Becky Lower's Blog, page 4

Pick Your Poison

 Last week, I talked about great beginnings to stories. The reason for the topic stemmed from a fellow author here in the Sandhills who publishes an amusing blog each week, mixing a dash of history, a side order of applicable famous quotes, and a sprinkling of insight. I look forward to reading it every Sunday afternoon. 

A few weeks ago, he decided to run a contest. He assembled a guest panel of judges and told his readers he'd accept up to three entries from each person. The only rule was the entries couldn't be from already published works, but rather, works in progress. I was beyond excited to get the news earlier this week that, of the over 500 entries received, one of mine made it into the top fifteen finalists! He said there was no clear winner among the fifteen, so he was sending the small list back to his judges for a consensus. There will be three winners and twelve runner-ups, but all the finalists will be featured in his blog this afternoon. 

I don't know yet which of the three I submitted made the cut, so until the official announcement, you all can choose your favorite. Here they are: 

1) Johanna Taylor stopped crying when she hit the Virginia state line. 

2) Wisteria Campbell felt the weight of the necklace as if it were an albatross around her neck. 

3) She needed some legal advice, or a husband, and fast. 

Pick your poison. I'll let you know the one that finaled next week. 

New Beginnings

Does your favorite book have a great opening line?

There's a gentleman here in the Sandhills region of North Carolina who is a collector of quotes from famous and not-so-famous people. Each Sunday, he shares with his followers a sampling of quotes that correspond to events of the day. He recently asked his readers to send in their favorite opening lines from various published works. I perused my stash of favorite books, and my own published works, searching for a killer opening line or two. Other than one from Jayne Ann Krentz about the screams in the insane asylum, I came up empty. Which made me realize a good opening line is hard to find. 

Opening lines can make or break a story. Stephen King has confessed he often spends months crafting his opening lines. They must entice the reader, make that person want to know more about this world you're creating. Here's how King defines opening lines: 

"An opening line should invite the reader to begin the story. It should say: Listen. Come in here. You want to know about this." 

Snoopy gets the credit for popularizing the often ridiculed opening line from the book "Paul Clifford" by Edward Bulwer-Lytton: 

This exercise is making me take another look at my WIP. Here's the opening line at present: Wisteria Campbell felt the weight of the necklace as if it were an albatross around her neck.

Any suggestions to improve upon it will be gratefully accepted. And Stephen, if you're reading this, get back to me in a couple months with your take, okay? 

Questioning Behavior

 I've noticed recently, on Facebook, in passing conversation, and within my own family, that often, the first question asked, even before the "How are you?" is "Have you gotten your shot yet?" 

I'm planning a road trip next month, and I'm already obsessing over how many masks to take, if I should pack water and snacks to lessen our interactions with others, how much disinfectant is needed in the public bathrooms along the way. Since this is a family get-together and we've all been vaccinated, our chances of coming into contact with the deadly disease is decreased, but there are people we'll run into along the way who don't have the benefit of the vaccine. 

Someone recently told me she'd put her trust in the Lord rather than in science, and he'd take her when it was time. To me, that was a very narrow-minded point of view. She can feel the way she wants, but what about all the people she's in contact with each day? Such reckless behavior...

So, what does this all have to do with writing, you ask? As one who is known for finding analogies where there is none, I relate this reckless behavior with writing a book before you study how to write. Regardless of your genre, you need to study your craft. Many fine books on the subject of writing exist, most  of which are created by industry leaders like Stephen King and Janet Evanovich. A nuts and bolts book, relied on by many, is Save the Cat, by Blake Snyder. A more recent entry, Save the Cat Writes a Novel, by Jessica Brody, more narrowly defines how to craft a novel. 

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Add in a dose of study of the English language, and you are prepared to write a book that has a good plot, is free of typos, and is not a waste of the reader's time. If not, you'll end up with a book that few will want to read. You may be able to say you're a published author, but your reckless behavior will make for a very small audience. 

Ghosting

I've been hearing the term "ghosting" a lot lately. According to Wikipedia, here's the definition:

Ghosting is a colloquial term used to describe the practice of ceasing all communication and contact with a partner, friend, or similar individual without any apparent warning or justification and subsequently ignoring any attempts to reach out or communication made by said partner, friend, or individual.

For me, ghosting means something entirely different. For the past several years, I've been ghostwriting novels that will never have my name on them. I've just finished book number ten for one of my favorite clients, and he's ordered eight more. I'll be busy for the rest of the year at this rate. I still get to perform the part of writing I enjoy–the creative part–and I can ignore the parts I don't like–marketing, design, promotion, etc. Not to mention I don't have to wait for royalty payments to come in months down the road and pray that I can maybe eke out enough money to cover the costs of the promotion I had done. 

Of course, all this ghostwriting cuts into the time I have to work on my own stories. I may not publish any books this year that carry my own name on them. I've got a couple of ideas kicking around in my head, so I never say never. But for right now, I'm content to write for someone else. 

So, in a way I am ceasing communication and contact without warning. Because I'm ghostwriting, I'm practicing ghosting. Who knew? 

Spring Chore List

 If you're like most people, there are some household chores that you don't mind doing, and there are others you hate to do. We are coming into the season where my chore list is filled with things I look forward to each year. My condo has only six units and each of us maintains our little plot of ground out front and out back as we see fit. There is a landscaping service we use for the heavy lifting, but we each can put our own stamp of individuality on our units. Most of the lawns here use pine straw for mulch, but since I grew up in the midwest, I like bark mulch. Black mulch. It makes such a difference, and I can't wait to lay down a new layer of it. Here are the before and after pictures from last spring: 

The Spring chore I'm least looking forward to? Replacing the spline in my screen door. I didn't even know what a "spline" was until I visited the hardware store with a piece of my broken little band of rubber that held the screen in place. The tool, and the new coil of spline are staring at me, coaxing me to get to work. 

Maybe I'll just go buy some mulch instead. 

How about you? What Spring chores do you like? Which do you despise? 

And to my Ohio friends and family–do not despair. Spring is coming.

Some Color, Please!

 I have this herb garden window in my kitchen, which you would think would be a great way to keep fresh herbs for my cooking. But, the North Carolina sun tends to bake everything, especially in summer, so all the herbs I've tried to cultivate have shriveled up and died within days of being put in the window. Not wanting to throw my money away on a lost cause, I've let the window languish for months. The only thing I could think of that would handle the harsh rays would be cacti, and I'm firmly of the opinion that, if a plant doesn't produce blossoms, it's not something I want to spend time with. That eliminated cacti, for the most part. 

So, it was with some trepidation that I picked up a bag of crocus bulbs a month ago. I planted some of them in the herb garden planter and then threw the rest of them into the ground–no mean feat, since the ground was fairly frozen. When the bulbs in the window began to sprout, I was thrilled. I finally had found something that would give me some color in my kitchen. 

A few days ago, it hit the mid-60s here, and I was delighted to see the bulbs I had tossed outside had bloomed as well. A little color is a good thing, whether it's in my window, my yard, or my books. 

A Shot of Good News

The past couple of weeks have been even harder than normal. It seemed every day brought another dose of bad news from a family member or a friend. It's been hard to focus and I found myself wishing for one day where the only news was good. 

It didn't happen all in one day, but this past week did bring a glimmer of light in the midst of all this darkness. First, the refinance I'd been working on since December finally came to a conclusion and I signed the final paperwork which would give me the lowest interest rate on my mortgage that I've ever had on any home I've owned. And then, a few days later, I got my first Covid shot. In three short weeks, I'll get the second dose, and then, I'll be free to hit the road and see how my Mini-Cooper handles on a long trip. And, I'm no longer living in Texas, so there's that. 

Can't wait. 

Eulogy for Mary

 This has been a sad week for me. My little dog and faithful companion, Mary, had to be put down at the beginning of the week. It's been lonely in this house without her. In the past year, with the pandemic keeping us all quarantined, she was the only one I had daily contact with. And the only one I could hug and kiss on. 

She was not always the easiest to get along with, but that was because she had not had a normal childhood. Every author knows backstory is what makes an individual who she is, and Mary's was unique. Her first five years were spent in a 3 x 3 foot cage, where she was bred time and again. Fortunately for her, the horrible puppy mill decided she was past her prime and put her up for auction, where she was rescued by a faith-based organization who christened her Mary and spent five months getting her adjusted to normal doggie behavior. Even with all their good training, I still had to keep her on a lead for over a year, in order to get close enough to her to pick her up. She didn't understand stairs, or grass, or someone wanting to pick her up just to cuddle. If she'd been my first-ever dog, I would have given up. But Mary had a big heart in that little body and I knew I could get to it somehow.

I had a big enclosed backyard, into which I put Mary when she first arrived. Rather than relish the open spaces, she moved around the yard in 3 foot circles. The circles gradually got larger, but she didn't learn to run until I took her to my sister's home, where her dog, Harry, showed Mary how to dash across the yard. Seeing her run full-out with Harry brought tears to my eyes. They were a good team, Harry and Mary, and she missed her buddy when he passed. She's with him now, and running free again, I'm sure. 


Mary started slowing down this past year, and took to camping out at my feet, on my blanket. She didn't necessarily want to be held, since she still had trouble with people grabbing her even after nine years with me, but she wanted to be close. Her greatest enjoyment this past summer was being able to sit on the porch swing with me and make fun of the golfers as they zipped by in their tiny carts. 

I'm grateful she's no longer in pain, but I already miss her so much it hurts. I'll pack away her toys and beds a little at a time, and maybe next summer, I'll give them to the Humane Society. Right now, though, they're little reminders of her. I'll bury her ashes near the porch swing, so she can still enjoy that with me. 

RIP, Sweet Mary

Close Enough to Nature

 I'm about to celebrate my third anniversary in my North Carolina home. I enjoy watching to golfers whiz by my back door in their golf carts as they chase little white balls (or pink ones, if it's Monday morning when the ladies have their outing). And, occasionally, I get a chance to see more than golfers from my window, as witnessed here, when a young buck came calling. 

The other morning, though, I was startled to see an animal run by my back door. From the corner of my eye, I only saw a leg as it scarred by my back door. I jumped up, writing forgotten, to see what kind of critter had come so close. Loping across the field was a beautiful red fox! Since the community I live in is called Foxfire, it should not have come as a surprise, but this was the first one I'd encountered. And having a door between us was just fine by me. 

Now, I just have to figure out how to use the fox encounter, such as it was, in my writing. A good friend of mine lives in the mountains and has black bear visitors to her breezeway all the time in the spring and summer. I'll be content with the occasional fox, I think. 

So, what inspires you?

Peace, Love, and Rock n' Roll

 It's been a very chilling and divisive time in our country, and try as I might not to be political, it does splash over into my writing and my blogs. Especially since I've spent the last year or so researching and writing about the Revolutionary War, which started America on its current path. Our forefathers had great insight, but even they could not conceive what our 21st century would look like. with its instantaneous news cycle and multiple outlets with talking heads sharing multiple opinions and skewing the facts to serve their purposes and their audiences. Makes me yearn for the days when life was more simple–the 1960s. 

I was a typical hippie child, with my tie-dyed shirt and peace symbol earrings. Back during this era, all I had to worry about was whether the cops were going to bust me for scoring some weed. I was a member of SDS, the Students for a Democratic Society, but we were hardly the radical extremists that are overrunning our way of life now. Everything was groovy. 

How naive and childish that seems now. But I do still have a peace symbol at my back door, and hope at my front door. When we are all vaccinated and can hug each other again, it's my hope we can get back to simpler times. To peace, love, and rock n' roll.