. Our kids are reflections of ourselves, only tweaked with the best qualities, to be better than we are. An upgraded version, if you will.
So even if she was a snot on a regular occasion, this was the first scene where she showed me how much promise she had, where she peaked out around the pain and resentment and gave us a hint of who she going to be. She was fearless and passionate for a cause, which anyone can tell you is *totally* me.
Meet Meghan, as she explains why #MeatlessMonday is important.
***
I stopped at the store on my way home. Whole wheat pasta, check. Garden fresh pasta sauce, check. Parmesan cheese and the makings for a light salad, check-check. I stopped short of the wine, simply because the last thing I needed around Dylan was an intoxicant that suppressed any inhibitions.
Inhibitions were good. They were my friends. I was the sexless, dateless, saintly Madonna, after all. And we all knew I could go to Whore in two seconds flat if alcohol or weed was involved. If Meghan was a no-show for the evening, this could prove problematic.
The problem with the Madonna/Whore scenario? The whore part sounded way more fun.
I was flushed with excitement that a man was coming to my home. And not just any man, the man I had dreamed of and lusted after for three-quarters of my life. My tummy jumped with anticipation every time I thought about it. If I closed my eyes, I saw his face, which only got more handsome every damn year.
And maybe it was all because of the trips down memory lane I had taken recently that made everything that had happened between us years and years ago felt as recent to me as yesterday. The temptation loomed large in front of me, like giant red signs proclaiming DANGER! HAZARDOUS CONDITIONS AHEAD! TURN BACK NOW!
This only fueled the devilish excitement even more.
It was six-thirty by the time I got to the house. I dumped everything in the kitchen and raced to my room to change and freshen up my makeup, which is to say I actually put some on.
Thankfully Meghan wasn’t at home or she would have likely looked for an alien pod to explain this new and puzzling behavior.
I was chopping vegetables for my salad when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and Dylan stood on the doorstep, holding yellow roses in one arm and a brown bag with fresh garlic bread and wine(!) in the other.
I smiled shyly at him as I took his generous offerings. “This is sweet, thank you.”
“At last!” he exclaimed dramatically. “She learns how to simply accept a gift. There’s hope for you yet, Ms. Lawless,” he winked.
I laughed and led him toward the kitchen. “I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks.”
The sauce bubbled away while the rigatoni boiled. I preheated the oven for the bread before I pulled some glasses from the cupboard to pour the wine(!). He dipped a wooden spoon in the sauce for a taste. “It’s meatless,” I warned. “I hope that’s okay.”
“I’m the guest,” he grinned. “I’m in your hands.”
His eyes sparkled into mine and I had to look away. “Yeah, do me a favor and don’t say things like that around the kid, okay?”
He chuckled. “Scout’s honor. Will I need my wine before or after the introduction?”
“Both,” I quipped. “In fact, I recommend an I.V. drip.”
“Next time,” he shrugged, as if it was a possibility.
My stomach leapt with stupid excitement, as if I wanted it to be. “Well, you’re in luck tonight. She’s not home yet. Maybe if you’re lucky, she’ll stay out till curfew.”
He leaned against the counter. “You make parenthood seem like a true joy, you know that?”
I laughed. “Parenthood is wonderful. Parenting, that’s a different story. That’s where the hard work comes in. Thankless, grueling work where you really don’t see the fruits of your labor until years later. It’s like waiting for a tree to grow.”
He followed me as I set the table. I put out a place for Meghan, even though I had no guarantee she’d even show up. I could have texted her, but I decided not to. If she showed, she showed. We’d deal with it then.
“Wonder how our moms got through it.”
“They had each other,” I said. “Now I understand why.”
“Who do you have?” he asked softly.
“Me, myself and I,” I answered. He wore a compassionate smile, so I expounded. “It sounds like a pity party but it’s not. This is my life. These were my choices. It’s kind of easier this way, you know? No one to answer to. No one to depend on.”
“No one to control you,” he filled in and I nodded.
“It’s just me. For better or worse.”
“Sounds lonely,” he said.
“No lonelier than a string of one-night-stands that never go anywhere,” I shot back.
“Touché,” he conceded. “I guess we’re more alike than I knew.”
His sentiment was punctuated with a slamming door. I groaned inwardly. Now the fun was truly about to begin. I held up my hand to keep him silent as we listened to Meghan stomp down the hall and slam into her bedroom. I motioned for Dylan to wait in the living room while I went to prepare my daughter for this unprecedented turn of events.
From all the slamming, I could already tell she wasn’t in a particularly receptive mood. I knocked gently on her door.
“What?” I heard her holler from the other side.
“Meghan, we have company,” I said, ripping the bandage right off.
She swung the door open to face me. “Who?”
“An old friend,” I said. “He’s here for dinner.”
“He?” she scoffed. “You invited a man for dinner?”
I shrugged helplessly. There was no way to explain it. “Dinner’s in ten,” I said before I returned to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on the meal.
Surprisingly, Meghan followed. She spotted the wine glasses on the counter and the roses I was putting into a vase for the table. I could almost smell the smoke as her brain struggled to compute all this new data. She followed me into the dining room and then finally into the living room. Dylan stood to face my daughter, who was looking him up and down like he was some foreign contaminant.
“Meghan, this is Dylan Fenn. He’s an old childhood friend.”
“I know who he is,” she snapped. She glanced down at the hand he offered in greeting. She tipped her chin defiantly as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Dad told me all about you.”
“We met once,” he reminded her. “When you were little. You probably don’t remember.”
“It mustn’t have been very memorable,” she sneered. “You’re not as good looking as I might have thought.”
“Meghan!” I hissed under my breath.
Dylan just laughed. “Don’t believe everything you hear,” he added with that charming wink and cockeyed grin.
Meghan seemed perplexed by his reaction. She had landed that barb to wound, but he shrugged it off. Meghan was clearly unsettled by this new development. The teenager shields went up with a roll of her eyes and a bored, “Whatever.”
But rather than squirrel away in her room, she plopped down on the recliner. She wasn’t looking at us directly, but I knew she was keeping track of everything in her peripheral vision.
He turned to me. “I forgot. I also brought something for after dinner.” He reached into his jacket for yet another gift. It was a DVD of Grease, which he handed to me with yet another wink and a knowing smile. “It’s the sing-along version.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Perfect,” I said.
Meghan glanced our direction and I held up the case. “We were in the high school production a gazillion years ago,” he explained. “Your mom would have made one hell of a Rizzo.”
There was yet another roll of her eyes as she glanced away, seemingly bored and annoyed with us, but surprisingly not going anywhere.
Dylan followed me into the kitchen once the timer went off on the oven for the bread. He carried our wine glasses to the table, where Meghan had already made herself at home in the seat in the middle of the other two place settings. He sat at one, I sat at the other.
I passed him the bowl with the pasta, which was now smothered in a sauce rich with vegetables. “So are you a vegetarian?” he asked Meghan. He already knew I wasn’t the herbivore in the family.
“It’s Meatless Monday,” she said, as if he should have been aware.
“Oh,” he said. “What’s that?”
She sighed dramatically. “It’s only, like, a major global movement.”
He raised his eyebrows and waited for her to explain.
“A lot of people won’t commit to a full vegetarian lifestyle. This helps everyone go veggie for a day, which helps the planet and their own personal health.”
“Ah,” he said. It was clear he didn’t buy into the propaganda, so Meghan forged ahead.
“A plant-based diet wards off diseases like cancer, heart disease and diabetes. It’s one of the easiest ways for you to improve your health and live longer.”
He suppressed a smile. “I see.”
His attitude only made her argument more vehement. “Did you know that it takes approximately two thousand gallons of water to produce one pound of meat? If everyone gave up meat for one day a week, we could not only lower our water usage, but reduce our carbon footprint and cut the demand for fossil fuels.”
“So why Monday?” he asked. I knew he was goading her now.
She glared at him. “Why not?”
He toasted me with his glass and that trademark smirk. “Why not?”
I watched as Meghan visibly stewed. He shoveled a spoonful of pasta into his mouth before he gave her a wink and said, “Yummy,” with his mouth full. Again, though her contempt was palpable, she didn’t go anywhere. It was as if she herself wanted to see how it would all play out.
I wondered why I hadn’t invited him over sooner.
***
Meghan's passion for #MeatlessMonday, the global movement to reduce our carnivorous ways by just one day to improve our health and our planet, comes from my own research on dietary health. I've actually gone Vegan for a bit in the past, although with my family, that is impossible to for long periods of time. Which is a shame, because I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I got to experiment with foods in ways I hadn't before. It stretched my creativity and I had a blast. The rest of my family, aside from my younger son, Jeremiah, isn't quite as adventurous. Everyone has their "thing" they don't eat, but most of them live by their meat. My oldest son recently started dating a girl that he took out for movie and dinner. Not knowing if she was a California girl who preferred to go meatless, he asked if she wanted a veggie burger. She looked at him like he'd grown a second head. In her culture, eating meat is a given. Everyone in my family, except maybe for me or possibly Jer, would find it unthinkable to give up meat entirely. For Mondays, though, it's totally doable, even if the fam isn't all that crazy about it. Dylan, in this scene, channels my meat-loving husband, Steven, who hates most vegetables and all fruits. (Yeah, I know. I don't get it either.) Dylan couches his skepticism of #MeatlessMonday with snark and humor, which is absolutely, positively, totally Steven.
To find out more about #MeatlessMonday, click on the official website. Also check out the documentary, FORKS OVER KNIVES, available now on Netflix. (I'll probably be showing this to one of my son's girlfriends tonight. She's a southern girl who loves her food, and she's also the unofficial cook of the family. I figure that we'd get on the same foodie page for health reasons, me for being overweight and her for being underweight.) Also check out my brand-spanking-new #MeatlessMonday Pinterest board, where I've bookmarked several yummy veggie dishes you can consider for #MeatlessMondays of your own.
It's one small change... but sometimes those small changes are all you need.
Happy Monday, everybody. :)
I guess I'm not unlike Bender from Futurama, when he was copying himself ad infinitum. Eventually his creations took over the world. But *cough* you know... that's not what I'm trying to do... *cough*.
The most blatant example of this is THE LEFTOVER CLUB, which has my fingerprints all over it. It was a pet project, granted, inspired by READY PLAYER ONE, a sci-fi book heavily influenced by 80s pop culture. I decided I wanted to play around in the past a little bit, so I crafted a sexy romantic romp through the decades where I'd get to stroll down my own memory lane.
Roni, the lead character, channeled me in so many ways it was like she became a Mini-Me. She met her first crush when she was six years old, like me. He would later give her her first kiss on a dare, like me. Her best friend was a gay boy who became her saving grace through the perils of high school and young adulthood, like me. She and her mother moved in with another single mom, which is exactly what happened to me. I got an instant brother who wasn't a brother, a good looking kid that all the girls at our school wanted to claim, and usually befriended me to do it.
From the music she liked to the movies she watched to her thoughts, mannerisms and a few key scenes lifted right from my life or the lives of my friends, this book is a virtual time capsule, for good or bad.
Present-day Roni has a contentious relationship with her teenage daughter, who resents her for the breakup of the family. The funny thing about Meghan is that she usually served as a walking, talking Chatterbox - that's the annoying voice in our head that makes us second-guess everything and doubt or degrade ourselves. I have a loud, obnoxious one that constantly tries to undermine my worth and make me feel like I don't deserve to be happy - and Meghan was that *in spades.*
Imagine my surprise when even she began to take on some of my traits, like passionately following a movement that she thinks can positively impact the world. In that way, she really is my kid. Our kids are reflections of ourselves, only tweaked with the best qualities, to be better than we are. An upgraded version, if you will.
So even if she was a snot on a regular occasion, this was the first scene where she showed me how much promise she had, where she peaked out around the pain and resentment and gave us a hint of who she going to be. She was fearless and passionate for a cause, which anyone can tell you is *totally* me.
Meet Meghan, as she explains why #MeatlessMonday is important.
***
I stopped at the store on my way home. Whole wheat pasta, check. Garden fresh pasta sauce, check. Parmesan cheese and the makings for a light salad, check-check. I stopped short of the wine, simply because the last thing I needed around Dylan was an intoxicant that suppressed any inhibitions.
Inhibitions were good. They were my friends. I was the sexless, dateless, saintly Madonna, after all. And we all knew I could go to Whore in two seconds flat if alcohol or weed was involved. If Meghan was a no-show for the evening, this could prove problematic.
The problem with the Madonna/Whore scenario? The whore part sounded way more fun.
I was flushed with excitement that a man was coming to my home. And not just any man, the man I had dreamed of and lusted after for three-quarters of my life. My tummy jumped with anticipation every time I thought about it. If I closed my eyes, I saw his face, which only got more handsome every damn year.
And maybe it was all because of the trips down memory lane I had taken recently that made everything that had happened between us years and years ago felt as recent to me as yesterday. The temptation loomed large in front of me, like giant red signs proclaiming DANGER! HAZARDOUS CONDITIONS AHEAD! TURN BACK NOW!
This only fueled the devilish excitement even more.
It was six-thirty by the time I got to the house. I dumped everything in the kitchen and raced to my room to change and freshen up my makeup, which is to say I actually put some on.
Thankfully Meghan wasn’t at home or she would have likely looked for an alien pod to explain this new and puzzling behavior.
I was chopping vegetables for my salad when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and Dylan stood on the doorstep, holding yellow roses in one arm and a brown bag with fresh garlic bread and wine(!) in the other.
I smiled shyly at him as I took his generous offerings. “This is sweet, thank you.”
“At last!” he exclaimed dramatically. “She learns how to simply accept a gift. There’s hope for you yet, Ms. Lawless,” he winked.
I laughed and led him toward the kitchen. “I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks.”
The sauce bubbled away while the rigatoni boiled. I preheated the oven for the bread before I pulled some glasses from the cupboard to pour the wine(!). He dipped a wooden spoon in the sauce for a taste. “It’s meatless,” I warned. “I hope that’s okay.”
“I’m the guest,” he grinned. “I’m in your hands.”
His eyes sparkled into mine and I had to look away. “Yeah, do me a favor and don’t say things like that around the kid, okay?”
He chuckled. “Scout’s honor. Will I need my wine before or after the introduction?”
“Both,” I quipped. “In fact, I recommend an I.V. drip.”
“Next time,” he shrugged, as if it was a possibility.
My stomach leapt with stupid excitement, as if I wanted it to be. “Well, you’re in luck tonight. She’s not home yet. Maybe if you’re lucky, she’ll stay out till curfew.”
He leaned against the counter. “You make parenthood seem like a true joy, you know that?”
I laughed. “Parenthood is wonderful. Parenting, that’s a different story. That’s where the hard work comes in. Thankless, grueling work where you really don’t see the fruits of your labor until years later. It’s like waiting for a tree to grow.”
He followed me as I set the table. I put out a place for Meghan, even though I had no guarantee she’d even show up. I could have texted her, but I decided not to. If she showed, she showed. We’d deal with it then.
“Wonder how our moms got through it.”
“They had each other,” I said. “Now I understand why.”
“Who do you have?” he asked softly.
“Me, myself and I,” I answered. He wore a compassionate smile, so I expounded. “It sounds like a pity party but it’s not. This is my life. These were my choices. It’s kind of easier this way, you know? No one to answer to. No one to depend on.”
“No one to control you,” he filled in and I nodded.
“It’s just me. For better or worse.”
“Sounds lonely,” he said.
“No lonelier than a string of one-night-stands that never go anywhere,” I shot back.
“Touché,” he conceded. “I guess we’re more alike than I knew.”
His sentiment was punctuated with a slamming door. I groaned inwardly. Now the fun was truly about to begin. I held up my hand to keep him silent as we listened to Meghan stomp down the hall and slam into her bedroom. I motioned for Dylan to wait in the living room while I went to prepare my daughter for this unprecedented turn of events.
From all the slamming, I could already tell she wasn’t in a particularly receptive mood. I knocked gently on her door.
“What?” I heard her holler from the other side.
“Meghan, we have company,” I said, ripping the bandage right off.
She swung the door open to face me. “Who?”
“An old friend,” I said. “He’s here for dinner.”
“He?” she scoffed. “You invited a man for dinner?”
I shrugged helplessly. There was no way to explain it. “Dinner’s in ten,” I said before I returned to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on the meal.
Surprisingly, Meghan followed. She spotted the wine glasses on the counter and the roses I was putting into a vase for the table. I could almost smell the smoke as her brain struggled to compute all this new data. She followed me into the dining room and then finally into the living room. Dylan stood to face my daughter, who was looking him up and down like he was some foreign contaminant.
“Meghan, this is Dylan Fenn. He’s an old childhood friend.”
“I know who he is,” she snapped. She glanced down at the hand he offered in greeting. She tipped her chin defiantly as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Dad told me all about you.”
“We met once,” he reminded her. “When you were little. You probably don’t remember.”
“It mustn’t have been very memorable,” she sneered. “You’re not as good looking as I might have thought.”
“Meghan!” I hissed under my breath.
Dylan just laughed. “Don’t believe everything you hear,” he added with that charming wink and cockeyed grin.
Meghan seemed perplexed by his reaction. She had landed that barb to wound, but he shrugged it off. Meghan was clearly unsettled by this new development. The teenager shields went up with a roll of her eyes and a bored, “Whatever.”
But rather than squirrel away in her room, she plopped down on the recliner. She wasn’t looking at us directly, but I knew she was keeping track of everything in her peripheral vision.
He turned to me. “I forgot. I also brought something for after dinner.” He reached into his jacket for yet another gift. It was a DVD of Grease, which he handed to me with yet another wink and a knowing smile. “It’s the sing-along version.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Perfect,” I said.
Meghan glanced our direction and I held up the case. “We were in the high school production a gazillion years ago,” he explained. “Your mom would have made one hell of a Rizzo.”
There was yet another roll of her eyes as she glanced away, seemingly bored and annoyed with us, but surprisingly not going anywhere.
Dylan followed me into the kitchen once the timer went off on the oven for the bread. He carried our wine glasses to the table, where Meghan had already made herself at home in the seat in the middle of the other two place settings. He sat at one, I sat at the other.
I passed him the bowl with the pasta, which was now smothered in a sauce rich with vegetables. “So are you a vegetarian?” he asked Meghan. He already knew I wasn’t the herbivore in the family.
“It’s Meatless Monday,” she said, as if he should have been aware.
“Oh,” he said. “What’s that?”
She sighed dramatically. “It’s only, like, a major global movement.”
He raised his eyebrows and waited for her to explain.
“A lot of people won’t commit to a full vegetarian lifestyle. This helps everyone go veggie for a day, which helps the planet and their own personal health.”
“Ah,” he said. It was clear he didn’t buy into the propaganda, so Meghan forged ahead.
“A plant-based diet wards off diseases like cancer, heart disease and diabetes. It’s one of the easiest ways for you to improve your health and live longer.”
He suppressed a smile. “I see.”
His attitude only made her argument more vehement. “Did you know that it takes approximately two thousand gallons of water to produce one pound of meat? If everyone gave up meat for one day a week, we could not only lower our water usage, but reduce our carbon footprint and cut the demand for fossil fuels.”
“So why Monday?” he asked. I knew he was goading her now.
She glared at him. “Why not?”
He toasted me with his glass and that trademark smirk. “Why not?”
I watched as Meghan visibly stewed. He shoveled a spoonful of pasta into his mouth before he gave her a wink and said, “Yummy,” with his mouth full. Again, though her contempt was palpable, she didn’t go anywhere. It was as if she herself wanted to see how it would all play out.
I wondered why I hadn’t invited him over sooner.
***
Meghan's passion for #MeatlessMonday, the global movement to reduce our carnivorous ways by just one day to improve our health and our planet, comes from my own research on dietary health. I've actually gone Vegan for a bit in the past, although with my family, that is impossible to for long periods of time. Which is a shame, because I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I got to experiment with foods in ways I hadn't before. It stretched my creativity and I had a blast. The rest of my family, aside from my younger son, Jeremiah, isn't quite as adventurous. Everyone has their "thing" they don't eat, but most of them live by their meat. My oldest son recently started dating a girl that he took out for movie and dinner. Not knowing if she was a California girl who preferred to go meatless, he asked if she wanted a veggie burger. She looked at him like he'd grown a second head. In her culture, eating meat is a given. Everyone in my family, except maybe for me or possibly Jer, would find it unthinkable to give up meat entirely. For Mondays, though, it's totally doable, even if the fam isn't all that crazy about it. Dylan, in this scene, channels my meat-loving husband, Steven, who hates most vegetables and all fruits. (Yeah, I know. I don't get it either.) Dylan couches his skepticism of #MeatlessMonday with snark and humor, which is absolutely, positively, totally Steven.
To find out more about #MeatlessMonday, click on the official website. Also check out the documentary, FORKS OVER KNIVES, available now on Netflix. (I'll probably be showing this to one of my son's girlfriends tonight. She's a southern girl who loves her food, and she's also the unofficial cook of the family. I figure that we'd get on the same foodie page for health reasons, me for being overweight and her for being underweight.) Also check out my brand-spanking-new #MeatlessMonday Pinterest board, where I've bookmarked several yummy veggie dishes you can consider for #MeatlessMondays of your own.
It's one small change... but sometimes those small changes are all you need.
Happy Monday, everybody. :)
June 3, 2015
The single most important piece of advice I can give to a new writer... #WriterWednesday:
What many new writers want to know from seasoned, professional writers is simple: "What do I need to do to make it?" There are many paths up the hill, which others have famously traversed with varying degrees of success. So what is going to work for you?
Sadly, that's a question no one can answer but you. Because there are so many paths, there is no one-size-fits-all advice that applies to each and every writer. Some will find their success self-publishing. Some will find their success through more traditional routes. Some will take courses, classes or get a degree, while others will toil tirelessly, pursuing their "hobby" as if was a job, all the while juggling "real" life on the side. They can, and do, cut their path to superstardom while sitting in a trailer, or waiting for the bank to foreclose on their house, turning their unhappy circumstances into the kind of happily ever afters you'd normally find in fiction. These exceptions to the rules have literally changed the rules. So what can you expect?
Well, things have changed, that much is clear. Things are changing. What worked ten years ago, five years ago, or even last year may not work for you in the same way now. So if you want a fast-track to success, no one, and I mean no one, can guarantee you one.
BUT, there is one universal piece of advice that is rock-solid, no matter which path you choose. It applied then, it applies now and it will apply to anything worth doing that you want to accomplish:
Don't be afraid of the work.
"Well, duh, Ginger. Real ground-breaking stuff there. Thanks for nothing."
I know it sounds a little simplistic, but one thing that stymies new writers more than anything is unrealistic expectation, set up mostly by those notable exceptions to the rules. It demonstrates what success might look like, and we all want to jump from where we are to where that is. This is not because of laziness or lack of character, it's because our very identities depend on it. I'm sure you know more than one writer who has told you, "I'm not a writer yet," because they are waiting till they publish/sell/"make it" to claim the title. We're not waiting on a thing to happen. We're waiting to become.
This is not exclusive to writing, by the way. No one wants to be a newbie anything. There's not a lot of glamor in sitting alone in a room, playing basic notes and learning chord progressions to learn the guitar. These are grueling, repetitive tasks that tick painfully by when all you really want to do is get out in front of a legion of screaming fans and shred like a master.
But the bigger the dream, the harder the work, no matter how naturally gifted you may already be.
A good book will sell. A great book will sell more.
So how do you write a great book? Usually you have to write a few stinkers along the way.
I was a new writer once, so I know how tempting it is to believe that we are the exception to the rule. If I tell you that the first book that you write will be the worst book you write, there's a part of you, just like there was a part of me, that screamed, "NO, IT'S NOT." And it's not ego that makes you feel that way, believe it or not. You just want the dream so freaking badly that you need to be the exception to the rule, otherwise it may not happen at all. Nothing is scarier than that.
And sadly, there are enough bottom-dwelling opportunists out there who've created an entire industry promising they can get you there with their top-secret methodology. One of the things that drives me bonkers is to see all those ads that crop up on Facebook from time to time, with all these "sure-fire" tips to make you the next best-selling sensation. You buy their product (usually some form of advice telling you there IS one correct way, one sure way, to get you up the mountain,) and soon you'll be sipping Mai Tais on a beach somewhere, living the glamorous life of published author.
Thing is... that's not what the life of an author looks like.
The books you need to read, the advice you need to take, is from working writers - not those who wouldn't have a best-selling book if they weren't telling you how to write one.
Yes, you can write a book in as little as a month. Yes, you can publish this novel to the masses with a mere click of the button, without having to burst through the gates once fiercely guarded by the big publishing industry. And yes, you may end up being very successful. And that all sounds really easy, certainly easier than it's ever been.
But you can't accomplish any of that if you're not prepared to do the work.
It takes time and energy to write a book. It takes even more time and even more energy to edit that book into something that you can sell. And it takes hustle like you wouldn't believe to get your name out there and fight for that hard-won one-click dollar.
You may share your dreams with a lot of other writers, but what you're willing to do to make that dream happen is all on you. That's why the one-size-all advice just doesn't work. That's why there are so many ways up the mountain. There are so many different writers, who approach their craft and their career in many different ways. The only universal thing binding us all together?
The work. The work to produce a book. The work to sell it. We all do it. There's no way around it. There is no shortcut.
This is not some tropical vacation. If you want to make your career as a writer, you have to go into it knowing that it's still going to be your job, one that will demand far more from you than a normal 9-5.
There's no fast track and no one owes you anything, even a positive, glowing, 5-star review validating all your hard work. (We'll get to THAT topic eventually.)
If you can't find time, passion and tenacity to write, to research, to edit and to market... then no book anywhere, no advice anywhere, is going to make up the difference and turn you into some overnight success. There's a reason for this. It's a simple matter of conditioning. If you have to work hard to become successful, then you are prepared to work hard to keep the success. When you get to the top of that mountain, guess what? There's another freaking mountain, with higher peaks and vistas - and steeper terrain. The life of a working writer IS work. It means writing when you don't feel particularly inspired, having constant deadlines looming over you and barely making them with minutes to spare. It's about being tired and sleep-deprived, while pressing through to keep up with the demand once you edge into the business and make any kind of name for yourself. It's about releasing your book the same week as other writers, and having to do something, anything, to make sure your book doesn't get buried, forgotten or overlooked.
It is a job.
A demanding, crazy, rewarding job... but a job nonetheless, one that naturally weeds out those who aren't cut out for it through its grueling initiation process. And it's a job that guarantees no set wage, so that passion better sustain you where hard, cold cash cannot. You could be making a hundred thousand a year, or you could be making way less than minimum wage. Sales, ultimately, are out of your control no matter what you do. Just because you've written a book doesn't mean someone else is going to buy it. You have to write a book worth reading and then fight, claw, climb your way out of the slush pile to make sure someone knows it exists.
Honestly that second part is way more time-consuming and taxing than the writing part. Most of us didn't start writing a book just so we could be some pesky salesman at the end. (I know I didn't.) The reason I want to make enough money off of selling my books? So I can write more books. In order to do that, I have to train myself to sell my material in a market that is always changing.
Don't be afraid of the work.
One of the downsides about today's publishing environment is that many people haven't really been put through the paces by the time they publish, so there is no realistic basis on which to build your expectations. We've all heard the success stories. Someone publishes a book, next thing you know they are a superstar. And if THEY can do it, why can't we? Because it is as easy as hitting publish after you finally write "The End," or get paid because you have a book on the market, far too many people take for granted that a LOT of work goes into publishing a book that will pay the bills, much less afford you the "luxurious" life of a best-selling author. If you're going into this for a get-rich quick scheme, where you can "play" for a living, you've got the wrong gig.
Back when I got into screenwriting in the early 2000s, one of the unwritten "rules" was that it would take nine screenplays to make a sale. If you were on your first screenplay, that was pretty depressing news. But there was a reason why that "rule" existed. It takes time for a newbie to produce something that can fight for its place among the big boys. You have a lot of learning to do. There's significant trial and error. You need to learn the market. You need to learn the tricks of the trade, to hone your skills, to develop your voice.
Many first books are a collection of other voices/writing styles that the author has funneled into their own story. It's nothing done on purpose, mind you. Our first (and best) education as writers is to read the works of others, so where else are you going to pick up things like voice and style? In our first few books, voice is simply undefined. If you want an example of this, UNDER TEXAS SKIES was the fourth book I wrote, way back in the 1990s. Unlike its predecessors, it wasn't extensively rewritten or changed much from its original content by the time I published. It was my story 100%, but my style was regurgitated from all the books I had read beforehand, heavily influenced by the traditional romances I grew up reading, with all the stumbling, bumbling efforts I made to carve out a style of my own.
Compare it to BACK FOR SECONDS, book #28, and you'll see that the writing style is more streamlined. I know who I am now. I know what I can get away with. I know what my readers love and what they don't love. It's kind of like Tony Stark/Iron Man. If you haven't seen the movie, Tony Stark, a tech genius, was captured overseas and held hostage by terrorists, who wanted him to build them a missile. Instead he built a very rudimentary metal suit to escape. And though it got the job done, he took everything he learned from what *didn't* work from that first prototype to make his suit even stronger.
The only way you're going to know what works or what doesn't is to do the work. Try and fail, then try again. Though it's an impossible suggestion in today's market, I personally think that you should have at least three books under your belt before you hit publish. Then, after you write book three, rewrite books one and two... preferably with the assistance of at least one editor who knows what he or she is doing and one mentor who is strides ahead of you on the journey, who has already turned their craft into a trade.
(By the way, no matter who you are or what you do, the editor and mentor thing is a MUST. You can publish book 1 without having written books two and three, but having objective, critical feedback before you do is non-negotiable.)
Nothing... NOTHING... takes the place of practice. Sure, you could get lucky and sink a basket the very first time you walk out onto the professional ball court. But if you want to keep slam-dunking the ball, you need to put the hours in, learning how to perfect your shot.
But no one wants to hear that. No one wants to hear that you can't be a success right out of the gate. We all want to believe in the wine-and-roses HEA, where sitting on the top of lists, or getting paid more money than you've ever been paid in your life, will validate your journey and confirm your identity at last. Ironic, looking back. The trappings of success are only a small part of this experience. Yes, you can make money. Yes, you can live the life of a rock star at times, meeting fans and being interviewed and treated like you're someone really special because you touched someone's life with your words.
Most of the time, though, you're balls-or-ovaries deep into your next book, because this is a treadmill never stops. After the newness of your brilliant debut wears off, readers will want to know what you're doing next. Sales taper off and you know that you have to get back to the grind, otherwise you're going to make pennies a day if anything at all. The odds of you making enough money to coast for very long post-publication are slim to non-existent. Only 20% of self-published writers make more than $1000 a year, and those that do make that kind of money work very, very hard to do it.
So don't be afraid of the work. Your dream job is still a job.
And if that idea doesn't send you screaming for the hills, congratulations. You've got what it takes to make your dream, any dream, happen.
So let's make it happen. Every Wednesday, standing date, you and me. Let's figure out these crazy, changing rules together.
Sadly, that's a question no one can answer but you. Because there are so many paths, there is no one-size-fits-all advice that applies to each and every writer. Some will find their success self-publishing. Some will find their success through more traditional routes. Some will take courses, classes or get a degree, while others will toil tirelessly, pursuing their "hobby" as if was a job, all the while juggling "real" life on the side. They can, and do, cut their path to superstardom while sitting in a trailer, or waiting for the bank to foreclose on their house, turning their unhappy circumstances into the kind of happily ever afters you'd normally find in fiction. These exceptions to the rules have literally changed the rules. So what can you expect?
Well, things have changed, that much is clear. Things are changing. What worked ten years ago, five years ago, or even last year may not work for you in the same way now. So if you want a fast-track to success, no one, and I mean no one, can guarantee you one.
BUT, there is one universal piece of advice that is rock-solid, no matter which path you choose. It applied then, it applies now and it will apply to anything worth doing that you want to accomplish:
Don't be afraid of the work.
"Well, duh, Ginger. Real ground-breaking stuff there. Thanks for nothing."
I know it sounds a little simplistic, but one thing that stymies new writers more than anything is unrealistic expectation, set up mostly by those notable exceptions to the rules. It demonstrates what success might look like, and we all want to jump from where we are to where that is. This is not because of laziness or lack of character, it's because our very identities depend on it. I'm sure you know more than one writer who has told you, "I'm not a writer yet," because they are waiting till they publish/sell/"make it" to claim the title. We're not waiting on a thing to happen. We're waiting to become.
This is not exclusive to writing, by the way. No one wants to be a newbie anything. There's not a lot of glamor in sitting alone in a room, playing basic notes and learning chord progressions to learn the guitar. These are grueling, repetitive tasks that tick painfully by when all you really want to do is get out in front of a legion of screaming fans and shred like a master.
But the bigger the dream, the harder the work, no matter how naturally gifted you may already be.
A good book will sell. A great book will sell more.
So how do you write a great book? Usually you have to write a few stinkers along the way.
I was a new writer once, so I know how tempting it is to believe that we are the exception to the rule. If I tell you that the first book that you write will be the worst book you write, there's a part of you, just like there was a part of me, that screamed, "NO, IT'S NOT." And it's not ego that makes you feel that way, believe it or not. You just want the dream so freaking badly that you need to be the exception to the rule, otherwise it may not happen at all. Nothing is scarier than that.
And sadly, there are enough bottom-dwelling opportunists out there who've created an entire industry promising they can get you there with their top-secret methodology. One of the things that drives me bonkers is to see all those ads that crop up on Facebook from time to time, with all these "sure-fire" tips to make you the next best-selling sensation. You buy their product (usually some form of advice telling you there IS one correct way, one sure way, to get you up the mountain,) and soon you'll be sipping Mai Tais on a beach somewhere, living the glamorous life of published author.
Thing is... that's not what the life of an author looks like.
The books you need to read, the advice you need to take, is from working writers - not those who wouldn't have a best-selling book if they weren't telling you how to write one.
Yes, you can write a book in as little as a month. Yes, you can publish this novel to the masses with a mere click of the button, without having to burst through the gates once fiercely guarded by the big publishing industry. And yes, you may end up being very successful. And that all sounds really easy, certainly easier than it's ever been.
But you can't accomplish any of that if you're not prepared to do the work.
It takes time and energy to write a book. It takes even more time and even more energy to edit that book into something that you can sell. And it takes hustle like you wouldn't believe to get your name out there and fight for that hard-won one-click dollar.
You may share your dreams with a lot of other writers, but what you're willing to do to make that dream happen is all on you. That's why the one-size-all advice just doesn't work. That's why there are so many ways up the mountain. There are so many different writers, who approach their craft and their career in many different ways. The only universal thing binding us all together?
The work. The work to produce a book. The work to sell it. We all do it. There's no way around it. There is no shortcut.
This is not some tropical vacation. If you want to make your career as a writer, you have to go into it knowing that it's still going to be your job, one that will demand far more from you than a normal 9-5.
There's no fast track and no one owes you anything, even a positive, glowing, 5-star review validating all your hard work. (We'll get to THAT topic eventually.)
If you can't find time, passion and tenacity to write, to research, to edit and to market... then no book anywhere, no advice anywhere, is going to make up the difference and turn you into some overnight success. There's a reason for this. It's a simple matter of conditioning. If you have to work hard to become successful, then you are prepared to work hard to keep the success. When you get to the top of that mountain, guess what? There's another freaking mountain, with higher peaks and vistas - and steeper terrain. The life of a working writer IS work. It means writing when you don't feel particularly inspired, having constant deadlines looming over you and barely making them with minutes to spare. It's about being tired and sleep-deprived, while pressing through to keep up with the demand once you edge into the business and make any kind of name for yourself. It's about releasing your book the same week as other writers, and having to do something, anything, to make sure your book doesn't get buried, forgotten or overlooked.
It is a job.
A demanding, crazy, rewarding job... but a job nonetheless, one that naturally weeds out those who aren't cut out for it through its grueling initiation process. And it's a job that guarantees no set wage, so that passion better sustain you where hard, cold cash cannot. You could be making a hundred thousand a year, or you could be making way less than minimum wage. Sales, ultimately, are out of your control no matter what you do. Just because you've written a book doesn't mean someone else is going to buy it. You have to write a book worth reading and then fight, claw, climb your way out of the slush pile to make sure someone knows it exists.
Honestly that second part is way more time-consuming and taxing than the writing part. Most of us didn't start writing a book just so we could be some pesky salesman at the end. (I know I didn't.) The reason I want to make enough money off of selling my books? So I can write more books. In order to do that, I have to train myself to sell my material in a market that is always changing.
Don't be afraid of the work.
One of the downsides about today's publishing environment is that many people haven't really been put through the paces by the time they publish, so there is no realistic basis on which to build your expectations. We've all heard the success stories. Someone publishes a book, next thing you know they are a superstar. And if THEY can do it, why can't we? Because it is as easy as hitting publish after you finally write "The End," or get paid because you have a book on the market, far too many people take for granted that a LOT of work goes into publishing a book that will pay the bills, much less afford you the "luxurious" life of a best-selling author. If you're going into this for a get-rich quick scheme, where you can "play" for a living, you've got the wrong gig.
Back when I got into screenwriting in the early 2000s, one of the unwritten "rules" was that it would take nine screenplays to make a sale. If you were on your first screenplay, that was pretty depressing news. But there was a reason why that "rule" existed. It takes time for a newbie to produce something that can fight for its place among the big boys. You have a lot of learning to do. There's significant trial and error. You need to learn the market. You need to learn the tricks of the trade, to hone your skills, to develop your voice.
Many first books are a collection of other voices/writing styles that the author has funneled into their own story. It's nothing done on purpose, mind you. Our first (and best) education as writers is to read the works of others, so where else are you going to pick up things like voice and style? In our first few books, voice is simply undefined. If you want an example of this, UNDER TEXAS SKIES was the fourth book I wrote, way back in the 1990s. Unlike its predecessors, it wasn't extensively rewritten or changed much from its original content by the time I published. It was my story 100%, but my style was regurgitated from all the books I had read beforehand, heavily influenced by the traditional romances I grew up reading, with all the stumbling, bumbling efforts I made to carve out a style of my own.
Compare it to BACK FOR SECONDS, book #28, and you'll see that the writing style is more streamlined. I know who I am now. I know what I can get away with. I know what my readers love and what they don't love. It's kind of like Tony Stark/Iron Man. If you haven't seen the movie, Tony Stark, a tech genius, was captured overseas and held hostage by terrorists, who wanted him to build them a missile. Instead he built a very rudimentary metal suit to escape. And though it got the job done, he took everything he learned from what *didn't* work from that first prototype to make his suit even stronger.
The only way you're going to know what works or what doesn't is to do the work. Try and fail, then try again. Though it's an impossible suggestion in today's market, I personally think that you should have at least three books under your belt before you hit publish. Then, after you write book three, rewrite books one and two... preferably with the assistance of at least one editor who knows what he or she is doing and one mentor who is strides ahead of you on the journey, who has already turned their craft into a trade.
(By the way, no matter who you are or what you do, the editor and mentor thing is a MUST. You can publish book 1 without having written books two and three, but having objective, critical feedback before you do is non-negotiable.)
Nothing... NOTHING... takes the place of practice. Sure, you could get lucky and sink a basket the very first time you walk out onto the professional ball court. But if you want to keep slam-dunking the ball, you need to put the hours in, learning how to perfect your shot.
But no one wants to hear that. No one wants to hear that you can't be a success right out of the gate. We all want to believe in the wine-and-roses HEA, where sitting on the top of lists, or getting paid more money than you've ever been paid in your life, will validate your journey and confirm your identity at last. Ironic, looking back. The trappings of success are only a small part of this experience. Yes, you can make money. Yes, you can live the life of a rock star at times, meeting fans and being interviewed and treated like you're someone really special because you touched someone's life with your words.
Most of the time, though, you're balls-or-ovaries deep into your next book, because this is a treadmill never stops. After the newness of your brilliant debut wears off, readers will want to know what you're doing next. Sales taper off and you know that you have to get back to the grind, otherwise you're going to make pennies a day if anything at all. The odds of you making enough money to coast for very long post-publication are slim to non-existent. Only 20% of self-published writers make more than $1000 a year, and those that do make that kind of money work very, very hard to do it.
So don't be afraid of the work. Your dream job is still a job.
And if that idea doesn't send you screaming for the hills, congratulations. You've got what it takes to make your dream, any dream, happen.
So let's make it happen. Every Wednesday, standing date, you and me. Let's figure out these crazy, changing rules together.
June 1, 2015
#MCM - The Rocker Edition
Okay, we all know by now I have an unabashed passion for rockers. There's nothing quite as sexy as a hot guy who can sing, especially one who straddles that line between brash bad boy and the sentimental romantic. He's a rebel from top to toe, but can capture your heart with one softly crooned lyric.
Oh, my heart.
It started in the 1970s, courtesy of reruns of the Monkees. Yes, I'm old enough to proclaim, like many a female in my generation, that Davy Jones was my first #ManCrush. I mean, come on. How adorable is he?
When I was nine, he was my ideal. Dark, floppy hair, soulful brown eyes and that accent? Please. I was a puddle of fourth-grade girly goo. Daydream believer, indeed.
My love for him was so much of a part of my childhood that when he passed, my best friend immediately contacted me when he got the news just to see if I was okay. And it was a heartbreaking loss. You never forget your first.
Eventually my tastes evolved when I discovered FM radio, where rockers sang about more mature topics. In 1979, I heard this song, which began my Groupie era in earnest.
I can't tell you what it was exactly about Steve Perry that hooked me. Sure he had all that gorgeous hair, which became a long-standing fascination from the time I was 11. And Lord only knows what those eyes did to me (always, ALWAYS the eyes.)
Maybe it was the fact he was so exotic and different, and I really like different. That voice, tho. Sweet as sugar. Smooth as silk. To. This. Day, if I want to feel better about anything, I can turn on a Steve Perry tune and my mood elevates, my stress dissipates and life is just generally better. My guys have Journey at the ready for those Just-In-Case-of-PMS emergencies.
(3:58 into the above video and I'm buttah. BUTTAH, I tell you. Stay awhile? I'll stay forever. Just ask anyone who has ever wanted to be rid of me.)
Loved him then. Love him now. There ain't no shame in my Groupie game.
In the early 80s, I discovered Prince courtesy of the 1999 album. You want to talk about sex? This guy was walking, talking, *oozing* sex. He sang about naughty things, dirty things... things that piqued the interest of a girl fast-tracked to bypass sweet, innocent puppy love altogether and leap headlong into the fine art of seduction. As anyone who loves them will attest, no one will get you there like a rocker.
There are so many songs I could put here... Little Red Corvette, Head, Jack U Off, International Lover, Kiss, Gett Off (my favorite.) But it's Prince, and YouTube doesn't tell Prince what to do, he tells YouTube what to do.
Prince puts the SWAG in swagger.
Thirty years later and he's still hawt enough to reduce grown women to teenagers, even if he left a lot of his dirty rocker ways in the 80s where they thrived.
Growing up in the 1980s, it was a good time to be a groupie. Before the rise of the Boy Bands, the Rocker Daze of the 80s gave us full-grown men who knew what they were doing when they'd smirk in the camera. Our guys were both pretty and dirty, with a healthy dose of the aforementioned swagger. (And oh, the hair...)
Needless to say, as a wild 80s child, rockers became my kryptonite. It was so bad that even if someone wasn't necessarily known for singing per se, if they could randomly break into song with smirk n' swagger, I was a goner.
Still holds true, actually...
Truth is, I didn't get on board with American Idol until they finally unearthed a long-haired, smirking rocker boy who could, and did, sing actual rock songs.
Yes, I have a problem. The first step is admitting it.
In fact, the older I get, the dirtier I like 'em. In the 90s and 2000s I graduated to heavily tattooed, alternative rockers...
So the question isn't why I wrote a rock star romance, where the average girl gets the dirty, sexy rocker for lots of hot sex and years of angsty back and forth, it's why did it take me so long? (32 years, y'all. 32 years.)
This is my Vanni, who was heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeavily influenced by almost every guy presented in today's #ManCrushMondy #ManCandyMonday blog.
You can meet him, if you haven't already, in GROUPIE, available free at AMAZON, B&N, and iTunes.
If you love Vanni but haven't yet read the FIERCE saga or the SOUTHERN ROCKERS saga, whatcha waiting for? Not only do you get more glimpses of his Italian hotness, you get to meet Jace...
... and Jonah...
FIERCE and SOUTHERN ROCKER BOY are also free everywhere.
So Happy Monday, y'all ... and rock on.
Oh, my heart.
It started in the 1970s, courtesy of reruns of the Monkees. Yes, I'm old enough to proclaim, like many a female in my generation, that Davy Jones was my first #ManCrush. I mean, come on. How adorable is he?
When I was nine, he was my ideal. Dark, floppy hair, soulful brown eyes and that accent? Please. I was a puddle of fourth-grade girly goo. Daydream believer, indeed.
My love for him was so much of a part of my childhood that when he passed, my best friend immediately contacted me when he got the news just to see if I was okay. And it was a heartbreaking loss. You never forget your first.
Eventually my tastes evolved when I discovered FM radio, where rockers sang about more mature topics. In 1979, I heard this song, which began my Groupie era in earnest.
I can't tell you what it was exactly about Steve Perry that hooked me. Sure he had all that gorgeous hair, which became a long-standing fascination from the time I was 11. And Lord only knows what those eyes did to me (always, ALWAYS the eyes.)
Maybe it was the fact he was so exotic and different, and I really like different. That voice, tho. Sweet as sugar. Smooth as silk. To. This. Day, if I want to feel better about anything, I can turn on a Steve Perry tune and my mood elevates, my stress dissipates and life is just generally better. My guys have Journey at the ready for those Just-In-Case-of-PMS emergencies.
(3:58 into the above video and I'm buttah. BUTTAH, I tell you. Stay awhile? I'll stay forever. Just ask anyone who has ever wanted to be rid of me.)
Loved him then. Love him now. There ain't no shame in my Groupie game.
In the early 80s, I discovered Prince courtesy of the 1999 album. You want to talk about sex? This guy was walking, talking, *oozing* sex. He sang about naughty things, dirty things... things that piqued the interest of a girl fast-tracked to bypass sweet, innocent puppy love altogether and leap headlong into the fine art of seduction. As anyone who loves them will attest, no one will get you there like a rocker.
There are so many songs I could put here... Little Red Corvette, Head, Jack U Off, International Lover, Kiss, Gett Off (my favorite.) But it's Prince, and YouTube doesn't tell Prince what to do, he tells YouTube what to do.
Prince puts the SWAG in swagger.
Thirty years later and he's still hawt enough to reduce grown women to teenagers, even if he left a lot of his dirty rocker ways in the 80s where they thrived.
Growing up in the 1980s, it was a good time to be a groupie. Before the rise of the Boy Bands, the Rocker Daze of the 80s gave us full-grown men who knew what they were doing when they'd smirk in the camera. Our guys were both pretty and dirty, with a healthy dose of the aforementioned swagger. (And oh, the hair...)
Needless to say, as a wild 80s child, rockers became my kryptonite. It was so bad that even if someone wasn't necessarily known for singing per se, if they could randomly break into song with smirk n' swagger, I was a goner.
Still holds true, actually...
Truth is, I didn't get on board with American Idol until they finally unearthed a long-haired, smirking rocker boy who could, and did, sing actual rock songs.
Yes, I have a problem. The first step is admitting it.
In fact, the older I get, the dirtier I like 'em. In the 90s and 2000s I graduated to heavily tattooed, alternative rockers...
So the question isn't why I wrote a rock star romance, where the average girl gets the dirty, sexy rocker for lots of hot sex and years of angsty back and forth, it's why did it take me so long? (32 years, y'all. 32 years.)
This is my Vanni, who was heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeavily influenced by almost every guy presented in today's #ManCrushMondy #ManCandyMonday blog.
You can meet him, if you haven't already, in GROUPIE, available free at AMAZON, B&N, and iTunes.
If you love Vanni but haven't yet read the FIERCE saga or the SOUTHERN ROCKERS saga, whatcha waiting for? Not only do you get more glimpses of his Italian hotness, you get to meet Jace...
... and Jonah...
FIERCE and SOUTHERN ROCKER BOY are also free everywhere.
So Happy Monday, y'all ... and rock on.
May 18, 2015
The Romance Genre and that dirty, four-letter word: SMUT.
Earlier a fellow author posted on Facebook how bothersome it was that the entire romance genre has been relegated to dismissive, derogatory terms like "smut." This takes all the wonderful stories we read and lands them all in the same trashy heap as erotic fiction, which has the sole purpose of being sexually titillating - even if, especially if, it's ridiculous. You can see how this might bother authors who don't write those types of books, but ultimately, thanks to nothing more than simple laziness, get tossed in together as if we're even remotely the same.
Usually I never let what other people say about my genre bother me much. I've been reading romance novels for 35 years, which is almost as long as I've been watching soap operas. I love chick flicks, I cry at sad movies, I read (and write) chick lit. I enjoy it, and I don't need (and never have needed) the permission or acceptance of others to do so. I'm firmly in the "Live and let live" camp. As long as you're not hurting another living creature, the world is big enough for all preferences.
Case in point, I still listen to Barry Manilow and disco music. I still watch American Idol for fuck's sake. Like I care what people have to say about what I like. I like it. Nuff said.
But this is a question I feel is worth examining, not because of what is being said, but why it's being said. What is being said is inaccurate and doesn't tell the whole story. At worst it's annoying, but we can work around it. There are some people we're never going to win over, and that's perfectly fine. Some of our stories demand a little more open-mindedness, and I, for one, would much rather an easily offended reader who might find my content objectionable skip gaily past. It's saves time for everybody.
Why it's said...., well. That's indicative of a much larger problem, not only in the publishing world but in society in general, one that starts the minute someone tries to shame us for reading "smut," and we feel the immediate need to apologize, explain or deny that we enjoy reading about sex.
Oh yeah. I'm going there. Buckle in, kids. And keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times.
The idea of "romance" fiction being smut isn't necessarily a new idea. I present this clip from the classic TV sitcom, Friends, where noted manwhore Joey finds one of Rachel's racy novels...
If I remember correctly, there's a similar episode of Three's Company, where the girls had some sort of dirty reading material and felt like they had to hide it as well, with another noted manwhore, Jack Tripper, finding it and teasing them because of it. It's a recurring theme in comedy. Good girls like something naughty, so naughty boys use it to tease them. Hilarious! It's funny because it's true... amiright??
Dismissing romance novels as smut has been the standing joke of it forever, but why?
Most who would be so derisive are no fans of the genre, so it's not like they have dozens of "smutty" romance novels steaming up their Kindle at any given time. Likely they've read passages only, which have been ripped from the pages and yanked out of context to mock the way it is written. Admittedly, these passages would probably never win some authors any awards. But why would we take this criticism seriously anyway? For every book that talks about his swollen manhood and her heaving bosoms, there are dozens more that eloquently examine the nature of love, of life, of motherhood, of childhood, of innocence and debauchery with the finesse of a female scribe. These are timeless stories that have been studied throughout the ages, beloved for generations, conquering every form of media, and woven lovingly into our collective consciousness.
As much sex as there might be in a romance novel, the readers generally take away from it all of the other stuff we put in there to craft a story or plot. My latest novel, BACK FOR SECONDS, was hands-down the raciest story I've written yet, with scenes that surprised even me. But the readers were far more interested in my heroine's journey out of a loveless marriage and into an empowering relationship with a man who not only wanted and respected her, but exalted her.
Not bad for "smut," if I do say so myself.
Conversely, I don't recall seeing any passages ripped from the sometimes equally silly sci-fi, fantasy or horror novels for collective mockery in the same way romance is, even if they're poorly written. In fact, for the purpose of this article, I Googled both "worst passages in romance novels" and "worst passages in sci-fi," and here's how that shook out:
So the issue isn't whether or not romance is smut. We can all agree "smut" is a very subjective term, and those who think that lowly of smutty material in romance (or movies, or TV) aren't likely consumers of it anyway.
The problem is when you classify female writers/readers under the heading of "smut," it's inherently offensive.
But why?
There's a few of things going on here, actually. The first of which is the legitimacy of sex, culturally speaking. Let's peek into another industry to provide contrast.
Think of all the movies you've seen that involve sex scenes, even graphic ones. Generally they are still regarded as "film" rather than the more shameful "porn." This is regardless of the overall quality, and regardless if the story itself is driven by sex and had scads of gratuitous nudity.
Some performances even bring home a shiny gold statue chock-full of Hollywood validation.
What's the difference, really, between award-winning, critically acclaimed film and the much derided romance genre?
Well, I have an inkling. Allow me to zero in on the main culprit:
(What? It's a cloud, a chandelier, some eggs and a dog. What do YOU see? You smut expert, you.)
Okay, so I'm not exactly subtle. But let's face it, the presence or absence of one specific body part determines quite a bit in the discussion of how sex is portrayed in the media. Let's refer back to the popular movies that feature sex shamelessly, versus books that dare to do the same. The movie industry is one where men outnumber women 5 to 1, and most operate under some antiquated notion that men buy more tickets than women. That's why everyone is *shocked* when female driven vehicles are successful, as if it changes the dialogue in some way. (The dialogue IS changing, all you have to do is open your ears and listen.) Smart filmmakers are ahead of the curve here, but there's still a lot left to be done.
In contrast, consider that in the romance novel industry, female novelists outnumber men, just like female readers outnumber the men. So why are our rules any different? Why is the product immediately assumed to be inferior for something that is produced by and marketed to women, despite the staggering success of it? Lifetime TV is lampooned endlessly for the "schlock" they produce. Meanwhile we're on Sharknado #3, where the laughable dialogue and cheesy graphics are considered a form of legitimate entertainment.
It still hasn't made a dent in the fortune created by Fifty Shades of Grey, which took women's fiction and sex to a whole other level...
...and is probably the biggest example of what many might consider "smut," given it's kinky bent. I'm *pretty* sure Ms. James doesn't really care one way or the other if people look down on what she writes. Girlfriend got paid and then some, and is currently living the life of her dreams.
You know... kinda like what might happen to a heroine inside of a romance novel.
So you'll forgive me if I don't feel the need to explain myself or apologize if something I write shocks or offends or is considered obscene, especially since I'd be expected and permitted to seek out, think about, chase after, lust after, mourn over sex in all its stages if I only had a penis. (There's a country song in there somewhere. Someone call Amy Schumer. Let's make "If I Only Had a Penis" happen.)
So I write smut. Who cares? It's not like, oh, I dunno... I'm going to face any real-life consequences for writing something lascivious, right? It's not like I'm going to have to write it under a pen name for fear of losing my job if I'm "outed." It's not like anyone might ask me to take a psychiatric test or anything. I mean really! How silly would that be?
(You'll note, by the way, that those examples include *female* writers who have been "outed" for their debauchery. You see how we keep circling back to the same thing? Women are nurturers, for goodness sake. I mean, a teacher writing erotic fiction? Don't let her near the children!!! They might grow up to think women actually like sex or something! Oh the humanity!)
In our culture, if you hear anything sexual from a man, there's an implied legitimacy, even if it's something ridiculous like Porky's. Smut, schmut. No one cares how raunchy something is that is made for men by men. Two words for you: Seth MacFarlane. That guy produces some of the most offensive content you can dream up, and he's about to take home the GENIUS award without one hint of irony. No apology needed, guys being guys, society's status quo.
*Ahem*
You think Seth cares if you find his material offensive? He has the right to produce the kind of content he wants, because - as a man - he has a legitimate voice in the media. People laugh at Family Guy, which regularly pairs the dog Brian sexually with "human" females. If you lambast him for "beastiality," he'd likely laugh and say, "Calm your tits. It's just a cartoon."
Exactly. So why should I internalize any shame whatsoever writing about sexual relationships between two consenting adults who happen to be FICTIONAL?
Oh right. It's smut. I keep forgetting. It's not a word I use very often. I prefer the term "ladyporn." For women, who typically need an emotional connection for sexual fulfillment, the words contained inside a typical romance novel are more about heart than heat. Whether they're having sex from page one or they don't have sex until the end of the book, our "money shot" is the fact that these two people can actually get together and be happy - not just get together and get off. Romance novels and erotica are two very different things and operate under very different rules, with erotica usually winning the smut competition handily.
{See what I did there?)
And granted, for those who aren't particularly turned on by graphic sex descriptions (or any sex descriptions) in their books, modern romance may indeed fall under the heading of smut for them. Let's face it, smut is in the eye of the beholder. With the liberal umbrella of "romance," there are all kinds of stories with all kinds of heat levels, from sweet G-rated virginal romance to steamy X-rated orgy madness with vampires, werewolves and other creatures of the night.
(I was going to insert the video of Susan Sarandon in the Rocky Horror Picture Show singing "Toucha-Toucha-Touch Me," but couldn't find a decent copy. I did, however, find the official Glee version - you know, that show they made for teens? So... make of that what you will...)
Suffice it to say, I don't give a crap if someone calls my books smut, for the very same reason I call myself a bitch or a slut. No one gets to define me but me, and just because someone else thinks it's bad or inappropriate, that doesn't mean I have to agree. It's only shameful if I accept that shame, and I, wholeheartedly, do not. I know what I write. I don't need to justify or defend it. Call it smut if you want. As long as you're talking about it, it's a win/win.
Admittedly there is a certain standard of obscenity to which we all sort of adhere, and that's where a lot of this shame stems from. This is the second part of the problem: permissiveness. Our "smut" standards, when broken down and examined, still leave women with the short end of the stick... metaphorically speaking. The rules are just different all the way down the line, aren't they? It's a sad truth that generally women have much more to prove before their voice can be heard over the voices of men, because our patriarchal society must grant us permission to be included. The reason that we're still fighting for legitimacy is because it is simply not being granted, often by virtue of sexual stereotypes.
I've broached this topic before in Legitimate Fiction vs. "Genre" Fiction, because unfortunately - as a female writer - I'm keenly aware that it's a reality of my business. Frankly speaking, sexism in the publishing world is a maggot-infested pile of misogynistic dog shit, and who fights misogyny?
THIS girl.
Yes, I am a feminist who writes romantic fiction, which means I'm going to approach my writing with all the audacity of a man, no permission required. I write what I write for a lot of reasons. The most obvious reason is that I love the chase part of falling in love, which is usually fraught with sexual tension. It's exciting and thrilling and intense and passionate, and thanks to romance novels I get to feel that every single time I write.
It's awesome.
I get to fall in and out of love/lust all the time. You think I'm the least bit bothered if someone considers it obscene? Homelessness, poverty, children dying in third-world countries because they don't have access to food or water, injustices where people are beat down for the color of their skin or who they happen to love... that is my definition of obscene. Creating and reading a little bit of ladyporn? That's just good, harmless fun.
It's kind of funny to me how much people still look down on the romance genre, given it makes more money than sci-fi, fantasy, horror and thrillers (i.e. "male" dominated genres) combined. By most standards, this makes it a huge success story. It makes more money and sells more books, and yet the entire genre is still treated like the dirty little secret of literature, which is generally bogus anyway. The simple term 'romance' is a very large umbrella for a great many, very different, books, whether they conform to specific genre convention or not. It's sort of become the catch-all phrase for any stories that deal with relationships or women in general, so it should go without saying that all romance is not created equal, from the great classics to modern bestsellers. You can have EL James on the same bookshelf as Danielle Steel, even if the "heat" or "smut" level is vastly different. Romance, really, captures the whole of the human experience, which is why I love to read it and I love to write it.
BUT... and here's the rub... because it's *for* women and usually written *by* women, it's usually ridiculed by default. I know that may seem like a huge reach for some of you, but allow me to present the case of Jonathan Franzen vs. Jennifer Weiner. Both are successful writers who have written about sex, but guess which one will get shamed for it? Go on. Guess. We'll wait.
Mr. Franzen has admitted that he would never read Weiner's work, but that doesn't really stop him from disparaging it. Sure, some romance/chick lit may be laughable and silly, something one might want to mock and ridicule, but that's not the whole story. Not by a long shot. Like I said, romance covers almost every single story of a woman who must navigate affairs of the heart, whether she's pursuing one specific relationship (which is the genre rule for romance,) or whether it captures the story of a woman's entire life, where she's loved and lost more than one man (or woman, whatever floats her boat,) where her entire objective isn't to partner with anyone, but to live a grand adventure told best in sweeping saga style.
Is Scarlett O'Hara's story one of a star-crossed love affair with Rhett Butler? Or is it the story of one woman's survival of the Civil War? It's all a matter of our third, most important issue to address: empowerment.
In a romance novel, the female is the hero, the one who fights for and usually gets what she wants, and that's a scary scenario for those who ultimately fear female empowerment. The best way to fight back against that is to shame it back into the shadows where it belongs.
Despite how impossible it is to determine the worth of all romance by the lowest hanging fruit on the tree (a very low standard by which to judge, if you ask me,) we writers and lovers of the genre are subtly shamed to apologize, or at least be embarrassed, for what we read. If a book written by a man, one that includes a story about a couple, that happens to have sex, it's not "smut" - it's literature. If a woman writes a book that includes the story about a couple, which happens to have sex, it's called a "bodice-ripper" and derided as lesser fiction because of it. They're naughty to have written it, we're naughty to read it. Hilarity ensues.
Legitimacy, permissiveness and empowerment are all trampled underfoot of a much bigger problem in our society. Women are not allowed to experience sex as part of their natural lives like men, including the embrace or experimentation of it, to figure out what we like or don't, what kinds of partners (yeah, I said PARTNERS) we might enjoy, or if we find pleasure or not. The statistical average for a woman to orgasm in sex is about 40%. For men? A *wee* bit higher. **COUGH**98% of the time.**COUGH** And that's because we buy into this idea that for men sex is a necessity. For women, it's more of an abstract.
A man orgasms, we know beyond a doubt he's crossed the finish line. (Hence why it's called "the money shot.") For a woman, everyone is chasing after the Female O like it's Nessy or Big Foot, without any real idea A.) how to get there or B.) what it would look like once they got there.
You could, you know, just read a book or something. We're not that hard to figure out, and we're certainly not that hard to get over the finish line. A lot of the time, guys, the weak link is you. I guarantee that "smut" she's reading gets her there *every* time, not just 40% of the time.
Could be why it's a billion-dollar business. Just sayin.
Society has bought into this bullshit that sex is a duty to make a woman's oversexed man happy, but it's not something she's ever going to seek out for herself. Inevitably, whether before marriage or after, the man is automatically cast in the role of pursuer. He wants it more than you, so women must be coerced/seduced to unleash the "wild" side, which is something we must then hide from the world lest it affect our "virtue." This is a recurring theme in romance, actually, which is why the appeal of the Alpha Male is so great. That older billionaire who takes the virginal ingenue in hand and guides her to be his lover is a successful plot device for a reason. It is a metaphor, really, to "liberate" that part of ourselves in the most socially acceptable way possible. Acting on sex just because you want it? Unthinkable! Seduced into a sexy love affair? Now we're talking.
Like I said, I've been reading romance novels since 1980. I'm used to the rogue taking the lady in hand, opening her up to sensual delights under the permissive heading of fated love. In the 70s, this resulted in the rape storyline on General Hospital. It was the only way to allow a young, married woman to "give in" to her desires for another man and be forgiven for it. Forty years later, we still prefer to believe that good girls, virtuous wives and saintly mothers simply do not talk about it, ponder on it, wish for it, drool over it or - gasp - seek "smut" out on purpose. We're not supposed to prioritize it, ladies, because sex is just something we put up with to go to bed early.
Is it any wonder that a female-dominated genre built upon romantic fantasy would be filled to the brim with sex, and ridiculously successful as a result? Come on. Really? Within the pages of a romance novel is the only safe place that women can unleash that inner tigress, living out naughty fantasies without any fear of society regarding her poorly because of it. She reads smut, how cute. She LIVES smut? What a whore.
Tell the nice people how we feel about that other four-letter s-word, Pink.
See that's where that sad little word comes from. Smut is meant to shame you for having the audacity to like sex outside of its accepted social paradigm. Believe it or not, even now, people are still surprised that women like sex. That makes the whole idea of sexual exploration, even if it comes within the safe pages of a book, "dirty," "trashy" or "pornographic" by default. Calling a book you've never read "smut" is nothing more than a shaming device.
I mean, it's a fairly benign word overall. From a Google search: ""Smut" is a slang word - most common in Britain - for any form of media that is considered profane or offensive, particularly with regards to sexual content."
To which I say... so what?
For men, having sex is almost a rite of passage. They get to have scores of it, seek it out, talk about it, write about it, and we somehow all buy, "Oh, it's because he's a man." Anything he writes, then, is forgiven for including sex in their books. It's all part of the experience. For women, sex - for better or worse, usually worse - defines our identity. We're either a good girl or a slut, with no wiggle room in between. It's how our character is rated, not just among men - but other women as well. Our value depends on how we regard sex. It's a honking pile of manure given that the second part of that is that we're limited as individuals anyway, made to feel incomplete unless we land a man, preferably ONE, to give up our precious virtue with complete social acceptance. (And it has to be done in the context of love, or it's just wrong. Period.) Everything is sold to us under that heading, from the time we're little kids (Disney princesses) to adulthood. (i.e. ANY magazine sold in the grocery store.)
In the end, calling a romance novel "smut" is another form of slut-shaming based on the limited standards of someone else. There's sex in a book? OMG! You LIKE to read those scenes? OMG! How unladylike! How trampy. It's trashy and, by default, so are you. (smut=slut)
To which I say again... so what?
If I do nothing else in my books, I hope to further the idea that it's only how we perceive ourselves that matters. We don't need to fight for legitimacy - we exist and we have a right to say what we're going to say. We don't have to wait around for permission to enjoy the things we like, and we certainly don't have to hand over our empowerment to anyone else just because they think we should.
Basically it matters as much or as little as you decide to let it. You get to choose.
I'm out to write a story. The books I read, much like the books I write, may have sex in them, because life has sex in it, and every single writer writes about life. But my books won't *only* have sex in them, and anyone who has read anything I've written knows the difference. Yeah it's unfair, even sexist, that these stories I have crafted with care, to be significant, not just scintillating, are going to be lumped into a category by those who are too ignorant to know the difference or too lazy to figure it out.
Therein lies the key.
If someone uninformed and small-minded mislabels something you love, always consider the source. Then tip your chin, write/read what you want and be a kick ass, empowered, unapologetic chick anyway. Permission: Granted.
Sing us out, Barry.
Usually I never let what other people say about my genre bother me much. I've been reading romance novels for 35 years, which is almost as long as I've been watching soap operas. I love chick flicks, I cry at sad movies, I read (and write) chick lit. I enjoy it, and I don't need (and never have needed) the permission or acceptance of others to do so. I'm firmly in the "Live and let live" camp. As long as you're not hurting another living creature, the world is big enough for all preferences.
Case in point, I still listen to Barry Manilow and disco music. I still watch American Idol for fuck's sake. Like I care what people have to say about what I like. I like it. Nuff said.
But this is a question I feel is worth examining, not because of what is being said, but why it's being said. What is being said is inaccurate and doesn't tell the whole story. At worst it's annoying, but we can work around it. There are some people we're never going to win over, and that's perfectly fine. Some of our stories demand a little more open-mindedness, and I, for one, would much rather an easily offended reader who might find my content objectionable skip gaily past. It's saves time for everybody.
Why it's said...., well. That's indicative of a much larger problem, not only in the publishing world but in society in general, one that starts the minute someone tries to shame us for reading "smut," and we feel the immediate need to apologize, explain or deny that we enjoy reading about sex.
Oh yeah. I'm going there. Buckle in, kids. And keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times.
The idea of "romance" fiction being smut isn't necessarily a new idea. I present this clip from the classic TV sitcom, Friends, where noted manwhore Joey finds one of Rachel's racy novels...
If I remember correctly, there's a similar episode of Three's Company, where the girls had some sort of dirty reading material and felt like they had to hide it as well, with another noted manwhore, Jack Tripper, finding it and teasing them because of it. It's a recurring theme in comedy. Good girls like something naughty, so naughty boys use it to tease them. Hilarious! It's funny because it's true... amiright??
Dismissing romance novels as smut has been the standing joke of it forever, but why?
Most who would be so derisive are no fans of the genre, so it's not like they have dozens of "smutty" romance novels steaming up their Kindle at any given time. Likely they've read passages only, which have been ripped from the pages and yanked out of context to mock the way it is written. Admittedly, these passages would probably never win some authors any awards. But why would we take this criticism seriously anyway? For every book that talks about his swollen manhood and her heaving bosoms, there are dozens more that eloquently examine the nature of love, of life, of motherhood, of childhood, of innocence and debauchery with the finesse of a female scribe. These are timeless stories that have been studied throughout the ages, beloved for generations, conquering every form of media, and woven lovingly into our collective consciousness.
As much sex as there might be in a romance novel, the readers generally take away from it all of the other stuff we put in there to craft a story or plot. My latest novel, BACK FOR SECONDS, was hands-down the raciest story I've written yet, with scenes that surprised even me. But the readers were far more interested in my heroine's journey out of a loveless marriage and into an empowering relationship with a man who not only wanted and respected her, but exalted her.
Not bad for "smut," if I do say so myself.
Conversely, I don't recall seeing any passages ripped from the sometimes equally silly sci-fi, fantasy or horror novels for collective mockery in the same way romance is, even if they're poorly written. In fact, for the purpose of this article, I Googled both "worst passages in romance novels" and "worst passages in sci-fi," and here's how that shook out:
So the issue isn't whether or not romance is smut. We can all agree "smut" is a very subjective term, and those who think that lowly of smutty material in romance (or movies, or TV) aren't likely consumers of it anyway.
The problem is when you classify female writers/readers under the heading of "smut," it's inherently offensive.
But why?
There's a few of things going on here, actually. The first of which is the legitimacy of sex, culturally speaking. Let's peek into another industry to provide contrast.
Think of all the movies you've seen that involve sex scenes, even graphic ones. Generally they are still regarded as "film" rather than the more shameful "porn." This is regardless of the overall quality, and regardless if the story itself is driven by sex and had scads of gratuitous nudity.
Some performances even bring home a shiny gold statue chock-full of Hollywood validation.
What's the difference, really, between award-winning, critically acclaimed film and the much derided romance genre?
Well, I have an inkling. Allow me to zero in on the main culprit:
(What? It's a cloud, a chandelier, some eggs and a dog. What do YOU see? You smut expert, you.)
Okay, so I'm not exactly subtle. But let's face it, the presence or absence of one specific body part determines quite a bit in the discussion of how sex is portrayed in the media. Let's refer back to the popular movies that feature sex shamelessly, versus books that dare to do the same. The movie industry is one where men outnumber women 5 to 1, and most operate under some antiquated notion that men buy more tickets than women. That's why everyone is *shocked* when female driven vehicles are successful, as if it changes the dialogue in some way. (The dialogue IS changing, all you have to do is open your ears and listen.) Smart filmmakers are ahead of the curve here, but there's still a lot left to be done.
In contrast, consider that in the romance novel industry, female novelists outnumber men, just like female readers outnumber the men. So why are our rules any different? Why is the product immediately assumed to be inferior for something that is produced by and marketed to women, despite the staggering success of it? Lifetime TV is lampooned endlessly for the "schlock" they produce. Meanwhile we're on Sharknado #3, where the laughable dialogue and cheesy graphics are considered a form of legitimate entertainment.
It still hasn't made a dent in the fortune created by Fifty Shades of Grey, which took women's fiction and sex to a whole other level...
...and is probably the biggest example of what many might consider "smut," given it's kinky bent. I'm *pretty* sure Ms. James doesn't really care one way or the other if people look down on what she writes. Girlfriend got paid and then some, and is currently living the life of her dreams.
You know... kinda like what might happen to a heroine inside of a romance novel.
So you'll forgive me if I don't feel the need to explain myself or apologize if something I write shocks or offends or is considered obscene, especially since I'd be expected and permitted to seek out, think about, chase after, lust after, mourn over sex in all its stages if I only had a penis. (There's a country song in there somewhere. Someone call Amy Schumer. Let's make "If I Only Had a Penis" happen.)
So I write smut. Who cares? It's not like, oh, I dunno... I'm going to face any real-life consequences for writing something lascivious, right? It's not like I'm going to have to write it under a pen name for fear of losing my job if I'm "outed." It's not like anyone might ask me to take a psychiatric test or anything. I mean really! How silly would that be?
(You'll note, by the way, that those examples include *female* writers who have been "outed" for their debauchery. You see how we keep circling back to the same thing? Women are nurturers, for goodness sake. I mean, a teacher writing erotic fiction? Don't let her near the children!!! They might grow up to think women actually like sex or something! Oh the humanity!)
In our culture, if you hear anything sexual from a man, there's an implied legitimacy, even if it's something ridiculous like Porky's. Smut, schmut. No one cares how raunchy something is that is made for men by men. Two words for you: Seth MacFarlane. That guy produces some of the most offensive content you can dream up, and he's about to take home the GENIUS award without one hint of irony. No apology needed, guys being guys, society's status quo.
“Whether he’s in the writer’s room, behind the camera or in the recording studio, Seth MacFarlane has become one of Hollywood’s most beloved talents,” said BTJA President Joey Berlin. “MacFarlane’s work has been a fixture on our screens – both large and small – for almost two decades. His humor and talent is undeniable, and we’re honored to present him with (this award).”
*Ahem*
You think Seth cares if you find his material offensive? He has the right to produce the kind of content he wants, because - as a man - he has a legitimate voice in the media. People laugh at Family Guy, which regularly pairs the dog Brian sexually with "human" females. If you lambast him for "beastiality," he'd likely laugh and say, "Calm your tits. It's just a cartoon."
Exactly. So why should I internalize any shame whatsoever writing about sexual relationships between two consenting adults who happen to be FICTIONAL?
Oh right. It's smut. I keep forgetting. It's not a word I use very often. I prefer the term "ladyporn." For women, who typically need an emotional connection for sexual fulfillment, the words contained inside a typical romance novel are more about heart than heat. Whether they're having sex from page one or they don't have sex until the end of the book, our "money shot" is the fact that these two people can actually get together and be happy - not just get together and get off. Romance novels and erotica are two very different things and operate under very different rules, with erotica usually winning the smut competition handily.
{See what I did there?)
And granted, for those who aren't particularly turned on by graphic sex descriptions (or any sex descriptions) in their books, modern romance may indeed fall under the heading of smut for them. Let's face it, smut is in the eye of the beholder. With the liberal umbrella of "romance," there are all kinds of stories with all kinds of heat levels, from sweet G-rated virginal romance to steamy X-rated orgy madness with vampires, werewolves and other creatures of the night.
(I was going to insert the video of Susan Sarandon in the Rocky Horror Picture Show singing "Toucha-Toucha-Touch Me," but couldn't find a decent copy. I did, however, find the official Glee version - you know, that show they made for teens? So... make of that what you will...)
Suffice it to say, I don't give a crap if someone calls my books smut, for the very same reason I call myself a bitch or a slut. No one gets to define me but me, and just because someone else thinks it's bad or inappropriate, that doesn't mean I have to agree. It's only shameful if I accept that shame, and I, wholeheartedly, do not. I know what I write. I don't need to justify or defend it. Call it smut if you want. As long as you're talking about it, it's a win/win.
Admittedly there is a certain standard of obscenity to which we all sort of adhere, and that's where a lot of this shame stems from. This is the second part of the problem: permissiveness. Our "smut" standards, when broken down and examined, still leave women with the short end of the stick... metaphorically speaking. The rules are just different all the way down the line, aren't they? It's a sad truth that generally women have much more to prove before their voice can be heard over the voices of men, because our patriarchal society must grant us permission to be included. The reason that we're still fighting for legitimacy is because it is simply not being granted, often by virtue of sexual stereotypes.
I've broached this topic before in Legitimate Fiction vs. "Genre" Fiction, because unfortunately - as a female writer - I'm keenly aware that it's a reality of my business. Frankly speaking, sexism in the publishing world is a maggot-infested pile of misogynistic dog shit, and who fights misogyny?
THIS girl.
Yes, I am a feminist who writes romantic fiction, which means I'm going to approach my writing with all the audacity of a man, no permission required. I write what I write for a lot of reasons. The most obvious reason is that I love the chase part of falling in love, which is usually fraught with sexual tension. It's exciting and thrilling and intense and passionate, and thanks to romance novels I get to feel that every single time I write.
It's awesome.
I get to fall in and out of love/lust all the time. You think I'm the least bit bothered if someone considers it obscene? Homelessness, poverty, children dying in third-world countries because they don't have access to food or water, injustices where people are beat down for the color of their skin or who they happen to love... that is my definition of obscene. Creating and reading a little bit of ladyporn? That's just good, harmless fun.
It's kind of funny to me how much people still look down on the romance genre, given it makes more money than sci-fi, fantasy, horror and thrillers (i.e. "male" dominated genres) combined. By most standards, this makes it a huge success story. It makes more money and sells more books, and yet the entire genre is still treated like the dirty little secret of literature, which is generally bogus anyway. The simple term 'romance' is a very large umbrella for a great many, very different, books, whether they conform to specific genre convention or not. It's sort of become the catch-all phrase for any stories that deal with relationships or women in general, so it should go without saying that all romance is not created equal, from the great classics to modern bestsellers. You can have EL James on the same bookshelf as Danielle Steel, even if the "heat" or "smut" level is vastly different. Romance, really, captures the whole of the human experience, which is why I love to read it and I love to write it.
BUT... and here's the rub... because it's *for* women and usually written *by* women, it's usually ridiculed by default. I know that may seem like a huge reach for some of you, but allow me to present the case of Jonathan Franzen vs. Jennifer Weiner. Both are successful writers who have written about sex, but guess which one will get shamed for it? Go on. Guess. We'll wait.
Mr. Franzen has admitted that he would never read Weiner's work, but that doesn't really stop him from disparaging it. Sure, some romance/chick lit may be laughable and silly, something one might want to mock and ridicule, but that's not the whole story. Not by a long shot. Like I said, romance covers almost every single story of a woman who must navigate affairs of the heart, whether she's pursuing one specific relationship (which is the genre rule for romance,) or whether it captures the story of a woman's entire life, where she's loved and lost more than one man (or woman, whatever floats her boat,) where her entire objective isn't to partner with anyone, but to live a grand adventure told best in sweeping saga style.
Is Scarlett O'Hara's story one of a star-crossed love affair with Rhett Butler? Or is it the story of one woman's survival of the Civil War? It's all a matter of our third, most important issue to address: empowerment.
In a romance novel, the female is the hero, the one who fights for and usually gets what she wants, and that's a scary scenario for those who ultimately fear female empowerment. The best way to fight back against that is to shame it back into the shadows where it belongs.
Despite how impossible it is to determine the worth of all romance by the lowest hanging fruit on the tree (a very low standard by which to judge, if you ask me,) we writers and lovers of the genre are subtly shamed to apologize, or at least be embarrassed, for what we read. If a book written by a man, one that includes a story about a couple, that happens to have sex, it's not "smut" - it's literature. If a woman writes a book that includes the story about a couple, which happens to have sex, it's called a "bodice-ripper" and derided as lesser fiction because of it. They're naughty to have written it, we're naughty to read it. Hilarity ensues.
Legitimacy, permissiveness and empowerment are all trampled underfoot of a much bigger problem in our society. Women are not allowed to experience sex as part of their natural lives like men, including the embrace or experimentation of it, to figure out what we like or don't, what kinds of partners (yeah, I said PARTNERS) we might enjoy, or if we find pleasure or not. The statistical average for a woman to orgasm in sex is about 40%. For men? A *wee* bit higher. **COUGH**98% of the time.**COUGH** And that's because we buy into this idea that for men sex is a necessity. For women, it's more of an abstract.
A man orgasms, we know beyond a doubt he's crossed the finish line. (Hence why it's called "the money shot.") For a woman, everyone is chasing after the Female O like it's Nessy or Big Foot, without any real idea A.) how to get there or B.) what it would look like once they got there.
You could, you know, just read a book or something. We're not that hard to figure out, and we're certainly not that hard to get over the finish line. A lot of the time, guys, the weak link is you. I guarantee that "smut" she's reading gets her there *every* time, not just 40% of the time.
Could be why it's a billion-dollar business. Just sayin.
Society has bought into this bullshit that sex is a duty to make a woman's oversexed man happy, but it's not something she's ever going to seek out for herself. Inevitably, whether before marriage or after, the man is automatically cast in the role of pursuer. He wants it more than you, so women must be coerced/seduced to unleash the "wild" side, which is something we must then hide from the world lest it affect our "virtue." This is a recurring theme in romance, actually, which is why the appeal of the Alpha Male is so great. That older billionaire who takes the virginal ingenue in hand and guides her to be his lover is a successful plot device for a reason. It is a metaphor, really, to "liberate" that part of ourselves in the most socially acceptable way possible. Acting on sex just because you want it? Unthinkable! Seduced into a sexy love affair? Now we're talking.
Like I said, I've been reading romance novels since 1980. I'm used to the rogue taking the lady in hand, opening her up to sensual delights under the permissive heading of fated love. In the 70s, this resulted in the rape storyline on General Hospital. It was the only way to allow a young, married woman to "give in" to her desires for another man and be forgiven for it. Forty years later, we still prefer to believe that good girls, virtuous wives and saintly mothers simply do not talk about it, ponder on it, wish for it, drool over it or - gasp - seek "smut" out on purpose. We're not supposed to prioritize it, ladies, because sex is just something we put up with to go to bed early.
Is it any wonder that a female-dominated genre built upon romantic fantasy would be filled to the brim with sex, and ridiculously successful as a result? Come on. Really? Within the pages of a romance novel is the only safe place that women can unleash that inner tigress, living out naughty fantasies without any fear of society regarding her poorly because of it. She reads smut, how cute. She LIVES smut? What a whore.
Tell the nice people how we feel about that other four-letter s-word, Pink.
See that's where that sad little word comes from. Smut is meant to shame you for having the audacity to like sex outside of its accepted social paradigm. Believe it or not, even now, people are still surprised that women like sex. That makes the whole idea of sexual exploration, even if it comes within the safe pages of a book, "dirty," "trashy" or "pornographic" by default. Calling a book you've never read "smut" is nothing more than a shaming device.
I mean, it's a fairly benign word overall. From a Google search: ""Smut" is a slang word - most common in Britain - for any form of media that is considered profane or offensive, particularly with regards to sexual content."
To which I say... so what?
For men, having sex is almost a rite of passage. They get to have scores of it, seek it out, talk about it, write about it, and we somehow all buy, "Oh, it's because he's a man." Anything he writes, then, is forgiven for including sex in their books. It's all part of the experience. For women, sex - for better or worse, usually worse - defines our identity. We're either a good girl or a slut, with no wiggle room in between. It's how our character is rated, not just among men - but other women as well. Our value depends on how we regard sex. It's a honking pile of manure given that the second part of that is that we're limited as individuals anyway, made to feel incomplete unless we land a man, preferably ONE, to give up our precious virtue with complete social acceptance. (And it has to be done in the context of love, or it's just wrong. Period.) Everything is sold to us under that heading, from the time we're little kids (Disney princesses) to adulthood. (i.e. ANY magazine sold in the grocery store.)
In the end, calling a romance novel "smut" is another form of slut-shaming based on the limited standards of someone else. There's sex in a book? OMG! You LIKE to read those scenes? OMG! How unladylike! How trampy. It's trashy and, by default, so are you. (smut=slut)
To which I say again... so what?
If I do nothing else in my books, I hope to further the idea that it's only how we perceive ourselves that matters. We don't need to fight for legitimacy - we exist and we have a right to say what we're going to say. We don't have to wait around for permission to enjoy the things we like, and we certainly don't have to hand over our empowerment to anyone else just because they think we should.
Basically it matters as much or as little as you decide to let it. You get to choose.
I'm out to write a story. The books I read, much like the books I write, may have sex in them, because life has sex in it, and every single writer writes about life. But my books won't *only* have sex in them, and anyone who has read anything I've written knows the difference. Yeah it's unfair, even sexist, that these stories I have crafted with care, to be significant, not just scintillating, are going to be lumped into a category by those who are too ignorant to know the difference or too lazy to figure it out.
Therein lies the key.
If someone uninformed and small-minded mislabels something you love, always consider the source. Then tip your chin, write/read what you want and be a kick ass, empowered, unapologetic chick anyway. Permission: Granted.
Sing us out, Barry.
May 9, 2015
The Illusion of Writer's Block and Learning to Utilize Your Runway
"Writer's Block." Those two words can strike fear into almost any wordsmith. There's nothing more terrifying than a well that has run dry, when you stare at a blank screen and your muse is nowhere in sight. Every writer will face it in their lifetime, but you needn't consider it the scary boogie man hiding in your closet.
In fact, you needn't fear it at all.
Here's the good thing about a writer's block. It isn't a stop sign. It isn't a wall. It's a "block," one that often can impede your progress when you're on the wrong path. That means it's small and manageable, and often productive, in the grand scheme of things. Inconvenient, maybe, but in the end it's simply an obstruction in your path that you have to figure out a way around, usually to make your story *stronger* as you develop your writing skill.
Picture yourself on a road, toodling along, listening to the radio, making excellent time on the way to wherever you are going. Let's pretend that you're on the first day of a long vacation, and you have plenty of time to spare. If you're on this highway and you hit an obstruction in your path, like - say - a big beam prohibiting passage, you might have the luxury of sitting in your car and chatting with your passengers, waiting for someone else to come along and remove the blockage so that you can resume your journey, usually at the convenience (mercy) of someone else.
If you're a truck driver who has a deadline to meet, whose money depends on how quickly you can get from Point A to Point B, you don't have the luxury to wait around. It's up to you to find/create a workaround. You'll take the nearest exit. You'll find a detour around your original, planned path, to get to where you need to go by the time you're scheduled to be there. And as someone who is trained to look several car lengths ahead to plan around these kinds of inevitable delays, you're prepared at all times to economize your time so you can make these changes accordingly, with as little inconvenience as you can manage.
Working writers are like truck drivers. They have deadlines to meet. They don't have time to wait for an elusive muse to show up on the scene and remove the blockage. They have to finagle their way around these obstacles. It's you against Writer's Block, and you have to win if you want to finish your project. The when and how is ultimately up to you.
Uncomfortable Truth Ahead: The quickest way to fight your way around Writer's Block is to WRITE your way out of it.
Consider this your runway. Every writer in the world wants to soar through the air, flying gracefully and forcefully through space, trailing behind them each perfect word that appears flawlessly and effortlessly after the other. Truth is that amounts for maybe 25-30% of your writing experience. Most of the time you're on the ground, waiting for clearance, preparing your vessel for the journey ahead and planning for any contingency. That means how effective your creative flight is and how long it lasts usually depends on two things. One, how generous your muse happens to be and two, how prepared you are for the journey.
I can't help you with your muse, she's going to be as temperamental as she's going to be. I can, however, give you some tips in planning, which is generally under your control. I've written both by the seat of my pants, with no clear direction of where I wanted to go between the first page and the last scene, as well as with an outline. Without question, I've always, always, had better luck fending off Writer's Block with an outline. It's a road map of where you need to go, and you usually figure out a lot of the pitfalls when you plan out your story ahead of time.
Some writers feel this inhibits creativity, but that's not the case. Your characters will jump off the page and throw your outline into the wood chipper regularly and without a hint of apology. The point is having an objective every single time you sit down to write. I use chapter-by-chapter outlines. I write it before I write anything else. (Some writers like to do a lot of prep work ahead of time, including character analyses, but we'll get to that in a minute.) In one sitting I go through the story in my head, like I'm watching a movie. I need to know, step by step, where I'm going. I know what beats I have to hit and where, so I plan them accordingly, building the story with pretty basic notes of what I want to accomplish in each scene. Here's an example from my latest book, BACK FOR SECONDS.
***
Chapter One:
Begin with scene leaving the family home, meet Russell, make it tense, zero respect, lots of bitterness. Kids are devastated, particularly Kari. Joely and her children return home from to her mother’s house. Get to meet Lillian and Faye right in the restaurant, along with Xander Davy. He prompts a smile from Kari. That night he leaves with one of the customers from the restaurant, Joely’s mom explains that he likes the ladies and the ladies like him. It immediately puts her off. Sweet scene with youngest daughter – strained goodnights with older kids.
Chapter Two:
Joely is ready to go back to work. Problem: she’s been a stay-at-home mom for twelve years, and keeps running into obstacles. She is no longer an attractive candidate for her chosen field in management, and needs a certain income to support her family. That Xander is a bit of a showoff with his money only puts her off even more. It’s clear she doesn’t like him. It’s clear that’s not what he’s used to. Kari, however, lights up at the restaurant where they eat nightly. Introduce Mason.
Chapter Three:
Several rejections later and Joely ends up baking her feelings. Her mother is overjoyed with her product, saying that she should do that for the restaurant. She tells her mother no, she’d rather make it on her own. It’s bad enough they have to stay in their house. The sooner she gets a job, the sooner she gets her freedom. Her grandmother ends up cooking with her at home. She’s a feisty gal full of advice and good humor, especially when it comes to her strained relationship with her daughter.
Chapter Four:
Joely drops the kids off with their father, who makes it a point to wave his new relationship (his former affair) under her nose. Joely decides to head to a bar with her BFF Novanna, who has nothing good to say about Russell, even though their husbands share a practice. Cheating is a deal breaker. Period. She convinces Joely to scope out a new man, a hot meaningless affair to remind her what it is to be her own woman. She ends up running into Xander. After a disastrous dance where their personalities clash, she retreats back to the house, where she bakes goodies, getting creative with the decorating.
***
If you've read BACK FOR SECONDS, then you can see where the story ventured off on its own, following its own unique flow in the narrative. The outline that plants my butt in the chair is not carved in stone, there's plenty of wiggle room to venture outside the lines where I need to. You find your own groove as you delve further into the story. An outline is more of a guideline where you're going, so that you can *keep* going. So I throw random, vague scene ideas in the mix I think will further the story I want to tell, but leave enough room there to let the muse do her thing.
She's more compliant than you'd think.
Once that initial plan is in place, it gives me a writing schedule (usually at least one chapter, maybe two, per day,) which means I can finish a first draft in a month or less. If I get stuck, say, like when my characters jump ship from the outline and get caught up doing their own thing, then I delve deeper into their motivation, to keep the flow of action as organic as possible. It has to build upon itself, one thing upon the other. Here's where you can refer to your character analyses, if you've written them, or write them in addition to the outline, whenever you need an extra push to get past that dreaded blinking cursor. You can also do more research. If your characters live in Los Angeles, research Los Angeles and use that in your story. Find a place, give them an activity, throw them into a scene and just see what they do. If they're a doctor, research a case that might pertain to their occupation and fit it into the story. If they're famous or rich, take the afternoon and get balls deep in a Biography hole on TV, to figure out what kinds of situations they've found themselves in and knock your characters around accordingly. Find a way to "show" what you need to say, incorporating your central theme or message in deeper layers.
(Some writers even prefer a writing project aside from the one they're working on, such as a blog post, etc., just to get the juices flowing. Ahem.)
The trick is to find *something* to write about, even if you end up scrapping it later.
See, that's the biggest lie that Writer's Block whispers in your ear. Most of us hit a standstill when we feel that what we're writing doesn't match what we want to say. The words are all wrong, or simply don't come at all. But even a less stellar word is one more towards your destination. There are a lot of things you can fix in the rewrite process. (We'll go over that in a future blog.)
One of the best pieces of advice I've ever gotten was, "Don't get it right. Get it written."
Writers' Block, Shmiter's Block, that's your job. Get it written. So plan ahead. Research, research, research. Write your way out of it.
Now get cracking.
In fact, you needn't fear it at all.
Here's the good thing about a writer's block. It isn't a stop sign. It isn't a wall. It's a "block," one that often can impede your progress when you're on the wrong path. That means it's small and manageable, and often productive, in the grand scheme of things. Inconvenient, maybe, but in the end it's simply an obstruction in your path that you have to figure out a way around, usually to make your story *stronger* as you develop your writing skill.
Picture yourself on a road, toodling along, listening to the radio, making excellent time on the way to wherever you are going. Let's pretend that you're on the first day of a long vacation, and you have plenty of time to spare. If you're on this highway and you hit an obstruction in your path, like - say - a big beam prohibiting passage, you might have the luxury of sitting in your car and chatting with your passengers, waiting for someone else to come along and remove the blockage so that you can resume your journey, usually at the convenience (mercy) of someone else.
If you're a truck driver who has a deadline to meet, whose money depends on how quickly you can get from Point A to Point B, you don't have the luxury to wait around. It's up to you to find/create a workaround. You'll take the nearest exit. You'll find a detour around your original, planned path, to get to where you need to go by the time you're scheduled to be there. And as someone who is trained to look several car lengths ahead to plan around these kinds of inevitable delays, you're prepared at all times to economize your time so you can make these changes accordingly, with as little inconvenience as you can manage.
Working writers are like truck drivers. They have deadlines to meet. They don't have time to wait for an elusive muse to show up on the scene and remove the blockage. They have to finagle their way around these obstacles. It's you against Writer's Block, and you have to win if you want to finish your project. The when and how is ultimately up to you.
Uncomfortable Truth Ahead: The quickest way to fight your way around Writer's Block is to WRITE your way out of it.
Consider this your runway. Every writer in the world wants to soar through the air, flying gracefully and forcefully through space, trailing behind them each perfect word that appears flawlessly and effortlessly after the other. Truth is that amounts for maybe 25-30% of your writing experience. Most of the time you're on the ground, waiting for clearance, preparing your vessel for the journey ahead and planning for any contingency. That means how effective your creative flight is and how long it lasts usually depends on two things. One, how generous your muse happens to be and two, how prepared you are for the journey.
I can't help you with your muse, she's going to be as temperamental as she's going to be. I can, however, give you some tips in planning, which is generally under your control. I've written both by the seat of my pants, with no clear direction of where I wanted to go between the first page and the last scene, as well as with an outline. Without question, I've always, always, had better luck fending off Writer's Block with an outline. It's a road map of where you need to go, and you usually figure out a lot of the pitfalls when you plan out your story ahead of time.
Some writers feel this inhibits creativity, but that's not the case. Your characters will jump off the page and throw your outline into the wood chipper regularly and without a hint of apology. The point is having an objective every single time you sit down to write. I use chapter-by-chapter outlines. I write it before I write anything else. (Some writers like to do a lot of prep work ahead of time, including character analyses, but we'll get to that in a minute.) In one sitting I go through the story in my head, like I'm watching a movie. I need to know, step by step, where I'm going. I know what beats I have to hit and where, so I plan them accordingly, building the story with pretty basic notes of what I want to accomplish in each scene. Here's an example from my latest book, BACK FOR SECONDS.
***
Chapter One:
Begin with scene leaving the family home, meet Russell, make it tense, zero respect, lots of bitterness. Kids are devastated, particularly Kari. Joely and her children return home from to her mother’s house. Get to meet Lillian and Faye right in the restaurant, along with Xander Davy. He prompts a smile from Kari. That night he leaves with one of the customers from the restaurant, Joely’s mom explains that he likes the ladies and the ladies like him. It immediately puts her off. Sweet scene with youngest daughter – strained goodnights with older kids.
Chapter Two:
Joely is ready to go back to work. Problem: she’s been a stay-at-home mom for twelve years, and keeps running into obstacles. She is no longer an attractive candidate for her chosen field in management, and needs a certain income to support her family. That Xander is a bit of a showoff with his money only puts her off even more. It’s clear she doesn’t like him. It’s clear that’s not what he’s used to. Kari, however, lights up at the restaurant where they eat nightly. Introduce Mason.
Chapter Three:
Several rejections later and Joely ends up baking her feelings. Her mother is overjoyed with her product, saying that she should do that for the restaurant. She tells her mother no, she’d rather make it on her own. It’s bad enough they have to stay in their house. The sooner she gets a job, the sooner she gets her freedom. Her grandmother ends up cooking with her at home. She’s a feisty gal full of advice and good humor, especially when it comes to her strained relationship with her daughter.
Chapter Four:
Joely drops the kids off with their father, who makes it a point to wave his new relationship (his former affair) under her nose. Joely decides to head to a bar with her BFF Novanna, who has nothing good to say about Russell, even though their husbands share a practice. Cheating is a deal breaker. Period. She convinces Joely to scope out a new man, a hot meaningless affair to remind her what it is to be her own woman. She ends up running into Xander. After a disastrous dance where their personalities clash, she retreats back to the house, where she bakes goodies, getting creative with the decorating.
***
If you've read BACK FOR SECONDS, then you can see where the story ventured off on its own, following its own unique flow in the narrative. The outline that plants my butt in the chair is not carved in stone, there's plenty of wiggle room to venture outside the lines where I need to. You find your own groove as you delve further into the story. An outline is more of a guideline where you're going, so that you can *keep* going. So I throw random, vague scene ideas in the mix I think will further the story I want to tell, but leave enough room there to let the muse do her thing.
She's more compliant than you'd think.
Once that initial plan is in place, it gives me a writing schedule (usually at least one chapter, maybe two, per day,) which means I can finish a first draft in a month or less. If I get stuck, say, like when my characters jump ship from the outline and get caught up doing their own thing, then I delve deeper into their motivation, to keep the flow of action as organic as possible. It has to build upon itself, one thing upon the other. Here's where you can refer to your character analyses, if you've written them, or write them in addition to the outline, whenever you need an extra push to get past that dreaded blinking cursor. You can also do more research. If your characters live in Los Angeles, research Los Angeles and use that in your story. Find a place, give them an activity, throw them into a scene and just see what they do. If they're a doctor, research a case that might pertain to their occupation and fit it into the story. If they're famous or rich, take the afternoon and get balls deep in a Biography hole on TV, to figure out what kinds of situations they've found themselves in and knock your characters around accordingly. Find a way to "show" what you need to say, incorporating your central theme or message in deeper layers.
(Some writers even prefer a writing project aside from the one they're working on, such as a blog post, etc., just to get the juices flowing. Ahem.)
The trick is to find *something* to write about, even if you end up scrapping it later.
See, that's the biggest lie that Writer's Block whispers in your ear. Most of us hit a standstill when we feel that what we're writing doesn't match what we want to say. The words are all wrong, or simply don't come at all. But even a less stellar word is one more towards your destination. There are a lot of things you can fix in the rewrite process. (We'll go over that in a future blog.)
One of the best pieces of advice I've ever gotten was, "Don't get it right. Get it written."
Writers' Block, Shmiter's Block, that's your job. Get it written. So plan ahead. Research, research, research. Write your way out of it.
Now get cracking.
April 30, 2015
Giveaways, Excerpts and New Releases - Oh My!
It's nearly May 1, y'all... you know what that means!
Okay, okay. My love for Tony Stark aside... ahem...
It is also the day you all finally get to meet Xander!
I'm SUPER excited, you guys. This is one Book Boyfriend who even took *me* by surprise. I knew what I wanted him to be when I sat down to write the book. Well, honestly the story nipped at my heels long before I actually sat down to write it. It haunted me, the way all my favorite story ideas do. Xander would come to me in a flash, whispering things in my ear, that had me as discombobulated as he left our heroine, Joely. I guess you could say he seduced me first.
But nothing... nothing could have prepared me for the ride he took me on once I started writing. This book is racier than anything I have ever done. Two of my most diehard fans are my mother-in-law and my grandmother-in-law, who read everything I write even if they have to skip certain passages. Let me put it to you this way... I'm highly tempted to print a special censored version of this story just for them, because Xander is a naughty, naughty boy.
Exhibit A:
***
When she returned to the house, she met a delivery driver at the door, who carried a large white box. “Miss Morgan?” he asked.
She fought the urge to correct him and say, “Mrs. Morgan,” considering, like Xander and Novanna had said, that wasn’t who she was anymore. “Yes,” she said as she approached.
“Package for you,” he said as he handed it off.
She fished a few dollars from her purse to tip the young man before carrying the large parcel into the house and up the stairs. She didn’t stop until she reached the bedroom, where she deposited the box onto her bed. Before she could rip it open, her phone rang.
It was Xander.
“Good morning,” he crooned into her ear.
“I assume you had something to do with this,” she said as she sat on the bed next to her gift.
“Guilty as charged,” he admitted happily. “Open it.”
She put him on speakerphone before she lifted the top of the box away and moved the tissue aside to reveal a silky black and lace dress. “Oh, Xander,” she murmured as she withdrew it, revealing a flowing skirt, snug bodice with a sweetheart neckline that dipped low in front. The wide straps were made of lace and the style was much like the other 50s-inspired clothing he’d selected for her. He clearly preferred retro glamour. “It’s lovely.”
“I’m glad you like it. I can’t wait until tonight so I can see you in it.” She shivered in spite of herself. “There’s just one thing,” he murmured.
“What’s that?”
“You’re not allowed to wear any underwear underneath it,” he said in a voice so low it nearly made Joely groan out loud.
“Allowed?” she echoed.
“That’s right. No panties. No bra. Just you. When I hold you close to me tonight at The Ranch, I want to know that I’m just a fine bit of silk away from fucking you right there on that dance floor. And I want everyone else to know it, too.”
“Xander,” she started, but he wouldn’t allow it.
“Ah, ah,” he said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. “I’m the one in charge, remember? And you will be a good girl and do as you’re told.”
She could barely breathe. “Okay.”
“That’s not all,” he said. “I want you to drop off the kids wearing this dress.”
Her heart nearly stopped. “Why?”
“I want him to see what he threw away.”
She made a face he couldn’t see. “He won’t care,” she said.
“Yes, he will,” Xander promised. “Because somewhere deep down he’ll know that this weekend you belong to someone new.” ***
I said it before and I'll say it again...
You can pre-order BACK FOR SECONDS right now, and it'll be available for you to read the second you leave the theater for that midnight showing of AVENGERS 2: The Age of Mancandy.
Ahem... I mean Ultron.
Speaking of Mancandy... how many of you have met Snake from CHASING THUNDER?
You can read all about my badass biker with a heart of gold (and quick wit) RIGHT NOW! My editor fell in love with him, so I think you definitely will too. Not only can you pick up your copy of CHASING THUNDER at Amazon, B&N, iTunes, and Kobo - where it is currently ranked 400 in International Mysteries/Suspense, btw - but we are hours away from the close of the Goodreads Giveaway for one of two signed copies of the paperback!
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Chasing Thunder by Ginger Voight
If you miss that giveaway, I've started another one for one of two signed copies of BACK FOR SECONDS, which ends in two weeks!
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Back for Seconds by Ginger Voight
So that's all the news that is fit to print for this last day of April, 2015! Let's all roar into May like a lion.
xoxo
Gin
BACK FOR SECONDS: Amazon, B&N, iTunes, Kobo, Smashwords
CHASING THUNDER: Amazon, B&N, iTunes, Kobo
Okay, okay. My love for Tony Stark aside... ahem...
It is also the day you all finally get to meet Xander!
I'm SUPER excited, you guys. This is one Book Boyfriend who even took *me* by surprise. I knew what I wanted him to be when I sat down to write the book. Well, honestly the story nipped at my heels long before I actually sat down to write it. It haunted me, the way all my favorite story ideas do. Xander would come to me in a flash, whispering things in my ear, that had me as discombobulated as he left our heroine, Joely. I guess you could say he seduced me first.
But nothing... nothing could have prepared me for the ride he took me on once I started writing. This book is racier than anything I have ever done. Two of my most diehard fans are my mother-in-law and my grandmother-in-law, who read everything I write even if they have to skip certain passages. Let me put it to you this way... I'm highly tempted to print a special censored version of this story just for them, because Xander is a naughty, naughty boy.
Exhibit A:
***
When she returned to the house, she met a delivery driver at the door, who carried a large white box. “Miss Morgan?” he asked.
She fought the urge to correct him and say, “Mrs. Morgan,” considering, like Xander and Novanna had said, that wasn’t who she was anymore. “Yes,” she said as she approached.
“Package for you,” he said as he handed it off.
She fished a few dollars from her purse to tip the young man before carrying the large parcel into the house and up the stairs. She didn’t stop until she reached the bedroom, where she deposited the box onto her bed. Before she could rip it open, her phone rang.
It was Xander.
“Good morning,” he crooned into her ear.
“I assume you had something to do with this,” she said as she sat on the bed next to her gift.
“Guilty as charged,” he admitted happily. “Open it.”
She put him on speakerphone before she lifted the top of the box away and moved the tissue aside to reveal a silky black and lace dress. “Oh, Xander,” she murmured as she withdrew it, revealing a flowing skirt, snug bodice with a sweetheart neckline that dipped low in front. The wide straps were made of lace and the style was much like the other 50s-inspired clothing he’d selected for her. He clearly preferred retro glamour. “It’s lovely.”
“I’m glad you like it. I can’t wait until tonight so I can see you in it.” She shivered in spite of herself. “There’s just one thing,” he murmured.
“What’s that?”
“You’re not allowed to wear any underwear underneath it,” he said in a voice so low it nearly made Joely groan out loud.
“Allowed?” she echoed.
“That’s right. No panties. No bra. Just you. When I hold you close to me tonight at The Ranch, I want to know that I’m just a fine bit of silk away from fucking you right there on that dance floor. And I want everyone else to know it, too.”
“Xander,” she started, but he wouldn’t allow it.
“Ah, ah,” he said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. “I’m the one in charge, remember? And you will be a good girl and do as you’re told.”
She could barely breathe. “Okay.”
“That’s not all,” he said. “I want you to drop off the kids wearing this dress.”
Her heart nearly stopped. “Why?”
“I want him to see what he threw away.”
She made a face he couldn’t see. “He won’t care,” she said.
“Yes, he will,” Xander promised. “Because somewhere deep down he’ll know that this weekend you belong to someone new.” ***
I said it before and I'll say it again...
You can pre-order BACK FOR SECONDS right now, and it'll be available for you to read the second you leave the theater for that midnight showing of AVENGERS 2: The Age of Mancandy.
Ahem... I mean Ultron.
Speaking of Mancandy... how many of you have met Snake from CHASING THUNDER?
You can read all about my badass biker with a heart of gold (and quick wit) RIGHT NOW! My editor fell in love with him, so I think you definitely will too. Not only can you pick up your copy of CHASING THUNDER at Amazon, B&N, iTunes, and Kobo - where it is currently ranked 400 in International Mysteries/Suspense, btw - but we are hours away from the close of the Goodreads Giveaway for one of two signed copies of the paperback!
.goodreadsGiveawayWidget { color: #555; font-family: georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; text-align: left; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; background: white; } .goodreadsGiveawayWidget p { margin: 0 0 .5em !important; padding: 0; } .goodreadsGiveawayWidgetEnterLink { display: inline-block; color: #181818; background-color: #F6F6EE; border: 1px solid #9D8A78; border-radius: 3px; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; outline: none; font-size: 13px; padding: 8px 12px; } .goodreadsGiveawayWidgetEnterLink:hover { color: #181818; background-color: #F7F2ED; border: 1px solid #AFAFAF; text-decoration: none; } Goodreads Book Giveaway
Chasing Thunder by Ginger Voight Giveaway ends April 30, 2015.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.
Enter to WinIf you miss that giveaway, I've started another one for one of two signed copies of BACK FOR SECONDS, which ends in two weeks!
.goodreadsGiveawayWidget { color: #555; font-family: georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; text-align: left; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; background: white; } .goodreadsGiveawayWidget p { margin: 0 0 .5em !important; padding: 0; } .goodreadsGiveawayWidgetEnterLink { display: inline-block; color: #181818; background-color: #F6F6EE; border: 1px solid #9D8A78; border-radius: 3px; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; outline: none; font-size: 13px; padding: 8px 12px; } .goodreadsGiveawayWidgetEnterLink:hover { color: #181818; background-color: #F7F2ED; border: 1px solid #AFAFAF; text-decoration: none; } Goodreads Book Giveaway
Back for Seconds by Ginger Voight Giveaway ends May 15, 2015.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.
Enter to WinSo that's all the news that is fit to print for this last day of April, 2015! Let's all roar into May like a lion.
xoxo
Gin
BACK FOR SECONDS: Amazon, B&N, iTunes, Kobo, Smashwords
CHASING THUNDER: Amazon, B&N, iTunes, Kobo
April 21, 2015
Only ten more days until you meet Xander. (Squee!)
Mark your calendars, ladies and gents. A new book boyfriend is preparing himself for his international debut on May 1. His name is Xander Davy. He's from England, but no moss grows under this rolling stone. He's only 26, but thanks to his touch of wanderlust he's lived in some of the most fascinating cities in the world: London, New York, San Francisco...
So how did this cultured, sophisticated gent land in Abilene, Texas , of all places?
Let's just say that not all cowboys were born in the Wild West. Xander Davy brings that spirit with him, in super-sized helpings that leave you hungering for more.
Sure, the ladies love him. He's handsome. He's charming. He's got that accent . And he's way intense. He takes what he wants but like a truly self-possessed alpha, he doesn't have to rob anyone else of anything to do it. There's a lot to like, as our emotionally vulnerable heroine, Joely Morgan, quickly learns.
Needless to say he even left me breathless a time or two, the lil' dickens.
So mark your calendars and get your copy pre-ordered ASAP, because I can't *wait* to see what y'all have to say about Xander.
Here's a taste...
***
Joely turned to Xander. “What’s all that about?” she wanted to know.
“What’s what about?” he asked as he popped another huge bite into his mouth. His dark eyes watched her closely.
“Playing buddy-buddy with my kids,” she replied as she took his plate and headed back toward the sink. The chair scraped against the tile as he stood and walked over to join her.
His mouth was still full when he said, “It’s called being nice.”
Her look was skeptical. “Look. They’re going through a difficult time right now."
He swallowed his last mouthful. His eyes kept hers captive as he ran his tongue around the corner of his mouth to capture any leftover frosting. “I know,” he finally said. “Your mother told me.”
Inwardly Joely groaned. That explained everything. “Great.”
He leaned against the counter. “It’s no big deal. Lillian thought maybe I could connect with Nash. He’s alone in a house full of women now. She thinks he could use a man to talk to.”
From where they stood nearly a foot apart, she could see his broad shoulders straining against the navy blue shirt he wore. His legs were long, crossed casually at the ankle, as he linked his hands and rested his elbow on the counter. Her nose filled with the scent of his cologne, a mixture of wood and spice. There was no doubt about it. He most definitely was a man. And the look in his eyes wouldn’t let her forget it. “I just,” she started but then found herself flustered and stammering. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here and I don’t want them to get attached to anything temporary. I appreciate the thought, but it’s not necessary.”
He towered over her 5’5-inch frame, studying her long brown hair and her deep brown eyes. The longer he stood without saying anything, the more nervous she got. When the tip of his thumb brushed the side of her mouth, she nearly jumped right out of her skin. Her doe eyes opened even wider as she watched him lick his thumb. “Missed a spot,” he murmured.
She was still sputtering behind him as he walked from the kitchen. ***Pre-order your copy of BACK FOR SECONDS, now on AMAZON, B&N, iTunes, and KOBO!
So how did this cultured, sophisticated gent land in Abilene, Texas , of all places?
Let's just say that not all cowboys were born in the Wild West. Xander Davy brings that spirit with him, in super-sized helpings that leave you hungering for more.
Sure, the ladies love him. He's handsome. He's charming. He's got that accent . And he's way intense. He takes what he wants but like a truly self-possessed alpha, he doesn't have to rob anyone else of anything to do it. There's a lot to like, as our emotionally vulnerable heroine, Joely Morgan, quickly learns.
Needless to say he even left me breathless a time or two, the lil' dickens.
So mark your calendars and get your copy pre-ordered ASAP, because I can't *wait* to see what y'all have to say about Xander.
Here's a taste...
***
Joely turned to Xander. “What’s all that about?” she wanted to know.
“What’s what about?” he asked as he popped another huge bite into his mouth. His dark eyes watched her closely.
“Playing buddy-buddy with my kids,” she replied as she took his plate and headed back toward the sink. The chair scraped against the tile as he stood and walked over to join her.
His mouth was still full when he said, “It’s called being nice.”
Her look was skeptical. “Look. They’re going through a difficult time right now."
He swallowed his last mouthful. His eyes kept hers captive as he ran his tongue around the corner of his mouth to capture any leftover frosting. “I know,” he finally said. “Your mother told me.”
Inwardly Joely groaned. That explained everything. “Great.”
He leaned against the counter. “It’s no big deal. Lillian thought maybe I could connect with Nash. He’s alone in a house full of women now. She thinks he could use a man to talk to.”
From where they stood nearly a foot apart, she could see his broad shoulders straining against the navy blue shirt he wore. His legs were long, crossed casually at the ankle, as he linked his hands and rested his elbow on the counter. Her nose filled with the scent of his cologne, a mixture of wood and spice. There was no doubt about it. He most definitely was a man. And the look in his eyes wouldn’t let her forget it. “I just,” she started but then found herself flustered and stammering. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here and I don’t want them to get attached to anything temporary. I appreciate the thought, but it’s not necessary.”
He towered over her 5’5-inch frame, studying her long brown hair and her deep brown eyes. The longer he stood without saying anything, the more nervous she got. When the tip of his thumb brushed the side of her mouth, she nearly jumped right out of her skin. Her doe eyes opened even wider as she watched him lick his thumb. “Missed a spot,” he murmured.
She was still sputtering behind him as he walked from the kitchen. ***Pre-order your copy of BACK FOR SECONDS, now on AMAZON, B&N, iTunes, and KOBO!
April 13, 2015
TOMORROW is the big day! The storm is almost here! #chasingthunder #mjiscoming
I was seventeen years old when I met my first husband, Daniel. Because I was so young, I did all the things young girls do when they're completely smitten with someone older and more complicated: I tried to mold myself into his perfect girl. I did what he liked to do, even if I didn't particularly want to do it. I watched what he liked to watch, even if I didn't particularly like it. I grew up in a house devoid of testosterone from the age of 11. Guy flicks, namely action movies, war movies and westerns, all fell off my list from a very early age. Dan, a rough and tough guy chock full of testosterone, brought 'em all back. And really, they weren't all bad. I developed a healthy respect for martial arts movies in particular. But, as a feminist from an early age, nothing pissed me off more than those female characters who did nothing more than "prop" the action for their male co-stars. The most egregious of these offenders were typically bare-assed naked and screaming while all the fists flailed around them, the very definition of eye candy.
It became crystal clear to me after sampling several popular movies in these genres that most "tough" women, the bad-ass women, the ones that didn't need men to save them, were colored with a different color pen. Virtuous girls, the girls that these hot macho men couldn't resist, always defaulted to the victim who needed saving because they were too "good" to save themselves. (Queen of these useless babes was Kelly Lynch's character in Road House. ICK... and no.)
Granted, these were bubblegum movies that didn't necessarily need to have a point. They were written by men for men, defaulting time and again to the patriarchal socialization we all share, whether we like it or not.
It was, and still is, a sticking point for me.
This imbalance influenced me so strongly that it bled into my first full-length novel, which I began in 1989. Many of you already know how the idea came to me. I was 19 years old and living out of my car in Los Angeles. "Welcome to the Jungle" came on the radio and I began to see it in terms of a story. Of course there would be an innocent teenager, and of course she would wind up on the mean streets of Hollywood. And of course, a noble biker, a tough anti-hero, would ride to her rescue. (Another major Dan influence.)
And then it hit me...
Who said that biker had to be a man?
Thus, M.J. Bennett was born. In truth, she's the daughter Dan and I never had. She's fearless and tough as nails, like him. And she's devoted and loyal and refuses to back down from a fight... like me. M.J. knows who she is and what she can do, and she does it all without apology.
It's taken me 26 years to fully bring this complicated character to life. Things have changed a lot in the meantime. We now have some badass female characters everywhere we look, on TV and in the movies. Writers like Joss Whedon bravely embarked on this exciting new frontier as early as the 1990s, which paved the way for heroines like Katniss Everdeen. Tomorrow, at long last, M.J. joins the ranks of some badass lady characters who have changed the way we see women. I couldn't be prouder or love her any more.
Here's a sneak peek of what's to come, with the first confrontation between M.J. and Dominic Isbecky, the man she suspects is behind the brutal murders of underage sex workers.
Get your 1-Click fingers primed and ready. #mjisalmosthere!
***
They reached the door to his office and he shoved her inside. He locked the door, lowered the lights, and kicked on the sound system with the touch of a button. “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Bennett.”
He assumed his position behind his desk, so she walked to one of the chairs on the other side. She flopped down and kicked her boots up on his expensive ebony desk. He immediately scowled, which made her smile. “You wanted me here and I’m here. So what’s up, buttercup?”
“You’ve been interfering with my business, Miss Bennett. And I don’t take kindly to that.”
“I don’t take kindly to your business,” she told him bluntly.
He leaned across his desk. “Too bad there isn’t a damned thing you can do about it,” he said. “Slick operates as a legitimate business. According to the law, and a litany of lawmakers, I am above reproach.”
Her eyebrow arched. “Even the second floor?”
“The second floor is not part of Slick. It includes private residential quarters for a few close friends. And I am a man who takes care of his friends.”
“Unless they’re female and underage, right?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t make a practice of hanging out with underage girls. But I’m sure you can tell me all about it. How is your young friend from the alley?”
It was her turn to shrug. “Dunno. Got her on a bus and got her the hell out of here the very night I met her. Just like I’ve done for at least two other girls who’ve spent time within these hallowed walls.”
He chuckled as he leaned back in his chair. “It’s amusing that you think I don’t know.”
“I figured you knew,” she corrected. “Come on. A smart guy like you? You just never cared until now. Which makes me even more curious why you’d care about this last girl at all. She was on the streets for a day, so she couldn’t have been one of yours. Unless it was some initiation gone awry,” she added, scouring his face for any tell. He was stoic, and his smile never changed. M.J. stood from the chair and sauntered around his office, taking in the details of his décor. “So of course I have to ask myself what makes this girl different. Why is she suddenly so important?”
She stopped in front of his marble chessboard. Dominic watched as she studied the pieces thoughtfully. Finally she reached down and moved a piece before turning toward the window.
It took a minute or two, but finally Dominic slid from his chair and walked over to the chess board. He spotted her move almost immediately, as this particular game had been at a stalemate with his latest opponent. He grinned as he took the piece with ease. “It’s amazing what one day can do,” he commented. “Just one day in this jungle and that pristine young girl will be a tatted-out junkie giving blowjobs at chain restaurants near freeway on-ramps. Call me a romantic, but I thought I could help.”
“Help,” she repeated. “That’s a nice word for it. Do you have an upstairs room set aside for her, too?” His eyes glittered, and he let the comment slide. She glanced down at the chessboard. Within a minute or two, she made another move. Again, he took it with ease.
“But you were right about one thing,” she said. “A lot can happen in a day, an hour . . . or even a minute.” She quickly moved the knight into position. “It can even dethrone a king.” Her eyes met his. “Checkmate.”
There was a flash of irritation in his eyes and the barest hint of a scowl as he realized what she had done. She had set a trap that he had overlooked, simply because her original move had been so easily conquered. He scanned the pieces on the board to figure out how she had unlocked a previously unwinnable game so quickly. He crossed his arms and stared at her, trying to figure her out. Was this another game? Another trap?
If so, he had to sniff out her vulnerabilities. Where were her weaknesses? What mattered to M.J. Bennett?
She made her way to the door, and he crossed the two feet between them. “Impressive,” he said softly. “But no matter how clever you think you are, if you are hiding this girl here in Los Angeles, I will find her.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “We have unfinished business, and I am a stickler for loose ends. That means no matter where you send her, I can find her.”
Her eyes gave nothing away as she stared back at him. Finally he bent forward. “The same way I’ll always be able to find you.” He sniffed the air around her. “I’ve got your scent now, Miss Bennett. Believe me when I tell you that you don’t want me on this hunt. I won’t stop until I take it all.” His hand slid down the side of her face to grab her throat. The tighter his grip became, the bigger his smile grew. “Think about that the next time you put your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
She broke the hold easily, almost too easily. He laughed. “You entertain me, Miss Bennett. Such fire,” he murmured, touching the wild red curls that fell over her shoulders. “Now that I’ve met you, I might even consider a trade.”
“Bad move for your business,” she replied.
He stepped closer. “And why’s that?”
Her voice was smooth as silk. “Your clients can’t afford me.”
He trailed a finger along her arm and over her chest, just above the lace trim of her shirt. “And how much are you worth, M.J.?”
“I’m priceless, motherfucker,” she answered, her hand landing on the button on the side panel that controlled the door. It unlocked with an audible click.
He made no move to stop her as she left his office. But he followed her, and stood, arms crossed, at the end of the hallway and watched her depart, ensuring that the mysteries of his private rooms remained undetected by the meddlesome troublemaker. He didn’t go back into to his office until she had disappeared from sight.
***
Get CHASING THUNDER now from AMAZON, BARNES & NOBLE, iTUNES and KOBO.
To get into the mood, check out the CHASING THUNDER Playlist I created for YouTube.
It became crystal clear to me after sampling several popular movies in these genres that most "tough" women, the bad-ass women, the ones that didn't need men to save them, were colored with a different color pen. Virtuous girls, the girls that these hot macho men couldn't resist, always defaulted to the victim who needed saving because they were too "good" to save themselves. (Queen of these useless babes was Kelly Lynch's character in Road House. ICK... and no.)
Granted, these were bubblegum movies that didn't necessarily need to have a point. They were written by men for men, defaulting time and again to the patriarchal socialization we all share, whether we like it or not.
It was, and still is, a sticking point for me.
This imbalance influenced me so strongly that it bled into my first full-length novel, which I began in 1989. Many of you already know how the idea came to me. I was 19 years old and living out of my car in Los Angeles. "Welcome to the Jungle" came on the radio and I began to see it in terms of a story. Of course there would be an innocent teenager, and of course she would wind up on the mean streets of Hollywood. And of course, a noble biker, a tough anti-hero, would ride to her rescue. (Another major Dan influence.)
And then it hit me...
Who said that biker had to be a man?
Thus, M.J. Bennett was born. In truth, she's the daughter Dan and I never had. She's fearless and tough as nails, like him. And she's devoted and loyal and refuses to back down from a fight... like me. M.J. knows who she is and what she can do, and she does it all without apology.
It's taken me 26 years to fully bring this complicated character to life. Things have changed a lot in the meantime. We now have some badass female characters everywhere we look, on TV and in the movies. Writers like Joss Whedon bravely embarked on this exciting new frontier as early as the 1990s, which paved the way for heroines like Katniss Everdeen. Tomorrow, at long last, M.J. joins the ranks of some badass lady characters who have changed the way we see women. I couldn't be prouder or love her any more.
Here's a sneak peek of what's to come, with the first confrontation between M.J. and Dominic Isbecky, the man she suspects is behind the brutal murders of underage sex workers.
Get your 1-Click fingers primed and ready. #mjisalmosthere!
***
They reached the door to his office and he shoved her inside. He locked the door, lowered the lights, and kicked on the sound system with the touch of a button. “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Bennett.”
He assumed his position behind his desk, so she walked to one of the chairs on the other side. She flopped down and kicked her boots up on his expensive ebony desk. He immediately scowled, which made her smile. “You wanted me here and I’m here. So what’s up, buttercup?”
“You’ve been interfering with my business, Miss Bennett. And I don’t take kindly to that.”
“I don’t take kindly to your business,” she told him bluntly.
He leaned across his desk. “Too bad there isn’t a damned thing you can do about it,” he said. “Slick operates as a legitimate business. According to the law, and a litany of lawmakers, I am above reproach.”
Her eyebrow arched. “Even the second floor?”
“The second floor is not part of Slick. It includes private residential quarters for a few close friends. And I am a man who takes care of his friends.”
“Unless they’re female and underage, right?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t make a practice of hanging out with underage girls. But I’m sure you can tell me all about it. How is your young friend from the alley?”
It was her turn to shrug. “Dunno. Got her on a bus and got her the hell out of here the very night I met her. Just like I’ve done for at least two other girls who’ve spent time within these hallowed walls.”
He chuckled as he leaned back in his chair. “It’s amusing that you think I don’t know.”
“I figured you knew,” she corrected. “Come on. A smart guy like you? You just never cared until now. Which makes me even more curious why you’d care about this last girl at all. She was on the streets for a day, so she couldn’t have been one of yours. Unless it was some initiation gone awry,” she added, scouring his face for any tell. He was stoic, and his smile never changed. M.J. stood from the chair and sauntered around his office, taking in the details of his décor. “So of course I have to ask myself what makes this girl different. Why is she suddenly so important?”
She stopped in front of his marble chessboard. Dominic watched as she studied the pieces thoughtfully. Finally she reached down and moved a piece before turning toward the window.
It took a minute or two, but finally Dominic slid from his chair and walked over to the chess board. He spotted her move almost immediately, as this particular game had been at a stalemate with his latest opponent. He grinned as he took the piece with ease. “It’s amazing what one day can do,” he commented. “Just one day in this jungle and that pristine young girl will be a tatted-out junkie giving blowjobs at chain restaurants near freeway on-ramps. Call me a romantic, but I thought I could help.”
“Help,” she repeated. “That’s a nice word for it. Do you have an upstairs room set aside for her, too?” His eyes glittered, and he let the comment slide. She glanced down at the chessboard. Within a minute or two, she made another move. Again, he took it with ease.
“But you were right about one thing,” she said. “A lot can happen in a day, an hour . . . or even a minute.” She quickly moved the knight into position. “It can even dethrone a king.” Her eyes met his. “Checkmate.”
There was a flash of irritation in his eyes and the barest hint of a scowl as he realized what she had done. She had set a trap that he had overlooked, simply because her original move had been so easily conquered. He scanned the pieces on the board to figure out how she had unlocked a previously unwinnable game so quickly. He crossed his arms and stared at her, trying to figure her out. Was this another game? Another trap?
If so, he had to sniff out her vulnerabilities. Where were her weaknesses? What mattered to M.J. Bennett?
She made her way to the door, and he crossed the two feet between them. “Impressive,” he said softly. “But no matter how clever you think you are, if you are hiding this girl here in Los Angeles, I will find her.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “We have unfinished business, and I am a stickler for loose ends. That means no matter where you send her, I can find her.”
Her eyes gave nothing away as she stared back at him. Finally he bent forward. “The same way I’ll always be able to find you.” He sniffed the air around her. “I’ve got your scent now, Miss Bennett. Believe me when I tell you that you don’t want me on this hunt. I won’t stop until I take it all.” His hand slid down the side of her face to grab her throat. The tighter his grip became, the bigger his smile grew. “Think about that the next time you put your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
She broke the hold easily, almost too easily. He laughed. “You entertain me, Miss Bennett. Such fire,” he murmured, touching the wild red curls that fell over her shoulders. “Now that I’ve met you, I might even consider a trade.”
“Bad move for your business,” she replied.
He stepped closer. “And why’s that?”
Her voice was smooth as silk. “Your clients can’t afford me.”
He trailed a finger along her arm and over her chest, just above the lace trim of her shirt. “And how much are you worth, M.J.?”
“I’m priceless, motherfucker,” she answered, her hand landing on the button on the side panel that controlled the door. It unlocked with an audible click.
He made no move to stop her as she left his office. But he followed her, and stood, arms crossed, at the end of the hallway and watched her depart, ensuring that the mysteries of his private rooms remained undetected by the meddlesome troublemaker. He didn’t go back into to his office until she had disappeared from sight.
***
Get CHASING THUNDER now from AMAZON, BARNES & NOBLE, iTUNES and KOBO.
To get into the mood, check out the CHASING THUNDER Playlist I created for YouTube.
April 6, 2015
CHASING THUNDER sneak preview and pre-order info! #mjiscoming #listenforthethunder
In eight days, a 26-year dream of mine is coming true when CHASING THUNDER releases from True North Publishing. I've been in love with these characters for more than half my life, which is about how long it took for me to tell their story as well as it deserved to be told. It is a true joy to bring them to you at last. Meet my feisty kids, M.J., Snake and Baby in this excerpt from Chapter 2: Thunderstruck.
***
Hollywood faded into the distance behind them as they raced along Sunset Boulevard. The mosaic of Los Angeles passed alongside, from West Hollywood to Beverly Hills. The bike didn’t stop until they reached Santa Monica, where the rider finally turned off the main boulevard to a smaller side street, easing up to a nondescript white building with a green neon sign that read The Snake Pit.
Her rescuer hadn’t bothered to say a word during the long retreat. She killed the motor and slid from the bike. As she turned to face her, Haley didn’t know whether to thank her or scream for help. Those green eyes pierced right through her. “Got a name?”
Haley thought about it a second. She instinctively knew that she had to bury her identity in order to protect it. “Baby,” she finally answered. It was what both Billy and Tammy had called her, and it seemed as good an alias as any.
“Of course,” the biker said, reaching for her jacket.
“What about you?” Baby asked.
“M.J.,” she replied. She looked the young girl aboard her bike up and down, then handed her the jacket. “Here. You may get cold in that tissue you’re wearing.”
Baby only hesitated a moment before she dismounted and shrugged into the oversized jacket, which wrapped around her like another, more modest dress. With a satisfied nod of her head, M.J. turned on her heel and headed into the dive bar without another word. Baby was quick to follow.
The heavy steel door slammed behind them. Classic rock blared from the sound system. The bar was filled with bikers of all shapes and sizes, and every single one of them turned to see who had entered. Baby found herself shrinking behind M.J.’s lean frame, intimidated by the crustier clientele. M.J., however, stalked purposefully toward the bar, where a tall bearded man was making drinks.
He was rugged and handsome, towering over six feet tall, with broad shoulders barely contained by the black T-shirt he wore. His thick brown hair curled by the nape of his neck, while a neatly trimmed beard trailed along his strong, square jawline. Though he was rough around the edges, his dark eyes were kind. They regarded the redhead with playful affection.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said, smiling. He rounded the bar and took her up in a massive bear hug. “I oughta kick your ass for staying away so long,” he growled, holding her close.
“If you think you’re man enough,” she teased with a smile of her own.
He kept M.J. in the crook of his arm and turned his attention to Baby. “And who is your friend?”
“This is Baby,” she said. “Baby, this is Snake.”
Baby held out her hand and he shook it with power and authority. Despite his venomous moniker, for the first time in a long time, Baby actually felt safe. She offered him a small smile, which pleased him. He rounded the bar to pour her a soda. “Any friend of M.J.’s is a friend of mine,” he announced. “You hungry? I think we have just enough chili left for one more bowl.”
M.J. groaned. “I just got this girl out of Hollywood. I’m not sending her to the ER because of your chili.”
He held a hand to his chest. “I’m . . . I’m hurt.”
Baby couldn’t help but giggle. He was a charmer, there was no doubt about it. “I’ll risk it,” she said with a shy smile.
“See? She’s not afraid. Lori!” He hollered to the waitress across the room. “Set our friend up with a bowl of chili.” He leaned across the bar from Baby with a teasing gleam in his eye. “They’ll have to scrape most of it off the bottom of the pan with a chisel and a rock. Good stuff, though.”
Again Baby giggled. He gave her a wink and turned back to M.J. “So. What’s up?”
M.J. glanced down at Baby, who turned her attention back to her soda. With a wave of her finger, she led Snake away from the bar and into his office, closing the door behind them.
“Hollywood, huh?” he asked, perching on the edge of his cluttered desk. She shrugged in response, as if he should have known better than to ask. And of course he did. Molly Joanne Bennett had been patrolling Hollywood for nearly ten years, taking up the mantle left behind by her grandfather, Joe. She still wore his signet ring on the index finger of her left hand, and now she wore his bandana on her wrist and his dog tags around her neck as well. His mission had become her mission. It was her duty. It was her calling. All of that was status quo.
The only surprise was that she had brought one of her kids with her to the bar. That was new. “Surprised you didn’t leave her with Rose.”
“There was a slight complication,” M.J. replied, as if a dead gangbanger was as inconvenient as a misplaced set of keys. Snake, however, could easily read between the lines. “M.J.,” he groaned.
Her green eyes met his. “Can we crash with you? Just for a couple of days, while I figure out what to do with her.”
He sighed. He knew she wouldn’t ask if she had any other choice. And she never asked for help unless it was important. The girl sitting at his bar was in danger, and M.J. was willing to set aside her pride to help her. Snake looped two fingers through the belt loops on either side of her hips and drew M.J. toward him, fitting her right in between his powerful thighs. “When have you ever had to ask?”
“I don’t know. I just thought, maybe after last time . . .” She trailed off. Their turbulent history lay between them, as always.
“I guess you’ll just have to work really hard to make it up to me,” he said softly.
She happily responded with a kiss. He closed his arms around her waist, practically lifting her off the floor as he took immediate possession of her mouth. She melted against him with a soft moan.
When they rejoined Baby in the bar, she had already scarfed down half her bowl of chili. Jack, their resident playboy, had immediately filled the seat next to her to work on his A-game with the newest female. He realized his error as M.J. approached. “Back off, Jack. She’s underage.”
He held up his hands. He knew better than to pick a fight with the feisty redhead, who wasn’t called a “force of nature” for nothing. “No need to get testy.” He turned to Baby with a teasing pout. “You didn’t tell me you were underage.”
“You never gave me the chance,” Baby pointed out.
Snake laughed. “Now that’s a girl that speaks her mind. I like you already,” he told her with another wink. “Just give me about twenty to finish up a few things and then we can get out of here.”
Baby’s eyes widened. “Where are we going?”
Snake glanced between Baby and M.J. “Home,” he finally declared.
Baby opened her mouth, but no refusal was forthcoming. She couldn’t go back to the streets. She had had two brushes with disaster within the last twenty-four hours. She knew better than to press her luck with a third. And something told her she was completely safe with Snake. She wasn’t as sure about the redhead at his side, especially after seeing what she did to those scary men in the alley. M.J. was easily the most unpredictable woman Baby had ever met, which made her almost a threat by default.
But what choice did she have, really?
She finished her chili and crackers. She’d sucked down three sodas to fend off its five-alarm hot pepper, as well as her dry mouth from her earlier high. True to his word, Snake was ready to go shortly after. He shrugged on a jacket similar to the one M.J. had loaned her, and she followed them both on shaking legs to the parking lot. Without being told, she climbed aboard M.J.’s bike and waited.
***
The Storm is coming in EIGHT DAYS!! Pre-order CHASING THUNDER through AMAZON, iTUNES and KOBO!
***
Hollywood faded into the distance behind them as they raced along Sunset Boulevard. The mosaic of Los Angeles passed alongside, from West Hollywood to Beverly Hills. The bike didn’t stop until they reached Santa Monica, where the rider finally turned off the main boulevard to a smaller side street, easing up to a nondescript white building with a green neon sign that read The Snake Pit.
Her rescuer hadn’t bothered to say a word during the long retreat. She killed the motor and slid from the bike. As she turned to face her, Haley didn’t know whether to thank her or scream for help. Those green eyes pierced right through her. “Got a name?”
Haley thought about it a second. She instinctively knew that she had to bury her identity in order to protect it. “Baby,” she finally answered. It was what both Billy and Tammy had called her, and it seemed as good an alias as any.
“Of course,” the biker said, reaching for her jacket.
“What about you?” Baby asked.
“M.J.,” she replied. She looked the young girl aboard her bike up and down, then handed her the jacket. “Here. You may get cold in that tissue you’re wearing.”
Baby only hesitated a moment before she dismounted and shrugged into the oversized jacket, which wrapped around her like another, more modest dress. With a satisfied nod of her head, M.J. turned on her heel and headed into the dive bar without another word. Baby was quick to follow.
The heavy steel door slammed behind them. Classic rock blared from the sound system. The bar was filled with bikers of all shapes and sizes, and every single one of them turned to see who had entered. Baby found herself shrinking behind M.J.’s lean frame, intimidated by the crustier clientele. M.J., however, stalked purposefully toward the bar, where a tall bearded man was making drinks.
He was rugged and handsome, towering over six feet tall, with broad shoulders barely contained by the black T-shirt he wore. His thick brown hair curled by the nape of his neck, while a neatly trimmed beard trailed along his strong, square jawline. Though he was rough around the edges, his dark eyes were kind. They regarded the redhead with playful affection.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said, smiling. He rounded the bar and took her up in a massive bear hug. “I oughta kick your ass for staying away so long,” he growled, holding her close.
“If you think you’re man enough,” she teased with a smile of her own.
He kept M.J. in the crook of his arm and turned his attention to Baby. “And who is your friend?”
“This is Baby,” she said. “Baby, this is Snake.”
Baby held out her hand and he shook it with power and authority. Despite his venomous moniker, for the first time in a long time, Baby actually felt safe. She offered him a small smile, which pleased him. He rounded the bar to pour her a soda. “Any friend of M.J.’s is a friend of mine,” he announced. “You hungry? I think we have just enough chili left for one more bowl.”
M.J. groaned. “I just got this girl out of Hollywood. I’m not sending her to the ER because of your chili.”
He held a hand to his chest. “I’m . . . I’m hurt.”
Baby couldn’t help but giggle. He was a charmer, there was no doubt about it. “I’ll risk it,” she said with a shy smile.
“See? She’s not afraid. Lori!” He hollered to the waitress across the room. “Set our friend up with a bowl of chili.” He leaned across the bar from Baby with a teasing gleam in his eye. “They’ll have to scrape most of it off the bottom of the pan with a chisel and a rock. Good stuff, though.”
Again Baby giggled. He gave her a wink and turned back to M.J. “So. What’s up?”
M.J. glanced down at Baby, who turned her attention back to her soda. With a wave of her finger, she led Snake away from the bar and into his office, closing the door behind them.
“Hollywood, huh?” he asked, perching on the edge of his cluttered desk. She shrugged in response, as if he should have known better than to ask. And of course he did. Molly Joanne Bennett had been patrolling Hollywood for nearly ten years, taking up the mantle left behind by her grandfather, Joe. She still wore his signet ring on the index finger of her left hand, and now she wore his bandana on her wrist and his dog tags around her neck as well. His mission had become her mission. It was her duty. It was her calling. All of that was status quo.
The only surprise was that she had brought one of her kids with her to the bar. That was new. “Surprised you didn’t leave her with Rose.”
“There was a slight complication,” M.J. replied, as if a dead gangbanger was as inconvenient as a misplaced set of keys. Snake, however, could easily read between the lines. “M.J.,” he groaned.
Her green eyes met his. “Can we crash with you? Just for a couple of days, while I figure out what to do with her.”
He sighed. He knew she wouldn’t ask if she had any other choice. And she never asked for help unless it was important. The girl sitting at his bar was in danger, and M.J. was willing to set aside her pride to help her. Snake looped two fingers through the belt loops on either side of her hips and drew M.J. toward him, fitting her right in between his powerful thighs. “When have you ever had to ask?”
“I don’t know. I just thought, maybe after last time . . .” She trailed off. Their turbulent history lay between them, as always.
“I guess you’ll just have to work really hard to make it up to me,” he said softly.
She happily responded with a kiss. He closed his arms around her waist, practically lifting her off the floor as he took immediate possession of her mouth. She melted against him with a soft moan.
When they rejoined Baby in the bar, she had already scarfed down half her bowl of chili. Jack, their resident playboy, had immediately filled the seat next to her to work on his A-game with the newest female. He realized his error as M.J. approached. “Back off, Jack. She’s underage.”
He held up his hands. He knew better than to pick a fight with the feisty redhead, who wasn’t called a “force of nature” for nothing. “No need to get testy.” He turned to Baby with a teasing pout. “You didn’t tell me you were underage.”
“You never gave me the chance,” Baby pointed out.
Snake laughed. “Now that’s a girl that speaks her mind. I like you already,” he told her with another wink. “Just give me about twenty to finish up a few things and then we can get out of here.”
Baby’s eyes widened. “Where are we going?”
Snake glanced between Baby and M.J. “Home,” he finally declared.
Baby opened her mouth, but no refusal was forthcoming. She couldn’t go back to the streets. She had had two brushes with disaster within the last twenty-four hours. She knew better than to press her luck with a third. And something told her she was completely safe with Snake. She wasn’t as sure about the redhead at his side, especially after seeing what she did to those scary men in the alley. M.J. was easily the most unpredictable woman Baby had ever met, which made her almost a threat by default.
But what choice did she have, really?
She finished her chili and crackers. She’d sucked down three sodas to fend off its five-alarm hot pepper, as well as her dry mouth from her earlier high. True to his word, Snake was ready to go shortly after. He shrugged on a jacket similar to the one M.J. had loaned her, and she followed them both on shaking legs to the parking lot. Without being told, she climbed aboard M.J.’s bike and waited.
***
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