E.E. Montgomery's Blog, page 5

The Pink Poodle

I've been writing a short story for an anthology coming out in October. The only criteria for the story, apart from length, is that it must be set in Australia. My story opens in a nondescript motel room but I wanted something more than that.

A friend of mine told me they'd heard of a motel in the Gold Coast that had had a reputation for renting rooms to honeymoon couples. That wasn't unusual, but apparently some of those rooms had two-way mirrors with cameras and groups of people on the other side. Apparently the motel doesn't exist anymore and my friend couldn't remember the name but thought it was something like The Pink Lady. I know: it's tenuous and heresay at best, but interesting nonetheless.

I couldn't find a pink lady on the Gold Coast but I did find a history of The Pink Poodle motel. The motel opened in 1968. The sign is now heritage listed, has been restored and erected near the site of the old motel. I have no idea about the two-way mirrors as I couldn't find any articles about the original motel other than it was a popular honeymoon destination.

Regardless of whether the story is an urban myth or has some truth in it, the idea stuck with me and I've decided to use The Pink Poodle Motel in my story. There are no two-way mirrors in the story, only a dead body and a drugged-out insurance assessor.
Source: www.brisbanetimes.com.au Here's another small excerpt (again first draft):
He was hauled a few steps toward the door, but he stopped, dug his heels into the gritty carpet. “I can’t go outside. I’m naked. I’ll get arrested.”“You’re already under arrest, sir.” The policeman with the spew on his shoes, Laramee, tugged again on his arm.“Arrested? But why?” Vinnie bent over as pain rolled through him. Vaguely he realized the pain had been there since he woke but standing made it worse. “Oh God, I hurt. What happened?”“Laramee, arrange for a drug test on the way.”“Drugs? I don’t do drugs. I’m an insurance assessor.” Vinnie tripped over air as he was pulled inexorably from the room. As he stepped over the threshold, heavy fabric slapped across his shoulders. A warm body behind him leaned close as it tugged the fabric tight around Vinnie. Vinnie’s eyes watered as the strobing light pummeled his retinas. He twisted he head away from the police cars parked in front of the room. Shadows shifted outside the room next door and light flashed before Vinnie realized it was a person with a camera. He whimpered and ducked his head.

Camp NaNo and an Excerpt

I do NaNoWriMo every November. I have for years. A couple of years ago, I discovered they also do NaNoEdMo as well as Camp NaNo. So that's November = 50000 word target; NaNoEdMo = one book edited; Camp NaNo = two months (April and July) to write to your own target (I choose 20000 words because it's more easily achieved than 50000 and it doesn't kill me to do it).

I've just started Camp NaNo and I love it. There are people out there who check on my daily word count. I have to post my word count before midnight for it to be included. I love deadlines.

I didn't do so well on day one: less than 1000 words, but I took off on day 2: nearly 5000 words for the day. That's one week's target reached in two days. It's a good thing it happened that way because the next couple of days provided no writing time at all. That's why 20000 is achievable for me--because some days are like that.

The only thing that isn't working right is that I'm not writing the story I intended to. I've mentioned my current wip. It's the one about domestic violence that I'm finding so hard to do. I was going to use NaNo to help me push through the really hard bit - the bit where I'm getting to know the characters at the same time I'm working out what happens to them and why and how they react to it, etc, etc.

Then I was reminded about a short story I'd committed to write for an anthology being published in October. It's for charity, a cause I'm very supportive of, so I could do nothing other than say 'pick me!'. Two days ago, I didn't have a single idea for it, then I read a paragraph I wrote a while ago about 'ordinary' people. I started editing and adding to it. I thought it was going to be a very serious murder mystery *serious face including frown*, but it's turning into a farce. I'm loving it. *bounces*

This is the beginning of the tale (bear in mind it's first draft). There are snippets in omniscient point of view like this but most of it's close third person from the main character.


Most people are ordinary people, living ordinary lives. Their trials and challenges are ordinary too, yet they absorb them totally. Take Vinnie Canterbury as an example. You’d think by his name with the half-Italian, half-English heritage that he’d have a life different to others but he doesn’t. He gets up every morning, showers, eats breakfast and goes to his job as an assessor for an insurance company. At the end of the day he goes home, eats, watches TV and goes to bed. On the weekend he jogs, cleans his house and goes out with friends. Once a month he has dinner with his mother. Very ordinary.
So how do you explain what happened to him last Thursday and the fact he spent the night in jail and is now facing criminal charges? Well, perhaps not the criminal charges bit. And not really IN jail.
 
The body was found at the Comfort Inn on the highway out of town. Vinnie didn’t know anything about it until the manager let the police into his room. The light and the yelling woke him up. The swish-click of sidearms being drawn and cocked brought him to sitting. The stench of blood and the realization that he’d been sleeping on a man who’d had his throat sliced open made him vomit all over one of the cop’s shoes.

In Another Life - promo

Writing goals

I work better with deadlines. I work so well to them that I've learned to gauge exactly how long things take me to do and I don't start them until I have JUST enough time to meet the deadline. If it's a longer project that requires pre-reading, I'll do that early and then sit on it and think for a while. The actual writing of reports, for me, is quick and easy.

People who don't know me well start panicking and check a couple of times a day if I've begun yet. I think I should feel bad about making them uncomfortable but, really, I like it. I know I can do the job but I don't want people breathing down my neck and checking on me all the time. That's about as mean and conceited as I get, so I make the most of it.

Without deadlines, I don't achieve a great deal at all.

Writing is a little more nebulous than my day job. It's not regimented in the same way, so I have to create goals that help me achieve what I want. I'm very lucky to be part of a focused crit group, The Belles. We're a small group and have been together for years so we know each other's strengths and weaknesses really well. Every January, we have a planning meeting. Each of us writes down our goals for the year. When we first began this, the goals were very ambitious, as if writing them down ensured we'd have the time, health and inclination to do every one of them. We've learned better since then and choose goals that are achievable while still pushing our boundaries.

These are my goals for this year. I've written about them before but I thought, half way through the year, an update was in order. I've put in brackets where I'm up to with each of them. So far, with the exception of my website updates, I'm on target. I need to learn how to use databases (and other things) with my website so updating it is an easier task. I'll have to schedule some dedicated 'website time' later in the year to do that.

1 NaNo Edmo (March) (done)
2 NaNoWriMo (Camp NaNo April done, Camp NaNo July begun, NaNoWriMo November planned)
3 Write & submit four short stories, novellas or novels (two submitted, both accepted, third story 1/4 finished)
4 Edit one science fiction novel & submit (half-way through edits, looking good so far so this might be the last edits before submission)
5 Maintain website-update monthly (not happening that regularly - this task needs an upgrade in my skill-set)
6 Weekly blog entries (on target)
7 Post one free short story to website (done with another planned for the second half of the year)

Guest blogging

This is something new for me. I'm not terrific at self-promotion, in fact, I suck at it. I don't approach people and say 'I'm wonderful, you want me on your blog'. If someone contacts me or puts a general call out and says they have spaces available, I'll jump in. I'll write something to specifications and submit it early. I try to be easy to get on with. I'm just not going to be in your face all the time.

This week, I'm a guest on two other blogs.

The fox stole, Circa 1940.On Thursday (27 June) I was a guest on Down Under Divas, talking about how I started writing M/M romance. Star of that particular show was a 1940s fox stole that I wore on an outing. I've just asked for a photo to be taken of it so I can include it with this post. I won't take the photo. I can't look at those poor little foxes, let alone touch the stole with my bare hands. I could only wear it on the day because someone draped it over my coat and I wore a scarf as well so it didn't touch my skin. It creeps me out.

Check out Down Under Divas to find out how the fox stole was involved in the change in my writing focus. Thank you to Sami Lee for inviting me. It was fun writing for Down Under Divas and I love that you made me look so good.

Tomorrow (Sunday 30 June), I'll have a brief appearance on ARe Café. Thank you, Kathryn Lively, for making this possible. On this blog, I'm talking about being a method writer and how it impacts my life. There are imaginary snakes and me stalking waiters, but no dead foxes, thankfully.

I should be editing but...

I'm in the middle of the second round of edits for The Courage to Love, coming out in August/September with Dreamspinner Press. It's an exciting process but it's doing my head in. The editor said she loved it and it was written poetically, then marked up nearly every paragraph with things she thought needed to be changed. Most of them, I agree with.There's nothing structurally wrong, the characters are brilliant, etc, etc. There's really only one problem, but it's insidious.

I write passively. I think passively. I speak passively. The story is set in 1919-1920, and the language of the time was passive. Unfortunately, most readers today get impatient with passive writing and won't continue reading it. I know all this and spent a lot of time before I submitted the story changing passive writing to active. I thought I'd achieved a good balance and maintained the flavour of the time period, but obviously not.

I have to go through every sentence and evaluate it, then decide if it needs to be rewritten with active verbs, then rewrite the ones that need it and explain why the rest don't. It takes me an hour to do ten pages. By the end of three hours I begin to wonder if the story is even mine anymore. I have to put it away for a couple of hours and then come back and re-read the changes I made to make sure it still sounds like my story. Only then, can I move on to the next chapter.

It's a slow process but I'm not going to rush it. The editor has spent a lot of time going through the manuscript and making suggestions. I need to respect that effort and her skills, but I also need to respect mine. It's a balancing act and doesn't go quickly.

This afternoon, I took a break. I went to www.iwl.me and analysed three chapters of my current wip. This story is very raw and difficult for me to write because it's about domestic abuse.

According to iwl, I write like David Foster Wallace, Agatha Christie and Vladimir Nabokov. I guess that means I have an offbeat style that hides clues and engenders moral horror in my readers.

I write like
Vladimir NabokovI Write Like. Analyze your writing!
I've never read anything by Wallace and I couldn't finish Lolita (it was too confronting for me) but all these authors have won awards for stellar writing so I can't be unhappy about that.

I'm going back to the site now and analyse some of my other work to see what comes back. If I get an author I don't enjoy reading, I know I have more editing to do.

GLBT month

June is GLBT month and I've agreed to do a blog post for ARe Cafe. I'm really excited about it because I don't get out much in cyber-world. It's also important to me because it targets a whole group of people who are often dismissed or ignored in society and in the law, and that's just plain wrong. It frustrates me that there are so many people out there who think it's okay to treat someone else so badly, or ignore them, just because... who knows why. I know a number of intelligent people who simply turn off their intelligence when common sense conflicts with other beliefs or desires.

Anyway, back on topic...

I've been working on the post for about three weeks now, which means I have about six versions, most of which bear no relationship to each other. I'm totally unable to make a decision on:
what to write abouthow personal to make ithow much I should talk about my bookshow to beginhow to endIndecisive much? I have another week to make up my mind. The good thing is, whatever version I end up submitting, I'll have at least five others I can then use somewhere else. That's the optimist in me.

It's a good thing I am an optimist or my indecisiveness would spell disaster instead of opportunity.

I'll have my moment (or 1/3 of a day) in the sun on 30 June.

How do you find the time...

I've been asking that question for a long time, and more so just recently. I have two stories in the editing queue of their respective publishers at the same time. Yes, I know it's minor, but it's the first time I've had to work on two stories simultaneously. That meant the whole of last week was spent reviewing contracts, and edits and getting them back to the publishers before the deadline. Very little new writing happened.

I used to hate editing. In some ways I still hate self-editing. It feels too much like going back. Anyone who travels with me had better make sure they don't forget anything, because if they did, they have to do without for the duration of the trip. I don't stop and I don't go back. My writing is a bit like that too. The only time I stop writing in a project is when I need thinking time, so I can make sure the next bit fits. I have to keep the story in my head all the time or I lose momentum.

So what do I do when an entire week is consumed with edits and I've only just begun a new story? Not only is it a new story but it's one I've written a chapter on - the last chapter - and I have to work backwards from the end. That's doubly tough for me. That's backtracking in a major way and I'm having serious trouble getting my head to stay on task.

Then the edits arrive and the whole thing goes out the window. I'm lucky the edits are minor: a few sentences to reword, a few redundancies to remove. That sort of thing. It's just that, while one is a short story and could be done in an evening, the other was a novel and took the rest of the week to finish.

I lost the story in my head.

If only I could have found the time to do it all. *sigh* Now I need a few days 'think time' to get the story back and make sure it's flowing the right way.

It's a good thing I enjoy sitting on the back deck, staring at the sky.

I've run out of ideas - now what?

I've totally run out of ideas on what to blog about. Life is rolling along - it's busy and productive but nothing share-worthy. So, what do I do with the blog - you know, the one I post to every Saturday at midday (AEST), without fail? I post a free short story, that's what. I'll also put this one up on my website with the other free stories.

A little while ago I decided to write a series of short stories exploring relationships between women. I began the research in all earnestness but it didn't last long. My imagination took over and I almost immediately began to ask 'what if...'. This story is the result of one of my responses to that question.


MAKING FRIENDS I sit and watch her as she speaks. Her glistening red lips pout around even white teeth as she talks. I lick my lips, almost tasting the crushed raspberry colour, and take a photograph.
We see each other every few months, always with the same group. It’s rare we’re alone like this. I gave her my phone number but she hasn’t called. She’s just returned from France and describes how the rancid pollution mixes with the sweetness of fresh-baked rolls to create the unique fragrance of Paris. She loves the way the vibrant colours of gardens in bloom, juxtaposed with jewel-bright clothing, complement the rush of the language as people call to each other in the street and the strident beeping of car horns. To me, it sounds overwhelming. Then she talks about a work colleague. They walk to their cars together every afternoon and stand on the footpath talking. I already know their problems. I was there.
A dozen jangling bangles climb her forearms as her hands wave around the tufted halos of purple hair framing her pixie face. Her Italian sandals have disks of silver around the ankle that tinkle every time she moves. There’s charcoal on her palms today.
Her paint-encrusted fingers float around her head as she talks. The light glints off two gaudy flower petal rings on her right hand as she lays it on my forearm. Her skin is warm.
“You can see the opportunity, can’t you, Julie? I couldn’t say ‘no’.”
I can’t remember what she was talking about so I say ‘of course’ and take another photograph.
I ask her about her work. She has a real job, which has always surprised me. Her art fills her so completely I didn’t think she’d have time for anything else. Not like me. I have too much time. She works with small children who’ve been abused, teaching them to draw and paint as a way of releasing the horrors. Perhaps that’s why I’m drawn to her. No one taught me how to paint.
The others join us in a rush, coming one after the other almost as if they’d stood outside on the footpath and decided who’d come in first. I sit back, my short time alone with her at an end. They’ve known her longer.
They each do the rounds, giving air kisses to everyone. Their words are like birds’ twitter, falling all over the place, jumbling in my mind.
“Hi Karen. You have such a great place. Thanks for suggesting we come here instead of going out.”
“I’ve had a horror day. It’s good to have something like this to make it better.”
“You and Brian well?”
“Hey, Julie. How’s the internet business going?”
I must have mentioned that at one time but I can’t remember doing so. I turn to Marcy, ready to answer, but she’s already moved on to the next one. They catch each other up on their lives, watching indulgently as their children reintroduce themselves on the other side of the room then disappear through a door. I can’t share that either. I have no children.
The conversation becomes more disjointed in my ears. I’m not sure how much each of them hears; they never stay focused on one person long enough to hear an answer.
I lift my camera and take more photographs. Every time I point the camera at a segment of the group, the faces turn, lean in close together and smile until the flash goes off, then they separate and pick up the conversation, often in mid-sentence.
Marcy turns back to me and stays long enough to hear my answer to her question. Karen is half-turned away, fingers flying as she talks to someone else. I take another photograph.
The music is turned up and food brought out. The plates are scattered along low tables, just a few inches out of easy reach. I shift to the edge of the chair, pick up a canapé, then slide back into the hollow and pick the topping off my blouse. It’s caviar. My blouse is white.
I don’t join the conversation. Choosing schools or music teachers means nothing to me. I scrub at the stain on my blouse with a paper napkin as I watch Karen’s animated face then I get up and move around the furniture. Marcy finds me at the end of the room. She’s always watching me and, this year, she’s friendly too.
“You always take lots of photos, Julie. Can I phone you to arrange to get some copies?”
I smile. “I’ll email you copies as soon as I can.” Phones demand my attention. Karen’s the only one I’ve given my number to.
“Take some of the children too,” Marcy says. “They grow so quickly it’s hard to keep up with the changes.”
I nod and smile, and take the photos. I hope my impatience at being drawn away from Karen doesn’t show.
Marcy puts an arm around my shoulders and guides me back to the group. “Take some of Karen, too,” she whispers. I resist shoving her hand away. The music gets louder and someone turns on a revolving coloured light. I can hear only snippets of conversation.
“The first time I drove the car …”
“… I got a permanent position …”
“… born on Thursday …”
Karen flops down next to me. She flings her arm around my neck and drags me into a hug.
“Did you see Julie’s photos from last time?” she asks Marcy. “They’re brilliant aren’t they?” Her knuckles brush against the top of my breast. Can she feel my heart pounding? I let my head drop back, just for a moment, to feel her warm breath on my cheek.
Marcy winks at me before she answers Karen. I push myself upright, grabbing another canapé to hide the sudden heat in my cheeks. When Marcy grins at me I realise my hand is on Karen’s knee. I snatch it away and move, putting some space between us. I can hear my breathing and the music. The sudden coolness of the air between Karen and me makes me shiver and when she turns to talk to someone else Marcy winks again. I take a photo of her.
They drag a few tables aside, clearing a space for dancing. One of them grabs my arm and pulls me with them. I bounce around for a while, hoping I don’t look too foolish. Karen’s beside me and I pretend I can feel the heat of her body. She moves away, animated, absorbed in the moment, her dirty fingers flying. I watch as she taps her feet, her bright hair shining like a rainbow in the moving light. I slip away from the dance floor and take more photos, moving around the edges of the room, staying behind people and furniture. Out of the way, unnoticed.
They keep talking while they dance. Some of the children join them.
The click of the shutter and whir of the focussing mechanism are possibly just my imagination. The music is so loud now the floor is vibrating to the beat. The room becomes a blur of movement and faces, separate from reality, caught for a fraction of a second by the shutter. The lights flash red, blue and yellow on pallid or rosy cheeks.
I keep moving, keep pressing the shutter button. After a while I notice fewer people dancing. They’re beginning to leave. I go back to the couches, settle myself and take more photos as everyone gathers their things. Marcy leans over the back of the couch as she grabs her bag and whispers ‘Go for it’ in my ear. I open my mouth to tell her to go to hell but can’t. My throat closes as I see Karen kneel on the opposite couch and lean over the back of it. She comes up with someone’s bag and I begin to breathe again.
I’m the last to go, watching through the view finder between the leaves in the neighbour’s yard as she locks the doors and draws curtains as red as her lips. The night is over.
I drive home slowly then download the photos and edit them. The ones I took of Marcy make her look fat. I send photos to them all then delete the ones I don’t want to keep. I finish printing and by breakfast the wall is full again.
Every photo is of Karen.
I smile. I’ve done well this time. I’ve managed to capture more of her faces. That one of the soft half-smile, white teeth barely visible between glistening red lips is the sexy bitch. The one of her hand pushing through her purple hair, smudges of paint around the nails matching the vibrant colour, is the slob bitch. The one of her kneeling over the couch, just her jeans-clad buttocks and backs of her thighs visible, is the slut bitch. It’s my favourite.
I check the calendar. Three months til the next party. I wonder how many photos of her I can take before then.

Look here - now edit it

I'm in the middle of the editing process with a couple of stories. Both of them, placed with different publishers, have come back with several words on every page highlighted. Every page. The same word.

The word is 'look'.

It's everywhere. I'm flabbergasted, mostly because my crit group knows I repeat words like that and over the course of writing the stories have picked up a lot of those sorts of repetitions. I remember deleting or changing a lot of 'look's before sending the stories out. And I'm still left with dozens of them none of us noticed.

I expect that after a while, we became too familiar with it and read what we thought was there. That sounds careless until you consider how my crit group runs. We read blind at our meetings. Chapters presented aren't sent in ahead of time, and we only have twenty minutes to read, edit and jot down critique notes before the discussion begins. In the main, it works really well, but sometimes, like with my 'look's, things get missed.

Thank goodness the publishers are picking it up.

I have to work out how to fix it. The obvious thing is a search in Word, but if I did that after I finished writing the story, it would drive me insane. I'll have to remember to search for those repeated words with every chapter. That'll be more manageable.

The big problem will be if I end up replacing that word with another one that also ends up being repeated too often. How many words can I use that mean the same thing without being pretentious (because the boys in these stories aren't at all pretentious).

So far I'm using an awful lot of:

look away = turn away
look like = seems like
look at = glance

At least I have three options. I'd love some suggestions for more.

I'm not doing any more tonight. I've edited 100 pages and I can't bring myself to look at another 'look' right now.