S.M. Johnson's Blog, page 25

SM Johnson ~Thursday Morning Coffee ~

~For writers and readers who aspire to be writers~

Let's have coffee, shall we?

So, now that I accidentally wrote a 3 part Thursday series on reviews and reviewing, and about how I try to learn from reviews because I am always working to learn more about my craft, let's talk about that.

Craft. What is it?

From Dictionary.com


craft [kraft, krahft]

craft   [kraft, krahft] Show IPA noun, plural crafts or,for 5, 8, craft, verb
noun
1.
an art, trade, or occupation requiring special skill, especiallymanual skill: the craft of a mason.
2.
skill; dexterity: The silversmith worked with great craft.
3.
skill or ability used for bad purposes; cunning; deceit; guile.
4.
the members of a trade or profession collectively; a guild.
5.
a ship or other vessel.

verb (used with object)

9. to make or manufacture... [omit] with skill and careful attention to detail.

I love that last part - to make or manufacture with skill and careful attention to detail. Because that's the goal of writing - to bring others into the world we create, to convince and encourage them to buy into our world, to love or hate or, at the very least, believe in our story people.

Today I left a writer's helper site because it really was not devoted to improving craft. The site was in actuality devoted to drinking the self-promotional Kool-aid. It seems to exist to convince writers how best to manipulate statistics, reviews, reviewers, and readers into buying books, even if those books are of inferior quality. The site is just a site, kind of a tiny corner community, and the participants are exceptionally enthusiastic to a degree that sometimes causes me to grind my teeth. Oh, how the little group of core members lavish praise upon one another with multiple exclamation points.
Image from ModdbThey teach how to compare your book to pop-culture, to create a cover blurb that sells millions of copies because it's so dang clever.
Here are the ones I tried on: 1) Like Twilight, but without the bad writing, lame characters, and sunlight sparkle. 2) Just like Twilight, except the vampires drink human blood and burn to ash in the sun. 3) Vampires that are not a cross between Twilight and anything.
Anyway. Let me add a disclaimer here. I am feeling more damaged than usual due to having read the Hunger Games Trilogy between last Friday and now. So I am, indeed, quieter, more introspective, and more negative. Such a mood will certainly die off, probably after a good night's sleep.
In the meantime, I want to express some gratitude. Gratitude for writers like Robert B. Parker, Greg Isle, Suzanne Collins, Lee Child, Anne Rice, Harlan Coben (to name a very few) who craft exceptional stories. 
Gratitude for huge, commercial companies who've made writing their business - like, say... Writer's Digest. There's nothing subtle about WD - they exist to make money from wanna-be writers. 
Yes. They do. Trust me. They offer subscriptions to WD Magazine, push the Writers Guide (submission bible) for sale, and have numerous pay-to-participate on-line webinars. They have a whole catalog/book club library of books about writing.
WD is a business. But it is a business devoted to helping writers improve craft, and to that end they do an exceptional job. If you pay for a WD webinar, you are going to learn about something.
Watch for this issue from WD - Soon!Heck, I get a regular email update however often it gets sent out, and I've learned things from WD columnists that I haven't learned anywhere else - and it was FREE.
Like this article by Steven James: How To Raise Your Character Above The Status Quo
And this one by Hallie Ephron: How To Write Effective Supporting Characters
I am grateful for the questions my husband, the non-reader, asks. He reads slowly, but he reads every word. If there's a discrepancy, he'll find it. If there's something that I didn't explain very well, he'll tell me.
I am grateful that I've had the opportunity to hold my paperback in my hands. Even though ebooks sell better. There's still something about the flipping pages thing that is fucking phenomenal to me, the writer.
Most of all - I'm grateful to the writers who demonstrate exceptional craft, people who can, with a twist of a pen or a tap of the keyboard, both enlighten and devastate me - sometimes in the same moment.
And I will be forever grateful to those individuals who are dedicated to teaching the rest of us exactly how to have a similar effect on our readers.
You all are my heroes.

SM Johnson ~Bloody Monday~ Hunger Games

[image error] Hello, darlings!

I am broadening the scope of Bloody Monday to include some things from the Darker Side. Without vampire nominations and with my reading time fairly limited, my vampire creativity is fizzling.

So I'm going to talk about more than vampires.

I'd like to bring in some of the surprisingly dark works that have been spinning through pop culture - the Harry Potter/Twilight/The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo/The Help/The Hunger Games/50 Shades of Grey... and whatever might be coming up next.

I'll welcome discussion and suggestion.

I live and write outside the mainstream. In some respects, my life is quiet and abnormally isolative - the life of a writer. In others, I am bold, and daring, and surprisingly non-traditional. I hate reality television, and, in fact, most television. Oh, I like Bill Maher, and I'm attached to some Showtime/HBO dramas - Californication, The Big C, Shameless, Nurse Jackie, Big Love, Treme... and I've recently fallen in love with The Vampire Diaries. But overall I'm not much of a pop culture participant.

Here's my recent track record:

I enjoyed the first 3 Harry Potter installments, and found the others to be, quite simply, much too long. Nothing ever seemed to happen between fall and spring except Harry whining a lot.

I intensely disliked Twilight, which I talked about on Edward's Bloody Monday, so I won't cover that ground again.

I loved The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo trilogy. In fact, I thought it was one of the most satisfying trilogies that I've ever read.

And The Help - OMG, where to start? Of course I loved it, I mean, it's about a writer and a best selling book - what's not to love?

Suzanne CollinsI haven't read 50 Shades of Grey yet, which leads me to The Hunger Games.

Oh, wow.

Once again pop culture has my number.

Grr, I hate that.

The Hunger Games is a deceptively simple, barbaric little book. It is a book that is quick to read, and then damn near impossible to forget. In fact, last night I went to bed after having read 86% of The Hunger Games. This was a terrible idea, because I did not sleep. I dozed. I dreamed. I woke up. I stared at the ceiling and battled anxiety.

I probably should have just got up and finished reading. Only it wouldn't have helped. Because the winners of the Hunger Games can never really win, and the story certainly doesn't end when the book does.

Sure, Katniss and Peeta win the Hunger Game in the arena, but then a whole new game begins. I mean, no wonder their mentor, Haymitch, spends as much time as possible intoxicated - even when the nightmare ends, it doesn't end. Let's pretend to be happy about winning, let's pretend that pitting human teenagers against each other in a fight to the death is good, healthy entertainment.

Yeah, let's pretend, shall we? Let's pretend forever.

I mean, my God, talk about dark fiction!

Suzanne CollinsThis morning I started book 2 of The Hunger Games trilogy, Catching Fire, so I'm sure I'll have more to say about The Hunger Games before the end of the week.

But in the meantime, answer me this -

What do you all think of The Hunger Games? Have you seen the movie? (I haven'tand I don't know if I will - if I've loved the book, I usually don't care for the movie). But if you've read the book AND watched the movie, how does the movie measure up to the book?

Or if that's a boring topic - tell me this - what shocked or disturbed you the most about The Hunger Games?

SM Johnson - A Year of Sundays, ch 10 pt 4

Part 4


Silas shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it."
"I think you should," I said.
Somewhere amid the sounds of instruments being tuned came the faint strain of Beethoven's Ode to Joy.
Jeremy turned away from us and pulled his phone from his pocket.
Melanie stood up and straightened her flowing, peasant-style shirt. "Beer tent," she announced, giving me a look that clearly said she didn't want to participate in my discussion with Silas about Aunt Margie.
Silas watched Jeremy, gaze softening as Jeremy said, "Jo-Jo? Ah, sweetie, it's no problem. I'll be there in a little while." He put the phone back into his pocket, and asked Silas, "Can I take your Jeep?" His eyes were almost pleading. "Jessie, can you give Silas a ride later? Josie still feels awful. I'm going to try to get her to eat something."
"She's that sick?" I asked. "Maybe we all should go."
"No, no," Jeremy said. "She said don't ruin the day for the rest of you. She's worried it's a summer flu bug, anyway, and doesn't want anyone else to get sick. Me, well, I live there, I can't really avoid it, you know?"
"Sam and I can drive you home," I said to Si.
He just shrugged. "I only drove because Jeremy slept over, and I figured I'd have to drive him up to mom's house later. I can walk home."
Silas lived in an overly-expensive condo, just a mile away or so, smack in the middle of downtown, reminiscent of cities that suffer from over-crowding and space issues. Duluth was not a metro area, however, so the building was well, pseudo SoHo or something like that, with a parking garage underneath, and a fantastic view of the North Shore Railway and the Duluth Harbor. It was almost pretentious, but somehow it suited him.
"Josie must be really sick," I observed, "if she's calling for company. Yikes."
Silas dug into his pocket and handed Jeremy his keys. We both watched him walk away. Me, worried about Josie, Silas, I suspected, avoiding conversation with me.
"So?" I prompted.
"What?" Silas asked, just as the new band opened their set with a crash of drums and a guitar riff.
Silas grinned at me, then shrugged. Yeah, like the music was going to get him out of this conversation.
Liz and Dean returned. Perfect. I could drag Silas off to talk, and Liz could babysit our stuff. Liz handed me my coke, as Silas studied Dean with curious eyes.
"Come on," I said to Silas, picking up Sam's chair bag, which happened to not contain any alcohol at the moment.
"Where are we going?"
"To get drinks from my car."
"Nah, I'm good," he said.
I grabbed him by the wrist. "Liz, stay with the stuff," I said, raising my voice to be heard above the band. "Silas, come with me."
I dragged him out of the park. Well, okay, he let me drag him. I could feel his reluctance in how hard he hung back. When we got to the car in the aquarium parking lot, I popped the trunk, and twisted open a wine cooler. Then I handed him a beer.
"Fess up," I said. "Why was Aunt Margie hitting you when you were a kid?"
"Jess," he said. "It's not worth talking about."
"You're full of it," I said. "I'm going to find out one way or another, so you might as well tell me."
"She didn't want me hanging out with Uncle Butch."
"And why not?"
"She said it wasn't fair to Ralph."
"Uh-huh. And for that she hit you?"
Silas took a swig of his beer and paced all the way around the car. "I really don't want to talk about it, Jessie. Not now. Probably not ever."
"You keep saying that, Si, which makes me think you need to talk about it, whether you want to or not. If not to me, then someone else."
"Like who? A therapist?"
"If that's what the subject requires, sure."
He shook his head, and walked around the car again. This pacing thing let me know that he was way more agitated than he wanted to let on.
"Butch was… I don't know how to explain it. Physical, I guess. You know, he'd rest his fingers on my shoulder, ruffle my hair. He'd get down to my level and talk to me like I was his little man, real earnest and honest-like, his big hands circling my waist. He talked to me different than the way other adults did, and I felt special, like I was almost a grown-up. It was like that for awhile, I don't know, Labor Day to Thanksgiving, maybe. I was eleven."
He stopped pacing and just leaned against the side of the car, staring at the ground.
"But then that Thanksgiving, Butch was, I don't know, different. His hands were meaner, and he touched me in ways I didn't like. Personal ways. I felt really embarrassed."
"I told Aunt Margie. First she slapped my mouth, actually gave me a fat lip, then she said I had an overactive imagination and said I'd better not say that to anyone else, and that if I didn't like Uncle Butch, then I should stay away from him."
"Oh Jesus, Si, he was grooming you."
Silas rolled his eyes. "No shit, you think?"
"So that was it? You stayed away from him, right?"
The only answer I got was silence.
"Oh, Silas."
He sighed, blew a out a long breath that puffed through his lips, and scrubbed his face with his hands. "Yeah, stupid, I know. But I really liked the part where he treated me like an adult. And I didn't want to hurt his feelings, even when sometimes his touching grew into something I knew wasn't quite right. I'll spare you the details. They aren't important, anyway."
"And you still never told anyone?"
Silas shook his head. "I used to go over there after school, used the excuse that our house was too full of girls. I supposed Butch invited me, and I'm not sure why he was at home and Aunt Margie at work, but whatever. I'd stay until just before Aunt Margie got home." He laughed, but it was a sound that dropped to the concrete and crackled, not humorous. "But one day I forgot to watch the time, and Aunt Margie caught me limping out the back door, and she was furious. She walloped me across the side of the head and said if she ever caught me in her house again, she'd tell mom and dad that I stole money from her, that I was a thief and a liar."
"Mom would have never believed that. You could have told her the truth, she'd have listened to you."
"I didn't want to think about the truth. I wasn't ready for the ugly words that describe the kind of person Uncle Butch was. Aunt Margie said I had to stay away or I was going to ruin their whole lives. That was the end of it."
I wanted to stare at him, but then I didn't want to look at him at all. "So Margie is the good guy in this stupid story," I said, but immediately wanted to take it back. What kind of story had I been hoping for, anyway? Margie wouldn't have hit Silas over something warm and fuzzy.
"That Christmas, Uncle Butch gave me the BB gun – and everybody was upset about that, not just Aunt Margie, but Mom and Dad, too. And he told me he missed me and was sorry I didn't come over anymore. I just shrugged and said I had a lot of sisters that needed looking after. And that was about the end of it. But I never really forgot, and I think Butch knew it, and I supposed as I got older, he must've realized I could be some kind of threat to him. He definitely didn't want me in the company."
I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything. I just stepped up to him and gave him a fierce hug.
He shook himself free. "Enough of that, now. And don't be getting all upset. It's all done and gone and over. The end. See? Melanie's not the only one with ugly childhood secrets."

SM Johnson -join me in The Darker Side (of fiction) - Triberr

Click here for more infoHave you heard of Triberr? It is an interesting social media manager (touted by Triberr as "the reach multiplier") that lets you create "tribes" of bloggers who then tweet each others' blog headlines with links to each blog.

So basically, you create your tribe, and each member of the tribe puts in their blog address (possibly RSS feed? I can't remember anymore) and Twitter ID. The home page is a "stream" of blog posts waiting for your approval. Once you approve each post, it then gets auto-tweeted from your Twitter handle to your followers. You set up how often you want tweets to go out, from every 20 minutes to every 120 minutes.

Clicking on the headline or blog title of each post in your stream brings you to the blog itself, so if you want to know what your are tweeting (I like to know what I'm offering to my followers) - you can easily review a post before giving it your approval.

But, as far as I can tell, you can't just join Triberr because you want to - you have to be invited. And once you're invited to join one tribe, you can then create your own tribe.

So all of this is a LONG way of saying... I have created my own Tribe called The Darker Side (of fiction).

Only right now it's a tribe of (1) - umm, yeah, that would be me. All alone in my tribe.

I would love, love, love to invite some more people into my tribe and we can all share our love of naughty, dark, off-mainstream blog posts, book reviews, reader recommendations, and writer shout-outs.

I am inviting readers, writers, and reviewers of outside the norm fiction (examples: erotica, bdsm, gay and lesbian, dark fiction, impossible romance) to request an invite to my tribe.

Here's the catch: I can't invite you unless you follow me on Twitter. So to join my tribe, please follow me @SMJohnsonWrites, and then send me a DM, an email, or put your twitter handle in the comments of this post, and I will be happy to invite you to my tribe, The Darker Side (of fiction).

This could be all sorts of naughty fun!

At the moment my tribe avatar is me (egads!), but hopefully this weekend I will get some time to create a tribe badge that is way cooler than just a picture of silly old me.

I have another change in the works here where ~things go naughty in the night~

Bloody Monday will encompass a broader scope of horror and dark fiction. I had hoped to get some rousing vampire discussion rolling, and, ultimately, to have readers nominate their favorite vamps and talk about what they love, hate, or love to hate them... but, while perhaps not an epic fail, my goal for this blog meme has fallen short.

So - go big or go home, right? For sure I am going to include some literary pop culture in these discussions, the latest rage, the biggest thing, the book that everyone's waiting to be made into a movie.

Tomorrow I'll be talking about the Hunger Games. Stay tuned!

Okay, housekeeping over. And I'd better stop procrastinating, hmm?

PS - my latest short story, impossible romance 18 Dead, is now FREE at Smashwords, and will soon be distributed to iTunes, Nook, Kobo and other ebook retailers, also for free! I suspect it will remain .99 at Amazon, however, because I heard Amazon has discontinued price-matching free books (shrug). Kindle users can download a .mobi file from Smashwords and side-load and still read it for free :-)

Thursday Morning Coffee

On Reviews and Reviewing, part 3 of 3. And then I'll shut up about it.

Good morning, and welcome to Coffee!

The last thing I wanted to talk about on the subject of book reviews are the books that I don't review.

Everyone's got a story, right? So everyone has the potential to be an author. And with the ease of e-publishing, everyone can be - all you need is a manuscript, a formatting guide, and a Smashwords or Amazon account (Smashwords and Amazon are my choices, but there are plenty of other e-publishing platforms available). You don't have to take my word for it - here's a CNET article about the different places one can self-publish ebooks.

No matter your choice, step 1 is to Write a Good Book.

Ah, and there's the heart of the matter.

Everyone has a story, but skill-level in relaying that story differs. I read somewhere that the typical writer in the traditional query/submit/acceptance publishing system writes a million words before receiving the letter that states, "We'd like to publish your novel..."

A million words.

Good writing takes practice.

There are a lot of e-books out there that are written badly.

I don't review them.

I could. Many of them are begging for reviews, so I could point out errors, insult the writer, and trash the book. But for two things - 1) I can't keep reading that book and 2) that review won't give the author what he/she needs, which is manuscript critique tempered with encouragement.

I'm sure I've mentioned Write Lab and Novel Doc a time or two. It was back in the day when the "internet" consisted of Compuserve, AOL, ListServs and FTP (File Transfer Protocol). Waaaaay back. Like 1996. I joined an online critique community called Write Lab, where my peers shattered my precious words into pieces and then helped me reassemble them into a novel.

Oooh, those first critiques were painful. I expected praise, and received honesty.

I went through several stages of emotion: shock and hurt, anger, depression, and finally acceptance. Once I accepted that my skill-level as a writer was sub-par, I got back to work. I started learning craft on purpose, and my skill improved.

I see myself in manuscripts that needs work, in writers that need coaching and encouragement.

Here are some clues that tell me I'm reading an amateur writer... I'll throw some example around in italics.

1) Passive voice. 2) Telling me how people feel instead of letting their words, non-verbals, and characterization show me. 3) Narrative head-hopping - where a single scene is told in multiple points of view.

"Oh my darling," he said, feeling incredible relief that she was alive. "I love you so much."


"I love you, too," she answered with great joy. She'd waited so long to hear him say those words.


"Marry me," he said quickly, and was terrified for a moment because he didn't know for sure what her answer would be.


"Yes, yes, yes! Of course I will marry you," she said, thrilled beyond belief because all her dreams were coming true.

4) Sometimes punctuation is the mark of an amateur writer - exclamation points tossed around like periods, or even double punctuation. An experienced writer uses punctuation for clarity, not necessarily to emphasize emotion. Here's the above passage again...


"Oh my darling!" he said, feeling incredible relief that she was alive. "I love you SO much!!"


"I love you, too!" she answered with great joy. She'd waited so long to hear him say those words!


"Marry me!?" he said quickly, and was terrified for a moment because he didn't know for sure what her answer would be.


"Yes! Yes! Yes! Of course I will marry you!" she said, thrilled beyond belief because all her dreams were coming true.


An experienced writer chooses the point of view character that will offer the reader the greatest impact and insight, and uses active voice, and includes body language, facial expression, and even some internalization to give weight to the scene.

Here's my snippet scene, one more time, from the man's point of view:


"Oh my darling," he said, but then words failed him, so he wrapped his arms around her and held on tight. If he hadn't found her alive -- but no, he couldn't even bear to imagine it. He let his forehead drop to rest against her wet hair. He whispered, "I love you so much."


"I love you, too," she answered, her voice weak and tremulous, hopeful like a butterfly about to spread its wings. Her hands clutched at his clothes, and she trembled against his chest.


"Marry me," he said quickly, before he lost his nerve. Would she say yes? Oh, but she must. He couldn't survive losing her again.


"Yes, yes, yes! Of course I will marry you," she said, pulling away just enough so when she raised her head, he could see the smile that lifted her lips and spread all the way to her eyes. 


Even the above still contains elements of passive voice (a couple of -ing verbs, an adverb that ends in -ly), but it's slightly better. I don't like the two uses of the word "spread" in a small space, and I'm not all the way comfortable with "tremulous" and "trembling" in the same paragraph. If this were a real scene in one of my books, I'd keep working at it. Unfortunately, if I keep working at it here, we'll end up having Thursday Afternoon Coffee - LOL.

5) One more type of book I that I don't review - the book that is technically correct, but is just plain boring.

Sometimes this is just a matter of the writer choosing to begin with back-story, and nothing really happens.

The best stories tend to give me a paragraph or two, or even a full page, of the character's "normal" life - but then something happens that changes everything. The back story gets trickled into the narrative, the characterization develops as the character makes choices, and as he/she internalizes about those choices.

Sometimes a book is boring because the characters are too flat, not unique, or follow a stereotype or trope.

Other times a book is boring because the character wakes up, goes to the bathroom, takes a shower, gets dressed, fixes her hair, puts on her make-up, eats breakfast, uses the bathroom again, looks for her car keys, drives to work, says good-morning to her co-workers, sits down at her desk, gets up to get coffee, sits down at her desk again, turns on her computer, checks her email...

I've fallen into this trap, myself, detailing the mundane, but for a reader, this step-by-step-through-the-day-process can be agonizing.

But I don't want to write "Just plain boring" in a review. Oh yeah, and there's the part where it's too boring for me to finish reading, and I don't want to offer a review of something I have not actually read.

I do have some writers that I critique, and it is a labor-intensive process, and sometimes I hold my breath because I don't pull any punches - I'm not out to hurt feelings, but I can't get my message across in an efficient manner if I spend a lot of time sugar-coating my words.

When I purchase a book, BTW, my decision to buy is frequently based on what the 3-star reviewers say. Heck, sometimes I buy a book because of what the 1-star reviewers say. I rarely bother to read 5-star reviews because I've found them too-often to be praise-filled blather.

Shrug. That's just me, I guess.

Happy Thursday, darlings, and guess what? Tomorrow's Friday - yay!

Bloody Monday - Bunnicula (really)

It's good to introduce our children to vampires early and young. And also good to introduce them to vegetables. So let's do it all at in one book, shall we?

Who remembers reading this long, long ago?

Bunnicula

Amazon.com ReviewThis immensely popular children's story is told from the point of view of a dog named Harold. It all starts when Harold's human family, the Monroes, goes to see the movie Dracula, and young Toby accidentally sits on a baby rabbit wrapped in a bundle on his seat. How could the family help but take the rabbit home and name it Bunnicula? Chester, the literate, sensitive, and keenly observant family cat, soon decides there is something weird about this rabbit. Pointy fangs, the appearance of a cape, black-and-white coloring, nocturnal habits … it sure seemed like he was a vampire bunny. When the family finds a white tomato in the kitchen, sucked dry and colorless, well … Chester becomes distraught and fears for the safety of the family. "Today, vegetables. Tomorrow … the world!" he warns Harold. But when Chester tries to make his fears known to the Monroes, he is completely misunderstood, and the results are truly hilarious. Is Bunnicula really a vampire bunny? We can't say. But any child who has ever let his or her imagination run a little wild will love Deborah and James Howe's funny, fast-paced "rabbit-tale of mystery." (Ages 9 to 12) --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.Review"Bunnicula is the kind of story that does not age, and in all probability, will never die. Or stay dead, anyway..."-- Neil Gaiman

"The most lovable vampire of all time."
-- J. Gordon Melton, author of The Vampire Book

"Move over, Dracula! This mystery-comedy is sure to delight."
-- New York Times

A Year of Sundays, ch 10 pt 3

Chapter 10 - Fourth of July
Part 3
Mel came along, tripped over the blanket, and let herself fall to land beside me. "Read anything good in mom's journal yet?"
"Like what?" I asked.
"Like what happened to me."
I glanced over toward Jeremy. He was half-turned away from us and didn't look as if he were paying the least bit of attention.
I shook my head. "I haven't spent all that much time reading them yet." What did she want me to say? Yes? No? I'm dying to find out how awful it was for you?
"The worst part wasn't that he raped me, you know."
I didn't know. How could there be anything worse for a ten year old kid?
She was staring at the ground.
"I was real pretty. Maybe unusually pretty, I don't know, but I knew it – the way people came up to me, how complete strangers gave me presents. I tried to be fair with you and Liz, but secretly, I was proud to be the beautiful one. I thought mom should enter me in contests, pageants, you know, and I was furious that she refused. I was positive that I was beautiful enough to win tiaras and trophies, but she thought child pageantry was ugly and prideful.
"Sometimes I felt guilty that I got so much attention – but not often."
I was going to ask her something, but her face was flat and blank and I didn't think she'd hear me. Her eyes were staring at something I couldn't see. Maybe just staring into the past.
 "So when he took me – ah, man, it's hard to describe how terrified I was. He dumped me into the trunk of a car and slammed the lid down, and I was so frigging scared I wet my pants."
I tried to imagine it. Couldn't. Part of me wanted to beg her to stop, don't tell me, let me stay innocent of this.
A part of me wanted Jeremy to sit up, scoot closer to us, and engage with us, because that would probably end this conversation. But no, Jeremy was laying flat out in the grass now, his chest rising and falling with an even, steady rate that looked like sleep.
Mel was my sister. If she needed to share the burden of this, I would gladly help her carry it.
"When he got to where we ended up, he yanked me out of the trunk and saw that I was soaked. And he said, 'You are a gross, disgusting little girl, so now I have to punish you.'
"I cowered, because he was big and strange, and his voice was mean, and because I had no idea what he meant. Would I have to stand in a corner? Wash all the dishes all by myself for five days? What punishment was big enough for peeing my pants? I knew ten-year-olds weren't supposed to do that.
"I was so ashamed and embarrassed that it seemed to make perfect sense that he would lead me into a shed and tell me to take my clothes off. I stopped being the beautiful girl because now I was dirty. He told me that, said it over and over, and said I was so dirty, the only way to get clean was from the inside out."
I must have made some sound then, maybe even a sob, because Mel seemed to come back to the present.
"Don't cry for me, Jess," she said. "There's been enough of that."
"I have to," I said. "I'm your sister."
She laughed, but it wasn't a humorous sound. "Eh, it was a long time ago. Anyway. What I'm trying to tell you is that mom burned those journals. She said if I could move on, then she must force herself to move on, as well. You won't find those secrets, Jessie. Only I can give those to you."
I nodded, and suddenly knew that I didn't want them. Let them be ash like burned journal pages.
"I can't tell you everything even if I want to, because a lot of that time I was so shocked that I just went away inside my head. I came back to you, to our room, and crawled into bed beside you, and pretended my little sister could protect me."
I was almost too much, and now I couldn't stop the tears. "And I was curled up in my bed pretending the same thing."
"For awhile I thought getting taken was punishment for my pride. But as I got older I knew, logically, that the world doesn't really work that way."
But religiously, it might. I let the thought be in my brain for a second, but didn't say it out loud. Elizabeth was the religious sister, not Mel.
"Not all of me came back, you know."
I nodded. Melanie the found girl wasn't the same as the girl who'd never been lost.
She said, "At first I thought if I left my voice behind, that I could keep all the rest of me. If I never spoke again, I wouldn't ever have to say what happened to me. It made sense to my ten-year-old self. It didn't work. Not speaking was too obviously damaged, so I took that back and decided to stop being beautiful."
I shook my head. "You didn't. You couldn't. You're still beautiful."
"Yeah, but I don't have to think that I am. I mean, it sounds kind of cliché, right? That confidence makes a person beautiful, and low self-esteem makes one unattractive. But it's more than that. It's a self-perception that's arrogant, that's egotistical, and I don't have to embrace that. I'm nobody special, nobody significant – I'm just a person like any other."
We'd been talking in low, intense voices.
Jeremy still appeared to be sleeping in the sun.
Bu suddenly Silas was standing above him, spitting out words. "You little prick. You had no right. Who do you think you are?"
Jeremy blinked sleepy eyes open, looking completely unconcerned."What are you talking about?"
"This," Silas said, and pointed to the left side of his face where there was a red blotch.
Jeremy sat up. "Someone hit you? But why?"
"My aunt hit me," Silas said, glaring. "Right after she called me a dancing boy."
"A dancing boy?" Jeremy said, the question loud in his tone. "What is that supposed to mean?" The corners of his lips twitched as he got to his feet to face Silas.
Silas seemed to catch on that Jeremy was genuinely mystified, and it had a calming effect.
Jeremy brushed his fingertips gently across Silas's cheek. "Do you need some ice?"
Silas shook him off. "No, I don't need ice. I wanted to kick your ass for outing me, but I can see you have no idea what I'm talking about."
Jeremy might be puzzled, but I wasn't. "Wait, Silas. Aunt Margie slapped you?"
"And called him a dancing boy," Jeremy said, nodding with false seriousness.
"Um," I said, raising my hand like a second grader in class. "Jeremy didn't out you. I introduced him as your boyfriend."
Silas slapped his hands to his forehead. "Why, Jess? I wasn't planning to tell the whole world. It's none of their business."
"Because she forgot about Josie. And I wanted to punish her. I'm sorry."
"How on earth does telling her about me punish her?" he asked.
"I don't know." I groaned, feeling like a stupid jerk. "It's not like I took the time to think it through. But it worked." I could feel a tiny grin sneaking onto my face.
"Yeah," Silas said. "Upset enough to wallop me the same as she did when I was a kid."
My grin slunk away. "What? Wait a minute," I said. "Aunt Margie hit you when we were little? Did mom know about this?"

Thursday Morning Coffee

Good morning, and welcome to coffee! The man is off to work, the Sprite is off to school, the dog is asleep on the couch, and the cat is either napping or plotting his escape. And the sun is shining. All is shiny and happy in my little world.

Well, except for this cold, and this back-wigging-out thing, but whatever. Close enough to perfect for today.

This Thursday Morning Coffee gig is kind of the home of my random thoughts and housekeeping, with a snippet of fiction thrown in there just to give some kind of focus. Last week I somehow ended up talking about how I receive reviews of my work.

And because I brought that up, I feel a little exploration of writers as reviewers might be in order.

I have been an avid reader since I was (at least) nine years old. Going on a family vacation required a major trip to my neighborhood library - and when I say major, I mean my backpack would be stuffed so full it was almost too heavy for me to carry, and my arms struggled to hold on to the pile that was "overflow." The thought of not having something to read gave me anxiety.

I still feel that way. I can read a well-written, engaging book in less than a day.

I was a reader long before I was a writer.

But I did not become a reviewer until I became a published author.

I love to shout out to the world about a great book. A book that sucks me in, winds me up, and keeps me turning pages long after my bedtime. A book in which the characters continue living in my head long after the last page. Or a book that's part of a series, where diving into the first page feels like coming home.

I am, to the core of my being, a reader. And I am a picky reader.

But I have also become, kind of by accident, a reviewer. And being a picky reader, I've become a critical reviewer.

Before December 2011 I wrote very few reviews. I remember one review I wrote in a fit of frustration. It was a series that had showed such promise, I was amped up and ready to fall in love - but the subsequent books just didn't get it done. I was incredibly disappointed, and it led me to write a negative review.

And even though the review was honest, I didn't feel all that great about writing it. My review niche wasn't going to be warning people away from books.

But last December I started getting involved with some multi-author group promotional efforts. Like I am not a great reviewer, I'm also not so great at self-promotion. I am a niche writer - gay erotic vampires, anyone? - so screaming "buy my book" from the mountaintops is pretty uncomfortable. Hell, my books can be pretty darn uncomfortable, so dragging in the unsuspecting reader isn't my goal.

What I found in these groups were a lot of indie authors asking everyone to "like" and "tag" their books on Amazon, and offering their book to other participants in exchange for reviews. No one said outright that they would only accept 4 and 5 star reviews. Here's a nice post from Emlyn Chand  about how to review books.

Again, I will say, I am a picky reader. I tend to be a 3-star reviewer. If I truly enjoyed a book and there weren't too many typos, I'll give 4-stars. If I couldn't stop reading, or had to stop reading but couldn't stop thinking about the characters, or stayed up late into the night to reach the end - that's a 5-star. I'm pretty frugal about giving out stars. Christopher Allen has a detailed post about the 5-star rating system, and how he uses it to improve both his listening experience (iTunes) and reading experience (Amazon).

I spent hours doing the "like" and "tag" thing for other indie writers - but it felt underhanded. Here I am liking books that I haven't even read, trying to guess which Amazon tags will be appropriate to get someone's book to show up on the right list of recommendations to generate sales to the right kind of audience.

It was exhausting. And while I noticed was that yes, my own book rose in the Amazon ranking system, that improved ranking only lasted for a couple of days. I would hope that a true improvement in ranking would be driven by actual sales.

So between feeling like the tactic was underhanded, and not seeing it make a significant and lasting difference, I quit doing the "like" and "tag" thing for books that I have not read.

TroubleWhat remains are quite a number of books on my Kindle for which the authors have requested reviews. And I did not keep track of which authors were requesting reviews, so I am trying to give fair reviews to just about everything at the moment.

And this is where I've run into trouble.

I may have left honest reviews in cases where the author did not ask for an honest review.

I might have left a 3-star, slightly critical, unsolicited review, being the honest bastard that I am. I know. The horror. What a terrible thing to do to another author.

In my defense - I do not publicly trash people's books. If I don't like a book, I stop reading it. I don't post negative reviews because wallowing in negativity not how I want to spend my time.

But I also don't post fake 5-star reviews. Period.

If I really love it, it gets 5 stars.

If it was a pretty good story, but had too many info-dumps, too much telling instead of showing, or too much showing and then over-explaining, had places where I fell out of the story, got confused, or some of the characters were cardboard, or there were inconsistencies in the narrative... I give 3-stars and usually explain where I found trouble.

Is that arrogant? Is it unprofessional?

I'm a reader. A picky reader.

But I'm a writer, too.

Am I wrong, as a writer, to review the work of other writers if I'm not willing to give 5 stars?

I dunno. You tell me.

[Because this post became rather long-winded, I will not be sharing fiction today].

Bloody Monday - Vampires and more vampires

This morning I am getting ready to attend the funeral of a dear family friend, so my blog creativity is less than 100%. So what I will offer for Bloody Monday are some links for you, my darlings, to explore on your own.

I know, sheer laziness, yes?

Ah, well, some days are like that. Even in Wisconsin.

The first is a fun little link to The Daily 10 - a list of 10 vampires stories that are more romantic than Twilight: Breaking Dawn. We already know that I don't care for Bella, so I won't perseverate on that. I could probably name a whole separate 10 right off the top of my head, but I'll spare you .


For some amateur reads and even some FanFiction, check out Quizilla's hefty list of vampire stories.

If you want some heat with your blood-drinking heroes, check out Vamperotic. For .99 you get 15 erotic vampire short stories.


And Circlet Press (home of THE Goddess of paranormal erotica, Cecelia Tan - writer, and publisher, whom I have met and hung out with in New Orleans - grin) has Cinnamon Roses: Erotic Vampire Stories. 

Last but not least, I'll leave you with a link to Vampire Literature on Wikipedia, just because I kind of love the info that Wiki gives me.

Have a great Monday, darlings. Please stop by and leave a comment about what you've found on the web for great vampire reads. And, as always, I'd love it if you'd nominate a vampire for Bloody Monday, either here in comments or by tweeting your nomination with #BloodyMondaySMJ.

A Year of Sundays, ch 10 pt 2

[image error] Monday, July 4thChapter 10, Part 2
Mel went on long enough about how much she hates throwing up that I started to feel a little sick myself.
"Seriously, Mel, too much info."
"Well, you know," she said, "some of us are hard core, some of us are pansies."
"Yeah, I'll keep my pansy status, thanks."
"And I'll go get another beer." She got to her feet and headed for the beer tent, already walking lopsided. But maybe that was just me being judgmental.
"How many do you guess she's had already?" Liz asked, so maybe I wasn't judging Mel poorly after all.
I shrugged. "You know Mel – probably the first in line at the beer tent this morning."
She sighed. "She's going to crash. And Josie's sick? Again? That's not like Josie."
"I know," I said. "This was supposed to be a perfect day. But maybe if we all just chill it can still be perfect enough."
"Silas and Jeremy were holding hands," Liz said. "Did you see?"
"Yeah, I saw. Let it go, Liz. We're supposed to be relaxing and enjoying each other." I made a point to change the subject. "Hey, where do you think Sam and Eric went off to?"
"Eric said something about a car show at the arena," she said. "All American muscle cars or something. We might not see the two of them until dinnertime."
I grinned, glad that Sam and Eric had something in common. Then again, who doesn't adore a '69 Charger or a '68 Firebird?
I dug a bottle of water out of the canvas sack that also held my collapsible chair, and was squinting against the sun, already imagining the cold goodness in my mouth, when a dude walking by paused and did an obvious double-take.
"Liz?" he asked, his entire demeanor a question mark.
She startled, and looked up at him. "Oh, Dean! Hi, how are you?"
"Pretty good," he answered. "How's the class going?"
"It starts tomorrow. It's nice to have a long weekend to enjoy first. I feel pretty confident that if it's my only class, I can handle it."
I watched them without trying to watch them, if you know what I mean. Liz fiddled with her braid, and then with her hat. She adjusted her sunglasses. She smiled.
I looked up at the guy. He was clean cut and fresh looking, wearing khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and flip-flops. He was smiling back at Liz with beautiful white teeth.
Where were Eric and Sam? Because now would be a good time for them to show up, at least for Eric to show up. I looked around the park, but neither one of them had the good sense to materialize at my will.
"I'm going to get a coke and a smile," Dean Johnson said to my married sister. "Want to join me?"
"I am thirsty," Elizabeth said, and her eyes cut toward me. "Do you want something, Jessie?"
"Um." I didn't know what to say. "Who are you again?" I asked, to force an introduction.
"Dean Johnson," he said, leaning down so I could shake his hand from my beach blanket. "Student Advisor."
"Oh. Hi. I'm Jessie, Liz's sister. Nice to meet you."
Oh, he was a handsome devil. And, I noticed as I shook his hand, he smelled good. Great, actually. Like I imagined sailing would smell – all ocean and wind and man-sweat.
"A coke would be great," I said to Liz. "Or something sweet. Or something crunchy."
"There's trail mix in my bag," she said. "Crunch on that. I'll be back soon."
So there I was, left on the blanket, my family scattered to the four corners of the park.
Melanie getting beer. Maybe she'd run into Silas at the beer tent. Annabelle and Caleb off playing. Liz and her hot new friend flirting for cokes. Jeremy filling his insatiable hunger – for food, I mean. Josie home sick. Sam and Eric looking at cars and dreaming of youth.
And then Jeremy returned and plunked himself down next to me on the blanket, a paper dish full of fried something in his hands.
"What is that?" I asked.
"Cheese curds, and they are to die for." He popped on in his mouth, hissed in a breath, and, voice garbled by his open mouth, exclaimed, "Hot, hot, hot!" He fanned a hand in front of his mouth like he was a little kid and thought that would help cool off.
I found myself giggling at him.
When the giggles subsided, I noticed a woman standing about six feet away, staring at us.
I stared back.
It was Butch's wife, our father's sister-in-law. "Hey, Aunt Margie," I greeted her. "Wow, haven't seen you in forever." Well, not forever, actual.y, only since mom's funeral.
She came closer. "Jessamine. It is you. I wasn't sure."
I stood up, and gave her a light hug. "Yeah, I'm hard to recognize without my siblings gathered around."
"How are you all doing?" she asked.
"We're okay. Missing mom, of course."
"Are all of you here? I saw Silas just a little while ago."
"Most of us. You know how mom was about keeping us together. We're still gathering every week. Josie's home sick."
She looked confused for a minute, then recovered. "Oh, yes. Josie. The caboose."
What? She'd forgotten Josie? I supposed Jose hadn't been to a great many big family gatherings, considering she was born when the rest of us were practically grown.
Her gaze fell on Jeremy, who was concentrating on his hot cheese curds, kind of oblivious.
I felt an evil little twinge. Margie could forget Josie, could she?
Well.
"Aunt Margie, I'd like you to meet Jeremy."
Jeremy looked up, swallowed, then smiled. "Hi," he said.
He wiped face with a napkin, then gave Margie a friendly wave.
"Silas's boyfriend," I added, watching her face.
Her eyebrows went up, eyes widening, and lips pursing into a perfect O.
"Oh." She stared at him for a second, then shifted her eyes to me. "I don't know what to say."
I leaned in close to her and whispered, "'Nice to meet you' works pretty well in these awkward situations."
She let loose a strangled laugh, and said, "Nice to meet you, ah, Jeremy, was it?"
He nodded, gulped down his mouthful, and answered, "You too."
"Well, it's great to see you," Margie said then, her words louder and more rushed than they had been before. "I'll be getting along now. You all take care."
I watched her go, wondering if her nervousness was just a form of homophobia, or plain old surprise, or something more secretive. And I remembered how Silas completely overreacted to my questions about Uncle Butch. And something terrible was worming its way into my brain. Something ugly.
I wasn't the only secret-keeper in this family.