Laurie Boris's Blog, page 23

The Last Rejection Slip

I’m no poet, but I had a little fun writing this during JD Mader’s Flash Fiction Friday. There’s so much great writing going on at 2 Minutes: Go. I hope you’ll check it out. And maybe next week, you’ll come write with us. Or read what results.

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The Last Rejection Slip

Dear author, confidentially,

I’ve had the opportunity

To peruse your latest tome

About the final sack of Rome

Or was it romance in the air

Between two alpha billionaires?

A clone of the latest big bestseller

Paranormal fortuneteller?

A steampunk Valley of the Dolls?

Amish gangsters and their molls?

While it’s brilliant, shows such pluck

It won’t help me make a buck.

Sorry for the frank report

There’s just too much mail to sort.

So thanks but no thanks, author friend,

And with this query I will send

My suggestion you self-publish

Check out Facebook, Twitter, Bublish.

If you do well, please advise

Because I’d like to cut my ties.

See, there’s a novel in my head

(Seinfeld meets The Walking Dead.)

I’m dying to get out of here

Publish more than once a year

Write the book I damn well please

And get bigger royalties.

Shadow Days and Making Amends by Melinda Clayton: Reviews

I’ve been catching up on a little reading over the last few weeks, and I wanted to share my thoughts on two excellent stories by Melinda Clayton. Full disclosure: Melinda is a fellow IU minion, but I began reading and enjoying her books before she signed on.

Making Amends

Making Amends is a standalone story, just released. I’m a sucker for a good, broken character seeking redemption, or at least trying to do damage control and move on. And Melinda Clayton brings it, with heart and compassion and the depth of understanding she undoubtedly brings from her background as a psychotherapist.

I stayed up way too late for several nights in a row reading Making Amends because I needed to know what happened next. The characters are full and heartbreakingly real, heartbreakingly broken and doing the best they can to pull it all together. I fell hard for Ben, a man on the edges of Alzheimer’s, lucid enough at times to understand and plan for what he’ll be losing, including his tender, funny, loving relationship with his wife, Von. I felt their conflict, their sorrow, their hope, their stolen moments. To tell too much would spoil this well-crafted, well-paced story, but I would recommend it to anyone who enjoys a deep, thoughtful story about attempting to build a meaningful life out of the broken pieces.

Shadow Days

This is the fourth book in the Cedar Hollow Series. After three stories that focused on several residents of the town at various points in history, what I found really interesting was looking at Cedar Hollow from an outsider’s point of view—not a child returning, but a complete stranger. On the first anniversary of her husband’s death, Emily Holt flees the Florida home where she sees Greg everywhere she looks and ends up broken down, literally and figuratively, just outside of Cedar Hollow. I like the back and forth of what Emily makes of the town…and what they make of her.

But like that saying, “Wherever you go, there you are,” she can’t run too far from her memories, or the secrets she’s been keeping from her children.

Appalachian Justice, the first book in the series, is still by far my favorite, but this was an interesting spin, a visit with old friends, and a psychological plot line about mental illness that hit very close to home for me. A definite yes for Cedar Hollow and Melinda Clayton fans.

A little update, a little sale

Hi, everyone. Just wanted to give you an update on what I’m working on and let you know about a couple of titles on sale…and one free.

A Sudden Gust of Gravity is a story I’ve wanted to tell for a long time. It’s about a young woman who wants to become a magician, in a field mainly dominated by men. I’ll share more with you later, including excerpts, giveaways, and the spiffy cover Mr. Art Man is working on. Right now, publishing looks good for early November. If you’d like to get the details first, you can sign up to get that info here.

Now, the sales:

Don’t Tell Anyone will be on sale for 99 cents until September 19 on Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and iBooks. And if you’d like to learn more about younger son Charlie Trager, you can pick up The Picture of Cool, the prequel to his story, for free on Amazon from September 16-17.

Here are the details:

Don’t Tell Anyone

Liza’s mother-in-law once called her a godless hippie raised by wolves. Now, after five years of marriage to her elder son, five years of disapproval and spite, the family accidentally learns that Estelle has a fatal illness. And Estelle comes to her with an impossible request. A horrified Liza refuses but keeps the question from her husband and his brother. As the three children urge Estelle to consider treatment, their complicated weave of family secrets and lies begins to unravel. Can they hold their own lives together long enough to help Estelle with hers?

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Dont-Tell-Anyone-Laurie-Boris-ebook/dp/B00AGPB3KA/

Amazon UK:  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dont-Tell-Anyone-Laurie-Boris-ebook/dp/B00AGPB3KA/

BN:  http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/dont-tell-anyone-laurie-boris/1113940247

ITunes:  https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/dont-tell-anyone/id585952395

UK iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/gb/book/dont-tell-anyone/id585952395

SW:  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/261263

Kobo: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-us/books/Dont-Tell-Anyone/S6XvYPjWg0usx0pOeFIKYA

The Picture of Cool  (Free, Sept 16-17)

Television producer Charlie Trager spends his days working with beautiful women on a daytime talk show. But underneath his cool façade, there’s a hollow spot in his heart, waiting for the right man to ease his loneliness. Then he meets the show’s next guest, a handsome young politician with a bad case of nerves—and a secret that could turn both their lives upside down.

http://www.amazon.com/Picture-Cool-Laurie-Boris-ebook/dp/B00JHO7VYI/

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Picture-Cool-Laurie-Boris-ebook/dp/B00JHO7VYI/

Happy trails and safe travels, and I hope you’re having a lovely week.

What Would MacGuyver Do?

Happy Sunday! (Or Monday, depending on where you live.) Just wanted to share something I wrote for JD Mader’s flash fiction line dancing and Karaoke party on Friday. And also in celebration of “MacGuyver” being added to the Oxford online dictionary. Which I always thought should have been a word.

——

All you wanted was coffee. You’d run out and didn’t trust yourself to make the forty-minute drive to the nearest diner uncaffeinated, so you’d knocked on the door of the nice neighbor ladies, who’d been so accommodating in the past with their home-baked goods and offers to take in mail.

Two hours later, you’re diagnosing the wiring of a light switch, and all you remember from high school shop classes is that you need to turn off the power first. But you’re supposed to know things, know how to fix things, being a single man living a single life in a single-family house, and staring into the naked wires with the fretful, dough-soft face of one of those nice ladies hovering over your shoulder, you cringe at your inadequacy.

“Am I bothering you?” she says, hands twisting a dishcloth.

Yes. Yes, she is. She’s reminding you that your XY chromosome is a pathetic little sucker, a setup for failure, a condemnation of the Madison Avenue images your cohort was raised to emulate: the Marlboro Man, John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and MacGuyver. Damn you, MacGuyver, with your chewing gum and rubber bands, making us all look bad.

“No, Daphne, you’re not bothering me at all.” The flat blade skips free of the stripped screw head and digs into the meat of your opposite thumb.

“I’ll get you a bandage,” she sighs, trying for a reassuring smile. “And some banana bread? Would you like that, Frank?”

Like you’re her nephew. But the words are soft and powdered and soothe your nerves.

“Yeah. Thanks.” And the moment she’s gone, you take a deep breath, search the web for repair tips, then reposition the screwdriver, asking yourself what MacGuyver might do when he’s at home. Probably call an electrician.

Tips for Writing Dialogue

I’m sharing this witty, informative post by Kristen Lamb on writing dialogue. She offers some great tips. If you’re a writer, maybe they’ll help you or act as a refresher. And if you’re a reader, what do you like in dialogue and what sets your teeth on edge?

https://warriorwriters.wordpress.com/2015/09/10/9-ways-to-improve-your-dialogue/

 

 

 

2 Minutes Go Road Trip Redux

During the night, the Mader signal shone through the fog into the night sky, and our hero put on his cape and sped away to fight for truth, justice, and the right to wear vintage clothing…and hats. Lots of hats. So he gave me the keys and his secret burrito recipe, and 2 Minutes Go is happening here today. Or, in Mr. Mader’s very words, which I stole from his blog:

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON’T IDENTIFY AS ‘WRITERS’ – all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!



Write whatever you want in the ‘comments’ section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds … no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send ’em here to read your ‘two’ and encourage them to play.

——-

What? You miss the uber-cool orange background and the motorcycles at JD’s place? No worries. You can hang with Napoleon. Or just close your eyes and pretend. Vroom. Here’s a bit from me to start us out:

The ocean swallowed her whole. That’s the myth, anyway, the news story of the day, the collective shrug of a young nation with jazz on its mind and better things to do than investigate the disappearance of a pirate ship that had kidnapped a flighty American heiress in Dubai and taken her to a fate one could only imagine. You’ve been studying this lost cause for your dissertation—another lost cause. You’ve been studying her. Newsreels, microfiche, cracked and yellowed pages of magazines, the presses of which had long been dismantled or melted down and made into other things. Yes, the clothing – more like costume – looked frivolous and altogether impractical, unlike your up-and-run ensemble of jeans and T-shirts. And to the casual gazer, the smile would appear as if she didn’t have a care deeper than which bit of fluff to wear for dinner. But the eyes. They were smart. They held secrets. They told stories. You’d dug for them. You were relentless. Then your advisor called you into his office. Suggested a different angle. Suggested you’d been working too hard. Hinted at obsession. Problems at home, perhaps? Biting at the inside of your cheek, you thanked him for his concern, said you’d think about it. And then you had the dream. She was calling to you. Three nights straight, she called for you. Told you where to find her. So real, like you could reach out and touch her rouged cheek, her flapper jewelry that would now be called vintage and go for a mint. You took the plane ticket and left the note, because you could not bear to deliver the news in person and watch another face soften with concern, another pair of eyes attempt to hide their disapproval. Now you mash your toes into the hot sands of the desert by the ocean, waves of heat warping the margins between sand, sea, and sky. A bit of something down the beach sparkles in the sun. You dig. It’s battered, tarnished…but it’s real. A necklace, pearls embedded in a delicate, broken web of silver. Vintage. Hers.

I Haaaht Boston

Did you ever visit somewhere and know, deep in your soul, that you’d live there one day? That when the time was right, a place would open up its arms to you? Sure, maybe that welcoming embrace would be scratchy and too tight in the wrong ways and its breath would smell like beer and last night’s nachos, but it would still be home.

My introduction to Boston was a short trip to investigate a few prospective colleges. I stayed in Cambridge with my brother and his partner, who would eventually become his wife and then his ex-wife. It was a bumpy phase for the two of them, so I spent a lot of that visit getting scarce. Not so good for them, but an opportunity for me to investigate the city. I didn’t have tons of money for subways, but the streets were fine. Not frenetic and slightly scary like Manhattan (or at least that’s way I felt about it at sixteen, in the days before Times Square went Disney), but approachable. All slouchy and comfortable, like my faded jeans and satin baseball cap. (Hey, they were in style back then, don’t judge me.)

Life sped forward, and with my shiny diploma and gigantic portfolio, I was looking for a job on Madison Avenue. New York was still frenetic, still slightly scary…and I was miserable. So when my magician friend floated the possibility of finding work in Boston, the dirty water of the Charles called my name.

Visiting the city at sixteen had been fun…like hanging out with that cute, guilty-pleasure guy you’d never take home to Mom. Marrying the place was a whole ’nother bowl of chowder, and I’d apparently romanticized all the bad points from my little high school fling. Among other challenges, I had to navigate a subway system, the job market, the neighborhoods, and the lack of decent bagels. Then there was the language difference. I grew up speaking what I thought was English, an assumption that only lasted until I tried to order a cup of coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts.

“Cawfy reglah?”

“What?”

Eyeroll from the cashier as the line behind me grumbled. And small, slow words, like I was five. “Ya. Want. Caw. Fee. Reg. Lah?”

I thought I understood. Regular coffee. In my culture, that meant black. Regular, plain old coffee, right? Wrong. Cream and sugar. Next.

So of course my first job involved working the counter at a copy shop and answering the phone. Apparently the Universe had decided I needed full-on language immersion. The owners were two Southie guys who’d been best friends since Scollay Square had strippers. (Google it, kids.) My first week, one of them reduced me to tears—of laughter and pain—when he tried to explain where I was supposed to deliver a box of flyers.

“Havastree,” he said. I shook my head. He repeated it again and again as if that were the secret to understanding, because apparently, the syllable-by-syllable breakdown hadn’t worked for me. Finally he said it slowly enough for me to realize that it was two words: “Havad Street.”

But I’d never heard of the place. I’d even checked the map. Frustration pinched the corners of his eyes. “You know, Havad Street. Havad Street. Like the college.” And then he wrote it down: H-A-V-A-D. No, I’m not making this up.

I did assimilate, eventually. The magician moved on, but I stayed a few more years. I even developed a bit of an accent and a fondness for the Red Sox, much to my Yankee-loving father’s dismay. In my heart, though, I miss the place wicked bad, and I know that those big arms would have me back again, someday. Especially now that I don’t need Rosetta Stone to order a cup of coffee.

—–

Laurie Boris has been writing fiction for over twenty-five years and is the award-winning author of five novels with another on the way. When not playing with the universe of imaginary people in her head, she’s a freelance copyeditor and enjoys baseball, reading, and avoiding housework.  Want to join the mailing list and learn about special deals and upcoming releases, including her next novel, A Sudden Gust of Gravity, which is set in lovely, lovely Boston? You can do that here.

What IS Flash Fiction, Anyway?

I’ve been writing flash fiction for a while now, and I love it. I began with Indies Unlimited’s weekly flash fiction contest and really enjoyed the writing challenge of winnowing a story down to the required 250 words. Then JD Mader was cool enough to open up his blog on Fridays to anyone who wanted to set a timer and try a little spontaneous flash. (Okay, sometimes we forget the timer.) I was hooked. I was so hooked that as the stories piled up, I thought about putting out a collection.

But based on some of the reader response, and a question from my father, I realize I left out one very important component: What the heck IS flash fiction, anyway?

Because she’s so good at explaining things (and because she wrote a really succinct post about the five elements of flash fiction), I’m going to leave it to one of my fabulous Indies Unlimited fellow minions, Lynne Cantwell.

As a general rule, flash fiction is considered to be less than 1,000 words long….Flash is a recognized format for fiction, with elements that each story ought to include.

1. A plot. To be clear, a flash fiction piece is a complete story. Just like a longer piece of fiction, your flash piece needs a beginning, a middle, and an ending. I saw one website that recommended writing an outline for each flash story. I think that’s going a little overboard; your outline could end up longer than the story. But if your story doesn’t have an ending – if, say, you find you’ve written a scene that could be part of a longer story, or even part of a novel – then it’s not technically flash fiction.

2.  Characters. You don’t have a lot of space to describe your characters, obviously, but readers should still be able to tell them apart. Use telling details that you can describe in a few words. Keep your character count low, and stick with one point-of-view.

You can read the rest of Lynne’s post on Indies Unlimited.

Here’s an example of one of my flash fiction pieces. I’d never written anything science-fictiony before, so this was a fun challenge.

Fitting Rooms

She strolled past a sign that read “Fitting Rooms” and caught a glimpse of the engineer’s handiwork in a reflective surface.

They’d done a good job.

She looked like most of the other human females she’d passed in the shopping mall. Hair like the others, a suitable length, the same vacant stare she’d emulated with the help of the simulation program. Now all she had to do was keep fitting in, and wait for the signal to start the next phase of her mission. They hadn’t told her what that was, and despite her queries, they still would not explain.

In fact, her trainer had taken her aside and said it was dangerous to ask twice, so she’d stopped.

Her attention was drawn all of a sudden to the collar of her shirt. Her reflection’s hand rose to straighten it, and she noticed that it was a different style than the type worn by the two females who’d just exited the rooms. That didn’t seem right. Maybe the engineer had made a mistake and had given her the wrong simulation.

She glanced up again at the sign on the wall. Perhaps this is where you go to be more fitting. So, following the lead of another, she grabbed a garment and disappeared behind the curtain.

That was when she felt the vibration. The chip implanted in her brain had been activated. Finally, she would know her purpose and how she could help her planet—but why was the vibration so loud? And that whine? It hurt…hurt…so sharp she gasped and dropped to her knees. The human females began to circle her, eyes questioning, hands reaching out, and as her consciousness ebbed away, the edges of her vision going black, she heard the faintest of voices in her mind: Independent thought detected…independent thought detected…indepen…

——-

Have a great weekend!

Laurie Boris has been writing fiction for over twenty-five years and is the award-winning author of five novels with another on the way. When not playing with the universe of imaginary people in her head, she’s a freelance copyeditor and enjoys baseball, reading, and avoiding housework.  Want to join the mailing list and learn about special deals and upcoming releases? You can do that here.

Flash Fiction, Carnival Edition

What a week! So I blew off a little steam at the hula-hoop rockabilly break-the-blog revival at JD Mader’s Unemployed Imagination. Maybe you’ll join us next Friday for a little two-minute (give or take) flash fiction. Here’s one of my pieces from this week. I hope you’ll also roll on over and check out what the other writers threw down. So much fancy word-dancing in one place.

———-

The kid with the Harry Potter glasses had an arm on him—the only worrisome prospect Joey had seen all night—but three tries, no dice. “This game is rigged.”

Joey smirked. “Tell it to someone who makes more than five bucks an hour. Next!” But the troublemaker didn’t move. Just pressed his lips together and gave him the stink-eye. “What? You casting a spell on me?”

“I want my money back!”

“Beat it, kid. Go get sick on corn dogs or something. You had your chance, let someone else take a turn.” He grinned at the tiny red-haired girl behind him. “Step right up, little lady, three chances to knock a bottle down, three chances to win!”

“It’s rigged,” Harry Potter said to her. “You’re not gonna win.”

She pursed her lips at him. “Says who?”

“Says physics, that’s what. The bottles are weighted on the bottom. The balls aren’t heavy enough.”

“Jeez, kid.” Joey pressed his palms into the counter and leaned forward, trying to look menacing. Not easy in the stupid candy-striped vest management made them wear. “Trying to make a living here. You think my various vices and devices come cheap? Now step off and let the lady try.” He hooked an eyebrow. “Unless you’re afraid she’s gonna show you up.”

The kid stood straighter. “I’m not afraid.”

Still eyeballing Harry Potter, Joey rustled up three balls and smacked them down in front of the girl. She gave the boy a testicle-withering glare, fired back and bam-bam-bam, three bottles toppled over.

Mouth falling open, the kid reached for his back pocket. “I wanna try that again.”

Joey stuck out his palm.

Six tries later, the boy groaned in disgust and skulked away.

When he was out of view, Joey beckoned the little girl forward and slipped a five into her hand. She dropped her gaze to the bill, then back up at him. “You promised seven.”

He slid her a grin and added another couple of bucks to her take. “You learn quick, sweetheart,” he said, tugging on one of her braids. “One day you’re gonna make Mom and I so proud.”

———–

Laurie Boris has been writing fiction for over twenty-five years and is the award-winning author of five novels with another on the way. When not playing with the universe of imaginary people in her head, she’s a freelance copyeditor and enjoys baseball, reading, and avoiding housework. See what’s on sale this month here.

Want to join the mailing list and learn about special deals and upcoming releases? You can do that here.

Are Likable Characters Important in Women’s Fiction?

laurieboris:

Interesting. I don’t need “likable.” Relatable, yes. Interesting, yes. Makes me root for her to learn some hard lessons through the story, absolutely. What do you think?

Originally posted on A Writer's Path:

When the moderator of a recent women’s fiction panel asked me if I expected to be friends with the protagonists in the women’s fiction I read, I had the oddest reaction: my mind went blank. Madly scanning my mental spreadsheet of great fiction in an effort to be truthful, in front of an auditorium full of avid readers I would have been happy to impress, I could suddenly recall no protagonist in any book I’d ever read. Could I think of characters who were compelling, closed off, quirky, troubled, clever? Sure. But I had never thought to sort any of them into the column titled “friends.”

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