Ute Carbone's Blog, page 57

How the book got its title

Titles can be tough. Such was the case with my new book, Blueberry Truth.  

Books begin from all different starting points. In the case of this story, it all started with a little girl. She began talking to me and like a good writer, I took down her words. "My mama call me Blueberry," she said, "because that what she like when she have me. But my grandma say no child of mine be called Blueberry and she change my name to Truth." I called the story Blueberry Truth and pretty soon the vivacious and wonderful Beanie, who became Truth's teacher and eventually her foster mother, began to chime in. 

I started writing both voices, both in the first person. The name of the book became "Beanie and Blue". Then Beanie's husband Mac demanded equal time, so I added his voice as well. And the whole thing evolved into something new. I'm a sucker for alliteration, so the title "Beanie and Blue" stuck.

Several first readers read and liked the story. So I sent it out to a few agents, one of whom agreed to read. She turned it down, saying that the three first person voice structure made for a bumpy ride. And that I ought to let Beanie tell the tale.

I gave it a lot of thought. The advice meant a major rewrite and lots of changes I wasn't sure I wanted to make. I let the book sit under the bed while I wrote other things. I kept going back to it. And finally, I decided I'd give it a whirl and do the rewrite. I could always save the original, after all.

 
 

The agent had been right. Although the book lost a few steps in terms depth, it gained leaps and bounds in terms of smoothness and clarity. "Beanie and Blue, however, went from so-so title to bad title. I changed it yet again to "Blossom for Me" and sent it to Etopia Press. 

Annie Melton, the publisher at Etopia, wrote back saying she'd love to publish it. Only one thing, it needed a new title.  After jumping for joy a few times, I got back to work. We edited the book and all the while I brain stormed new titles. The list I had was exhaustive. Everything I could possibly imagine. I even wrote down the old titles, including...Blueberry Truth. 

 
 

I kind of liked Blueberry Truth. It had a nice ring to it. My editor kind of liked it to. So did Annie. And at the end of a long journey we ended up with a new title for my book. Blueberry Truth.  We've come full circle. Seems I had it right all along.

 

Haunted Heart

Carolyn Rosewood has a sexy romantic suspense coming out today! Buy it, read it, love it!

CAROLYN ROSEWOOD Etopia Press
  Rowena Sommers thought moving back home to restore her beloved Aunt's home was the key to starting over. Van Whitney thought taking the job would keep his business afloat. When a ghost hunter tries to convince Rowena the home is haunted, can these two escape the past and find a future together?
EXCERPT:
She didn't need Hollywood, or Brett Fontaine.
Rowena Sommers stuffed the latest issue of Celebrity back in the magazine rack, glancing around the Pilot gas station to see if anyone was watching. She sipped her coffee, fuming over the slant of the article.
Contrary to what the reporter said, her relationship with bad-boy leading man Brett Fontaine was in trouble long before she filed a libel suit against him for leaking her personal e-mails to the tabloids. The dumb-ass reporter should have checked the back issues, like the ones with candid photos of Brett and his female costars, taken every time he went on location. They ran right next to the stories with headlines like: Who's Keeping Rowena Company While Brett Romps in Australia?
A woman in denim cutoffs and an Ohio State T-shirt plucked a copy of the magazine from the rack and glanced sideways, her eyes wide. "This is you. On the cover."
Rowena studied the picture, taken on the steps of the Van Nuys courthouse three weeks ago. The day she won her lawsuit against Brett. The same day she found out her great-aunt Lunette had died. She'd trade twice the settlement amount to hear Aunt Loony's voice again. "Yes. That's me."
Rowena took another sip of coffee as she tried to formulate an answer that didn't involve telling this woman where she could stuff that magazine. Her cell chirped. Saved by the ring tone.
"I have to take this. Excuse me." She headed for the counter as she opened the phone with her free hand. "Tricia, impeccable timing, as always. You just saved me from an inquisitive fan."
"And judging by the sarcasm in your voice, I'm guessing you've seen this week's Celebrity?"
She glanced back toward the magazine rack, where the woman and a teen dressed like Lady Gaga were reading the article out loud. "Yeah, I've seen it. And as if this day could get any worse, I'm forced to drink gas station coffee."
Tricia laughed. "No Starbucks in Creek Ridge, Ohio?"
Her best friend's voice reached across the miles, tugging at her heart. Had it been a huge mistake leaving LA? "God, I hope there's still a Starbucks here." She took another sip. "This is actually better than the brown goo they tried to serve me at the Holiday Inn Express this morning."
"Have you been to Aunt Loony's house yet?" asked Tricia.
Rowena swiped her credit card through the machine. "On my way now. I'll call and let you know what the contractor said."
Ohio State and Lady Gaga moved behind her in line, still talking about the article. Rowena's fingers trembled as she put the card back in her wallet. She pushed past them without a glance. As she opened the door to the parking lot she heard one of them mutter something, but only caught the words "Hollywood" and "bitch."
Wonderful. Back in town less than twenty-four hours and already someone thought she had an attitude. So much for believing the gossip wouldn't follow her home.
She waited until she pulled out of the parking lot in her brand-spanking-new Infinity SUV before screaming. Dialing her iPod menu to Led Zeppelin, she turned up the volume, loud. Angry, frustrated, rebellious. Perfect.
The readers of Celebrity weren't interested in the story behind the lawsuit. They didn't care about the string of bullshit promises Brett had made. Or the callous way in which he'd trashed her costume design career and her industry contacts with a few keystrokes, all because she'd dared to issue him an ultimatum.
They only cared about two things: reading her personal e-mails, and how much money the Superior Court of Los Angeles had ordered him to pay her because of what he'd done.
They didn't care why she was in Ohio, or that Aunt Loony was dead. Brett's money wouldn't bring her back. Fun and zany, she'd been dubbed Aunt Loony by Rowena's father when he was a teen, and she'd loved Rowena and her five siblings as if they were her own.
Fresh grief mixed with anticipation. Willow Lane was less than two miles away. Would she be able to handle walking through Aunt Loony's house, knowing she'd never see her warm smile again?
Spotting a cop parked in front of a strip mall, she braked. Just for good measure, she turned down the volume on Jimmy Page and Robert Plant. She could see the headlines now: Rowena Sommers Arrested for Speeding in Hometown!
The memories overwhelmed her when she turned onto Willow Lane. She'd spent almost as much time on this street as her own, two blocks over. It hadn't changed in ten years. The oak tree in front of Traci Westphall's house, where she used to hide from her older sister Emma, still had dead branches along one side. Two doors down, she half expected Bud Williams to materialize in his driveway, sweeping up leaves and twigs while he muttered about the damn, dirty trees.
The scent of roses, lavender, and freshly cut grass filled the air. May sunshine shimmered on the pavement. The smells evoked memories of the end of each school year, when the magic of summer stretched out endlessly. Summer vacation meant going barefoot, walking down by the railroad tracks, and staying outside after dark to catch lightning bugs.
She was home, ready to be part of this town again. To be with people who made her feel safe, wanted, and who didn't measure their lives by the latest Nielson ratings or market shares.
But would they welcome her? Or had they read the tabloids while laughing at the girl voted Most Likely to Trip Over Her Own Shoelaces? She'd tripped all right, landing smack in the belly of the gossip machine.
The imposing Queen Anne at the end of the street, just before the entrance to Oak Park, rose into view. Despite the faded siding and missing shutters, the grandeur of the home still took her breath away. As her eyes settled on the four-story tower, she remembered summer nights in the second-floor bedroom, wishing she could live with Aunt Loony. Her own room, with no Emma harassing her or parents screaming at one of her brothers.
She slowed the car, turning off her iPod. Letting her gaze travel up to the top floor of the tower—the lookout point—she recalled her big brother Jake and his friends pretending they were pirates. Part of the game included the ability to see all the way to Cleveland, where ships from exotic places like Spain or China would pull into port, stuffed with treasure beyond imagination. She was usually stuck playing the kidnapped damsel in distress or a cabin boy. They'd ignored Emma when she repeatedly pointed out Lake Erie had never been plagued by pirates, nor had treasure ships sailed on the Great Lakes.
The trim lawn and pristine flower beds brought a smile to her face. Her little brother had actually kept a promise. If a contractor showed up, he'd have kept two. For Mike, that would be a record.
She raised her eyes to heaven. "Thank you for the house, Aunt Loony. I promise to take good care of it." She could almost hear Aunt Loony's hearty laugh and see the twinkle in her green eyes.
Her smile faded at the sight of a silver Mercedes parked in the driveway. If that belonged to the contractor, she was about to get ripped off.
She parked the SUV in front, then caught the hem of her favorite summer skirt in the door as she tried to make a graceful exit. She glanced toward the Mercedes. Too late. The driver's side door was already open. Classy way to make a first impression, Rowena.
In the towering maple on the front lawn, a pair of robins started to chirp, probably about her clumsiness. She released her skirt then took a deep breath, turning to look at the man leaning against the Mercedes. Her mouth fell open as she scanned his face. It couldn't be…
Vance Whitney—everyone calls me Van—belonged to the perfect, popular crowd of cheerleaders and jocks that had made her existence at Creek Ridge High a lesson in insignificance.
He crossed muscled arms over a forest green polo shirt that set off his luminous blue eyes, even at this distance. Broad shoulders tapered to a trim waist, and the khakis he wore accentuated his long legs. The same confident grin she remembered spread across his tanned face.
This is the contractor Mike called? No way. Not happening.
No matter how hot he still looked.

Dingaling Kerching Kerching!

Image by RobertCiavarro via FlickrMy friend Harriet said it best. I had just told her that I'd been to Las Vegas for the first time, that though I found the place kind of fun and interesting it was...well. "System overload," she said. "I've always come back from there needing to unwind."


And yes, that's it exactly. There is an excitement to the place, bells go off and lights whirl around and music plays and things flash and there are people everywhere. There seems to be, however, not one quiet corner in the  whole place.

We had come, my husband and I because of a conference (his). I was within a hair's breath of finishing the draft of a new book- so I figured that while he was away doing his conference thing, I could busily type along and finish.  I holed up in the room to do just that and two interruptions by housekeeping (who could not imagine why I wanted to be holed up in my room) later I was done.

The irony here is that in the book, the main character Cass had been offered a chance to work in Vegas- for a lot of money. She had turned it down- adamantly.. When I put an earlier draft out to beta readers, they wanted to know why somebody would turn down big bucks in sin city.  The why needed to be explained and this is one of the things i did in that hotel room.
Honestly, it was harder to write the I hate Vegas spiel having been there. I don't hate Vegas. It has it's own sort of strange appeal. I mean how can you hate a place where they give you free drinks while you play slot machines?
Fun, in it's own way, but by the end of the week I was on ding-ding overload. All those bright lights! All that kerching-ding-pop! All those people! I needed a vacation.

Versatile Blogger

Lindsay Davis http://lyndseyrosedavis.weebly.com has kindly bestowed the Versatile Blogger award on my blog. Thanks Lynn!


Rules for the Versatile Blogger are as follows:

* Thank the person who gave you the award and link back to their site in your original post.
    Done!

* Tell us seven things about yourself.
    Hmm....
    1. I live and write in Southern New Hampshire
    2. I was born in Dusseldorf, Germany and came to the US with my parents when I was five. Explains the name.
    3. I've been married for thirty two years. My husband and I have two grown sons
    4. Years ago, I taught special education. The experience came in handy in writing "Blossom for Me" in which the main character is a special ed teacher.
    5. I taught a first-draft writing workshop called Wildwords for twelve years.
    6. I love to walk and hike. And ski in winter. I was on a ski patrol while in college.
    7. English was my favorite and best subject in high school, so I went to college and got a degree in biology. What can I say? I needed the challenge?

* Pass along the award to five newly discovered bloggers.
It's tough to narrow this list down to five! But here goes:
  
Heartwork  
Kate Johnson's beautiful essays.
 http://wishingstone.wordpress.com/2011/05/13/a-blessing/

Dark Mr. Fripperton's  Ruminations on the Universe
Brian Moreau's musings and terrific poetry
http://dmfuniverse.blogspot.com/2011/04/scatter-shots.html?zx=2444b90416a6810b

Outrunning Storms
Andre Papillon's poetry
http://pretentiousithinknot.blogspot.com/2011/03/her-gleam.html

Kristen Noelle Trust Tending
Kristen Noelle's wonderful illustrations and gentle ruminations about life.
http://www.kristinnoelle.com/2011/05/06/ripples-of-kindness/

Global Film Review
Sean Murphy reviews documentaries and foreign films
http://globalfilm.foreignpolicyblogs.com/2011/04/19/talibanistan-2010/ 

I wish I could give away more! I hope you'll go and visit these excellent blogs.





* Contact these bloggers and let them know they got this award.

Guest Blog at Books by Women

I'm off traveling through cyberia today. I have a guest blog at:
http://booksbywomen.org/
Come visit with me at this terrific new site!

Walking and Writing

I love the quiet rhythm or my feet on city concrete or woodland earth or sandy beach. There's something in walking that frees my mind and allows it to wander. There is something wondrous in discovering what's around the next bend. On a recent walk at a local park, there were two swans gliding on a pond. On a recent trip to New York City, I walked through the rain among multicolored umbrellas to discover a treed plaza tucked neatly between skyscrapers.Walking and writing are related for me. I'll be walking along when suddenly the ending of a story will occur to me. Or the first lines of a poem. Or the key to solving some sticky problem that I've gotten my characters embroiled in. In writing, as in walking, there is a sense of discovery. My characters often surprise me. I write the first draft of a novel to find what will happen next, what unexpected thing will fall unannounced from my pen to the page. A lot of writers are also walkers. How about you? Do the miles under your shoes translate into words?

Something to do while I'm waiting

I'm waiting for my book, "Blossom for Me", to be released. I love that one of my books is finally moving out, its cardboard suitcase all packed, to find its way in the world. It's a watershed moment for me- a tide change. Maybe even a change of luck. I'm thrilled and excited and filled with anticipation. And I'm scared. My inner critic, Zelda, is playing devil's advocate: what if it gets terrible reviews?? What if nobody wants to read it?? The disaster! The horror!

I tell Zelda to shut up already. I mean, chances are good that it will neither do as well or as badly as I think. It will be a nice book, well received and with a little extra luck, a few people will read it. I tell myself that  Zelda is wrong more often than not. She had me biting my nails over first round edits. I've finished them now- and they were fine. The occasional embarrassing slip-up was found by my editor and this is a good thing. This is a fabulous thing because I want the book to read well. Going over the edits was time consuming, but it was hardly earth shattering. Zelda had been quite sure I'd have to start from scratch and re-write the whole thing. But I didn't. Now I wait for my editor to get back with the second round and Zelda's at it again. Though really, I'm sure those edits will be just fine as well.

Wisdom among writers is that the best way to get past waiting is work on something else. So that's what I'm doing. I have three works in progress at the moment. Zelda thinks this is insanity and she may have a point. Three novels in progress and six 'finished' manuscripts that may or may not see the outside world; along with several hundred poems and an assortment of short stories and a collection of plot bunnies under the bed may well be the clinical definition of totally nuts. I've been prolific and disciplined at writing. I have been horrid and lackadaisical at trying to find placement. Zelda is sure this is abnormal. I am, she says, like the woman with twenty cats who simply can't resist getting yet another kitten.

Fine, but at least I have something to work on. And , Zelda aside, I still believe that if I work long enough and hard enough, I will someday have something spectacular, something amazing. Or at the very least something else that's publishable. So I keep on working. I'm currently re-writing a book called "Without Wings" for the umpteenth time. It took me two long years to work through the draft. Now I'm trying to make it better. Zelda thinks it is an awful mess and, with three points of view, totally and wholly and without a doubt unpublishable. But I keep plugging away. Because maybe this is the book. The one I'm meant to write. This may be  the amazing spectacular wow! I've been working for. Or not. Who can predict these things?

At least it gives me something to do while I'm waiting for Blossom to be published. And who knows, maybe that is the book. The one I was meant to write.

New Hampshire State Poem

My friend and fellow poet Andre Papillon  is hoping to get  his poem, "New Hampshire Impressions" named as New Hampshire's first state poem.
Andre has been interviewed by the Nashua Telegraph for an article about the poem. So if you live in the Nashua area, check the paper!





New Hampshire Impressions
This bridge of land has been unlocked
From careful hand to masts of rock
That loom and stretch the ribboned road
Has quarried most, that green she coats
Then inks to black where eyes of doe
Flit swift and cold near boulder's throne

By cutting gullies, frothing white
The heads of moss poke holes through night
And burdened there with cat-like eyes
Are sparkler brights on country heights
Whose patient rovers crossing lanes
Drop tracks of rolls and coffee stains

This one grand slope that furrows time
That grapples sky with mountain's light
It's bands of silver etching through
What rings of birch have leaned askew
The bridge holds true, it cups and throws
The bedrock falls to silt and stew

Where simmering we see her toil
A family sown in land's deep soil
A cloud of crow, a wash of dove
Round heights that ice has gripped above
And soon to rinse her granite face
That rain has carved with cunning grace

Into a shallow water's trough
Grand spectacle greets fish and moth
That boats could swell in mirrored sounds
Their waning cries call dusk to shrouds
Bathe valley steeple crowned with white
Poke spires round God's pristine sight

Prod fingers clay that belch and steam
Hold weary workers heads to dream
Call clouds to boil in heaven's hand
Calm fears that strive to understand
That faith and stone are shaped the same
Beneath this lion's fiery mane 
Andre Papillon
If you'd like to help with this campaign and you're on facebook,  you can put "New Hampshire Impressions" in the search section and then like Andre's poem. 
If you're in New Hampshire, you can also write your  local representatives in support of the poem. 
Good Luck Andre!

Words and Music

 In the book I just finished, a story tentatively called "Without Wings", the main character, Cass,  is a rock star who has, metaphorically speaking, lost her way. She's gone off to a small town to write a new album.

I always try to get inside my characters, to live inside their skins, see what they see, feel what they feel.  Cass, as I understood her, noticed the world through sound and music. I'm not certain that this is a unique "Cass" trait or more of my own trait (there are bits of me in all my characters, after all) but in writing Cass's story  I began to understand how important music has been to my writing. Music is where the writing began.

 I've always loved a good lyric and the musicians I love best have always been the ones with terrific lyrics- Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen, Joni Mitchell and Paul Simon, Harry Chapin and Billy Joel. I love old folk songs for the same reason. There's something haunting in a song like Three Ravens. I heard Peter Paul and Mary sing it when I was a kid. Years later, I learned it was from a poem dating back to the middle ages.
My love of words grew from these songs. They said something real to me, something that expressed what it meant to be a human being walking around on this blue planet.

I wanted to do that, too. I wanted to say something about my life, my feelings, maybe about life in a bigger way. It's how I came to write poetry. Out of poetry came a need to tell stories, longer more expansive versions of what I had been doing with poems. That love of words, of what they can do, of the power they can hold all began with lyrics.

For Cass, music and lyrics are at the very center of things, they are her heart and soul, her way of being in the world. I suppose that's why I created her. It's much the same for me.