Elizabeth M. Lawrence's Blog, page 27

Crazy Cat Lady in Training

So I was sitting around pondering life (a.k.a. ignoring my deadlines), and it struck me that I am probably going to die alone and surrounded by 20 scraggly cats. It’s okay; I’ve made my peace with it. At least I can start stocking up on canned cat food early.
Because here’s the thing. You people out there in the “real” world? You scare the hell out of me. Every year that passes only reinforces my reluctance to participate in “real” life. Have you seen the wars out there? The violence and hatred? The absolute and blatant hypocrisy of our governments and religions? Even on a smaller scale, the way we speak to each other and treat each other and judge each other is downright terrifying. What the hell is it all for?
Say you have an opinion. Let’s make it an easy one. Okay, you believe to the depths of your soul that the color pink is an abomination against all that is good in the world. There are arguments to support this belief, and all of it proves beyond doubt that pink as a color is wrong. Yay. You win. Pink is evil.
What does this accomplish, though? First off, anyone who likes pink now has to either hide their pink-appreciation or choose to pink it up anyway, knowing that everyone they meet – every person they encounter – will be silently judging their pinkness. So tensions escalate (as they so often do), and next thing you know, there is a pink-lovin’ faction that breaks off and tells the non-pinks that THEY are the heathens. So the non-pinks declare war on the pro-pinks – strictly for their own good, of course, misguided souls that they are. Now we have non’s and pro’s all fighting each other, and then someone finds a gun, and then another person revs up a few tanks and helicopters, and then the next thing you know, we’re killing each other over pink.
Maybe the pro-pinks win. Maybe the non-pinks win. Either way, one ideology will emerge victorious. People have died. Families have fractured. Lives have been torn apart. Over pink.
What has all this really accomplished? Not a damn thing. Because pink was never really an issue. Pink won’t keep us from achieving new advances in medicine. Pink won’t influence how our children learn and grow. Pink won’t prevent us from living, working, loving, praying, or eating. What has brought those restrictions and that suffering to people’s lives isn’t a color – it’s the prejudices that our society has built up around that color.
Religion. Sexuality. Gender. Class. Profession. Race. Size. Shape.
Hating and killing and tormenting each other over these things make just as much sense as having a war over the color of Pepto Bismol.
Don’t quote the Bible at me, either. Jesus said the MOST IMPORTANT thing was to love one another. He didn’t say it was something to consider when taking a break from Leviticus (which apparently never gets read unless someone wants to impose their prejudices and they need an excuse). He said it was the most important thing. Not maybe. So really, don’t call yourself a Christian and then ignore that. That’s like putting an anti-pink flag on the front of your Barbie Dream House.
Year after year, we kill each other over religion, over politics, over money… over the stupidest, most inconsequential labels. Why? It’s madness.
You know when poverty and homelessness and famine and war and disease are going to end? Never. Because the only way for us to conquer those things is by coming together as a species. As a planet. But we’ll never come together because we’re all so damned determined to prove that we’re right and the other guy is wrong. We’ve got to prove that our beliefs – our millions of opinions – are more important than one person’s right to live free and happy. We will let a rapist go free so that our football team won’t lose the big game. We will let people kill a man for holding hands with his boyfriend in public. We will let a Muslim family wake up to hate speech graffitied on their home. We condone acts of hatred and violence through our silence, and instead make noise that can only bring MORE hatred. More violence. Because we don’t really care about making the world a better place. We only care about being right.
I want the people of the world to stop arguing about pink. Until it does, I’ll be living like a hermit with my cats, who don’t give a damn about anything beyond having food and a nice warm spot in which to nap.

Guest Post: Lisa Bilbrey

Today, I am pleased to host guest blogger Lisa Bilbrey. Lisa is discussing her latest release, The Journey of Champions, and why she decided to bring the characters of The Journey Home back for another installment. Please welcome Lisa, and be sure to check out her links below!


The Journey of Champions picks up at the end of chapter ten of The Journey Home, and starts the process of filling in the gap between there and the epilogue. While I do feel like I wrapped the story up nicely in The Journey Home, I found myself wanting to write the rest of it, too. There was so much left to be told, so many little moments between Travis, Penelope, and Max.
With The Journey of Champions, I decided to take Travis back to Miami. I felt it was an important step for him to take. He’d finally become the man he was supposed to be and with that came the responsibility to settle his affairs before he could move on with in his life with Penelope and Max. How could he be a role model for his son if he wasn’t a man of his word?
 
Excerpt—“Max, remember what I told you: it’s just for a few days.” He had hoped to keep his voice calm and even, but he could hear the tremor of fear lacing his words. Would Max hate him for leaving again?

“Yeah, I know,” Max muttered. “And then you’ll be here for good, right?”

“Forever — and that’s a promise,” Travis said. “I love you, kid.”

“I love you, too,” Max whispered. He gave Travis a quick hug before turning and running into the building.

“Bye, Max, thanks for acknowledging me,” Penelope grumbled.

Travis laughed and looked over the top of the car at her.

She had a smile on her face, but her eyes were full of worry. “He’ll be okay.”

“I hope so, because I don’t know if I can handle knowing that he’s pissed at me for leaving him again,” Travis mumbled, trying to stop himself from weeping. He’d never been an emotional man, but seeing the pain on his son’s face and knowing that he couldn’t make it better had tears swimming in his eyes. Travis now understood why men changed so much when they had a child; the fear of damaging them was horrifying.

“Travis, he’s scared. Hell, so am I, but we’re not the same dumb, eighteen-year-old kids that we used to be. We’ve grown up, and I will not allow you to miss out on any more of our son’s life. I made that mistake once, and I won’t make it again.”

“Me either, baby, me either.”

Visit Lisa Bilbrey here:Amazon Author PageBarnes & NobleLisa's BlogAbout.MeFacebookTwitter

Is It My Mid-Life Crisis Yet?

How do you know you are in the throes of a mid-life crisis? Age can be something of an indicator, but it’s not as though you can really gauge your midway point. Is it thirty? Thirty-five? Forty?
Being the proactive sort of gal I am, I began really putting some thought into how my mid-life crisis was going to go when I turned thirty. I mean, how often are you handed a big, fat excuse to act completely irrationally while you are an adult? If you squander this one, you have to wait until your dotage for another opportunity, and by that time, you may not give a damn anymore. Best to strike while the iron is hot.
I didn’t plan the event, but I was on the lookout. Periodically, I checked myself for unexplained impulses to purchase sports cars. There was a twinge or two, I’ll admit; those new Dodge Chargers are pretty hot. But for the most part, my irrational urges were fleeting and resistible, so I just kept waiting. Yes, I left my job, but that had more to do with my children’s special needs than any overwhelming need to cling to my fading youth. The years came and went, until I found myself at forty without any sports cars or other signs of temporary insanity.
In my line of work, I talk to a lot of writers. Authors are essentially storytellers, and so over the course of swapping tales with my colleagues, I discovered something that surprised me. Despite my diligent self-awareness, I seem to have missed my mid-life crisis. Looking back, it’s an obvious thing. Frankly, it is embarrassing that my powers of discernment and observation are so weak that I could overlook the signs.
All hell was breaking loose and my kids needed me and I was always one cup of coffee shy of a total nervous breakdown when I decided to be a stay-at-home mom. Maybe that is a good enough excuse for my oversight. In any case, the facts speak for themselves. I left my paralegal job. Not long afterwards, I found myself working as personal assistant to a professional medium/clairvoyant/life coach. It was through this work that I experienced ghost tours, séances, house cleansings, grief counseling, and missing person searches and was exposed to a variety of spiritual paths and ideas. I even picked up some pointers and practical tools for small business owners and entrepreneurs. I was writing, as well. Then I found myself meeting other writers in a Skype-based writing circle. Some of the women I met founded their own publishing house, and I edited their first novel as a favor. This turned into my current “day job” as their lead editor. I started blogging. My doctor helped me quit smoking for good, and I had my first really spectacular car accident. I buried my last grandparent and my mother-in-law. I got my first tattoo on my fortieth birthday and finally found the courage to tell my parents that I couldn’t follow the religion in which they’d raised me. I was published for the first time. I began speaking out against injustice instead of keeping silent, and I became an advocate for myself, too. I rediscovered old loves and rekindled my interest in the arts and began to learn again. I remembered how to live again.
All of this happened between 2010 and 2013. Three years. Was it my mid-life crisis? I’ll admit that “crisis” would have been an apt description at certain moments over that period of time. Change is never easy, and some of the challenges I had to confront were serious and painful.
One of the thoughts that shook me out of my stupor back in 2010 was an upsetting one: every time I described myself, I used the past tense. How could someone still in her thirties have so little in her life that every sentence began “I used to…”? I used to sing. I used to dance. I used to write. I used to paint. I used to explore. I used to go to concerts. I used to go to the theatre. I used to. But not anymore.
One of the things you’re supposed to learn from your mid-life crisis is how to let go of youth and embrace your future. It’s a tough transition. What I discovered about myself was that in letting go of my youth, I’d let go of who I was, leaving myself nothing with which to build a future. So I didn’t buy a sports car or run off with a pool boy named Rico. Instead, I became myself again. If I needed “permission” to make these changes, chalking it up to my mid-life crisis was as good an excuse as any. Whether it was legitimate or not, I’m certainly not going to apologize for it now.
I don’t know if this is really my mid-life crisis, but it’s been an interesting ride so far.

By Any Other Name?

Recently, someone asked if it was strange for me when people address me by my pen name. My answer was “no.” There are a couple reasons for this, the first being that I chose that pen name at the tender age of ten, so I’ve had thirty years to get used to the idea. The second reason is that I haven’t gone by my real name for years. For some unknown reason, I feel the urge to tell the story behind this.
Back in 1987, when the Earth was still cooling and mutant shoulder pads were threatening to take over the universe, I was becoming fast friends with a wonderful person who remains my closest friend to this day, despite our many attempts to throttle each other. When we met, I was in possession of a library book entitled The Maverick Guide to Australia. This book began, predictably, with the definition of “maverick,” which is, according to Merriam-Webster’s handy online dictionary, “an independent individual who does not go along with a group or party.” My friend thought that this was an excellent description of my fundamental personality, and a nickname was born.
Being at that time teenage girls, we had frequent bouts of laziness, and a three-syllable nickname quickly became onerous. It was shortened to Mavvy, and then Mav. When she was angry with me, my friend would even give me her version of the motherly middle-naming: Maverick Dammit.
Throughout high school, I was introduced to more and more new friends by this nickname. It had become my identity so, when I went away to college, I continued to introduce myself as Mavvy. By the time I married, the only people still using my real name were my parents. I decided that it would not work for getting a job, so I did use my real name with employers and co-workers, but even they were aware of the nickname from meeting my husband at office parties and my compulsion to over-share.
My mother now insists that it is silly for me to continue to use the nickname, since a 40-year-old married mother of two could not possibly be a maverick. I think she misunderstands the truth that lies behind the name and the reason why I still use it.
I am not attempting to prove to the world that I am different, edgier, rebellious, or ostentatiously counter-culture. I’m not really trying to prove anything.
The nickname fits my identity because I have never fit in and am able to feel the blessing of it. It is me because I have never been able to subjugate my true self to the will or expectation of others, no matter how much pressure was put on me to do so. I am simply myself, and any attempt on my part to stray from that truth results in abysmal failure. In other words, I completely lack the ability to be anything other than genuine.
As I have mentioned in other blog posts, being on the outside can be an asset for a creative person. It allows me to have a unique perspective of the world and the people in it. I understand human beings in converse proportion to my ability to interact with them without awkwardness. Being an outsider has also made it possible for me to relate to my autistic son. He can tell me honestly about how he sees the world around him, and he knows that I will understand. His little brother, who has something of a reputation for hilarious eccentricity amongst my Facebook friends, is also an unbridled individualist. I believe that one of my jobs as their mother is to protect those identities and teach them to embrace who they are, try to do good in the world, and never let anyone take away their joy.
My mother has a hard time grappling with a lot of the choices I make, so it is not particularly surprising that she doesn’t understand why an old childhood nickname still overshadows the name she picked for me. That’s okay; I know enough of her story to appreciate why she has the perspective she does. But in our society as a whole, we allow other people to label us too often. Labels such as gender, race, sexuality, build, socioeconomic status, and even hair color put each of us into categories that don’t necessarily reflect who we really are as individuals.
I did not choose my nickname, but it was chosen for me by someone who understood me and knew my heart. I chose my pen name for myself. When I married, I chose to take my husband’s last name. One day, my children may come home and tell me they now want to be called Colander and Catharsis.
All I care about is that, when they’re both grown and off living their lives, they will only care about the labels they choose for themselves and the ones that are offered to them out of love by those who really know their hearts. I already know those hearts are good, and that's all I need to know. Everything else is just names.

Lisa Bilbrey's Upcoming Release!

Announcing the Second Book in the Journey Collection  by Lisa Bilbrey!
Fans of Lisa Bilbrey’s novella The Journey Home will be pleased to learn that the second installment in the collection, The Journey of Champions, will be released April 9th.
In The Journey Home, the Sharks’ star quarterback, Travis McCoy, has it all, until an injury ends his season early. When he receives an invitation to attend the big homecoming game from his alma mater, Travis decides it’s time to face his past. The journey home sends Travis down a path that he never expects. Will he be able to come to grips when everything around him is spiraling out of control?
Once Travis has faced his journey home, he is confronted with a new challenge…
The Journey of Champions
Travis McCoy thought the journey home would be the hardest choice he ever had to make. It isn’t until he finds himself walking out the door and leaving his family behind that he realizes his journey is only just beginning. Now, with only a handful of weeks until Christmas, Travis tries to find his way back home. This time, he plans on staying forever.

Lisa Bilbrey is an avid writer of both short stories and full-length novels. A mother to three and wife, she loves to read and spend time with her family. You can find her here:
Amazon Author PageBarnes & NobleAuthor BlogFacebook Fan Page

The Next Big Thing W.I.P. Blog Hop

Once again, I've been tagged for The Next Big Thing W.I.P. Blog Hop! Here we go!
What is the working title of your book?
My short story that will be coming out this July is titled Wishing Cotton, and my first full-length novel is The Truth Seekers.
Where did the idea come from for the book?
For Wishing Cotton, I really can’t remember what inspired the original idea. It evolved quite a bit while I was writing it, but the initial core idea stayed the same.
What genre does your book fall under?
Contemporary romance. It’s pretty lighthearted, which is a big shift from my last publication. My novel The Truth Seekers is an historical romance, so I’ll be shifting gears again.
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
I’m terrible at this question because I don’t really know any actor names. I think anyone with decent comedic timing would work well for Wishing Cotton. A lot of the dialogue is meant to be spoken very quickly, and there are several actors who could handle the pacing perfectly.
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
A woman conducts an experiment to see if wishes can come true, and other people get caught in the crossfire.
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
It will be published by Renaissance Romance Publishing, an independent publisher.
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
About a year, but I don’t work straight through – I’m always stopping to work on editing other authors’ work. I’d say in actual work, I spent two or three months on it.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Oh, man. I don’t know… I can’t think of anything off the top of my head. It’s just a fun, fanciful little story that is meant to make the readers laugh and give them warm fuzzies.
Who or What inspired you to write this book?
Nothing very specific. I just had a snippet of an idea, and I just kept saying, “Okay, sure – but what if..? And then, if that happened, what if..?” until I had imagined a whole story.
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest? If a reader is looking for a simple feel-good story to read while sunning out at the beach, this would be a good pick.

Next up... Denise Stanley at A Room to Write
Since I wasn’t able to get five authors to tag, here are some recommendations for author blogs that you can check out:
Lorenz Font, whose debut novel Hunted: The Gates Legacy was released yesterday.

Lisa Bilbrey, who tagged me for the blog hop. Turnabout is fair play!
M.B. Feeney, whose blog features helpful reviews of new releases. 
Jennifer Garcia, whose blog also features her award-winning poetry. 

How Important Is It?

There are a staggering number of “aspiring” authors in the world. This isn’t news to anyone. And now that self-publication has begun to veer away from the stigma of the vanity press and has moved toward commercial and artistic legitimacy, one might think that aspiration would quickly shift to accomplishment. However, this is not so. There is still a feeling in the writing world that you are not a “real” author until you’ve gotten an agent and signed a multi-part contract with one of the Big Six, and there are still scores of writers who never do actually finish writing that novel. Both scenarios are really symptoms of the way we approach the idea of being an author.
Although your Aunt Muriel thinks you are wonderful and that anyone who criticizes your writing is just a big meanie-pants, the fact remains that publishing involves evaluation and criticism from people who don’t care what Aunt Muriel thinks. There is some obligation to at least attempt to produce quality work. And it’s hard. It’s time-consuming, unglamorous, frustrating, discouraging, and sometimes even humiliating. If you don’t put in the work because you’d rather believe Aunt Muriel when she says it’s perfect in its first draft, then you are in for a rude awakening.  Think about your day job – you know; the one you’d love to quit. Do you approach your writing in the same way as that other job? Are you as conscious of schedule, standards, and professionalism when you pull out your novel at night? Or is it your form of recreation?
Don’t get me wrong – there is nothing wrong with writing just for fun. But if that’s what you’re doing, then you have no need to worry about getting published one day. You can just let it all hang out. And that’s wonderful. I still do that kind of writing from time to time myself.
But if this is what you want for your life – to have people (who haven’t changed your diaper) read your book and enjoy it – then you need to get to work. So many people have a mental picture of the full-time professional writer, ensconced in a mahogany-paneled study and sitting at a venerable old table, furiously writing absolutely brilliant prose. That’s not how it works. The writer must sit down and write, even when the characters aren’t cooperating, the plot has become unmanageable, or the right words have fled.
My day job is editing, which poses its own set of logistical issues that I won’t bore you with. Despite whatever other responsibilities I have, I cannot lose sight of my will to write. It takes a long time and many frustrating revisions and even some soul-searching, but in the end it is worth doing because sharing my stories and characters with other people – both strangers and aunts – is important to me.
If you are an “aspiring” author, what will it take to wipe that word out of your vocabulary? Are you willing to rewrite until you’ve lost count of the number of drafts you’ve produced? Are you willing to sit down and read style books and grammar tutorials and actually take to heart what they tell you? Are you willing to double-check words and phrases in the dictionary or encyclopedia to make sure you’re not talking out your ass? Are you willing to let someone else look at your manuscript and tell you where it still needs work?
At the end of the day, there is no such thing as an “aspiring” author. If you want it badly enough, if it’s a labor of love, and if you would work just as hard at it even if you knew it would never be published, you’re an author in my eyes – published or not. The real question you need to ask yourself is: “How important is it?” No one but you can make you a true author. Not even your Aunt Muriel.

Be sure to check out my short story, My Apple Tree, available at Barnes & Noble, Amazon, and many other vendors. Additional information and links are provided on the "Links" page of this blog.
 

Reprint: Guest Blog Post with Author Lisa Bilbrey

Yes, I am recycling again. I'll knock it off soon, I swear.

In the meantime, this is a guest post that was originally put up on March 18, 2012. My other posts have dealt with my already-published work My Apple Tree, but this one deals with my upcoming historical novel, The Truth Seekers. Release of this novel was delayed because I just didn't feel like it was ready yet, so I am looking forward to seeing what kind of reception it gets now that it's been overhauled and revised within an inch of its life. Take a peek and see what you think, and while you're at it, check out Lisa's blog!



The Story behind the Truth Seekers
[This year,] my novel The Truth Seekers will be released by Renaissance Romance Publishing, and I couldn’t be prouder. Or more completely freaked out.
It’s a little nerve-wracking to let other people read this book, partially because it marks the first time my work is being read by anyone who doesn’t feel some sort of social pressure to be nice to me, and partially because of the kind of novel this is. I am a writer of snark, a speaker of snark, a blogger of snark… as a general rule, just very snarky. And yet, here I am, cranking out a debut novel that is not only snark-free, but also quite serious. As anyone can tell you, our serious, deep emotions are the ones we keep hidden from the rest of the world, lest our poor little hearts are broken by mockery and malice. It takes a special kind of bravery to put those kinds of feelings on display, particularly in front of strangers, as any man who has proposed in public can tell you. You suspect that you look completely barmy, but you don’t want to draw attention to it in case no one else has noticed yet. At any rate, publishing this particular novel feels somewhat like a group of strangers just caught me singing “Dancing Queen” in front of my mirror into my hairbrush/microphone. Not that I’ve ever done that.
So why write it in the first place? It all started with some words: words that would not get out of my head. They rolled around and around in my brain like the prose was full-on stalking me. At last, desperate to get my own brain back, I sat down at the computer and started to type what I “heard” in my head. It began, "I may miss you, but I will not canonize you. You were a sinner, your soul was a fire, and I backed away to save myself even as my eyes were snared by the wild beauty of your burning.”
It turned out to be a letter from a heartbroken woman to a man she desperately loved. It was elaborate, it was elegant, and it was passionate. And yet I had absolutely no clue what the back-story behind it was. Who was this woman? To whom was she writing? What had happened to separate them? No answers appeared to be forthcoming, so I closed the document and turned my attention to other things, just chalking it up as one of those weird writing phenomenon that make the rational world convinced that all novelists are slightly mad.
Then the next night it happened again, only this time, it was the gentleman’s response that was bouncing around in my brain. Surrendering to the inevitable, I pulled up the document and more or less took dictation from my imagination. It flowed onto the page almost effortlessly, but when he’d said his piece, the tap shut off abruptly. I still had no idea what their story was, only this time I was really eager to find out.
All this happened not too long before November, which is a significant month to novelists the world over. For the uninitiated, November is National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. A wonderful non-profit organization called The Office of Letters and Light organizes a month-long novel writing challenge: write 50,000 words in thirty days. There’s no real prize for “winning;” you just get the ego boost of knowing you crossed the finish line. Not everyone does. I had never attempted NaNo before, but I decided to take my two letters with no story and build a novel around them.  
I won the challenge that year by the skin of my teeth. The nature of the NaNo beast is that you are so focused on your word count that you are forced to ignore your inner editor entirely if you want to have any hope of victory. There simply isn’t time to second-guess yourself, so you find yourself tossing everything but the kitchen sink into your book. You write down every random, crazy idea that pops into your head because, even though you may have to edit it out down the road, right now it’s another five hundred words that you didn’t have before. Because of this “anything goes” feeling, I postponed reviewing the manuscript for several months after NaNo ended – I was attempting to psych myself up to face the catastrophic mess I just knew I’d made.
Imagine my shock when I finally read it and found I actually liked it. Oh, it wasn’t publication-ready by a long shot, but it had a beginning, a middle, and an end, and they all happened in the correct order. There were only a few continuity howlers instead of the great hairy beasts lurking behind every corner that I had expected to find. Eventually, the lovely people at Renaissance Romance Publishing got a look at it and threatened to cut off my caffeine supply if I didn’t let them publish it, and the rest is history. Or it will be, once I finish the final edits.
The story itself is a product of a place from which I have pulled quite a lot of inspiration over the years: Chautauqua Institution in New York State. Chautauqua has served as a hub of creativity, philosophy, art, religion, music, and dance for over two hundred years, and I can’t imagine anyone with a soul not responding to it on some level. My parents began taking me there for a week each summer when I was a little girl. I swam in Lake Chautauqua in my Wonder Woman bathing suit. I met my pen-pal there. I took a puppet-making class. I saw the Temptations perform live. I walked across a miniaturized version of the Holy Land. It was wonderful.
And it was there that I had one of those Life Moments that you remember forever. Madeleine L’Engle, author of the astoundingly wonderful Wrinkle in Time trilogy and many other equally amazing books, came one year as a guest lecturer. It was there in the Amphitheater that she gave me the first advice on writing I ever received. I met her afterwards and was completely seduced by her charm and wit. This encounter marked a huge shift in my life; I stopped mucking around with little snippets about rock stars and really started to focus on writing an actual book. Madeleine L’Engle essentially had shown me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I think the experience fundamentally changed my hard-wiring for life.
When it came time for me to create a novel about two passionate, star-crossed lovers from the past, it was almost ridiculously easy to place them in this wonderful world. Since the buildings are protected and maintained zealously, it takes no effort to imagine that you’ve been transported back to 1900. It was walking in the Hall of Philosophy where my protagonists first meet that I found the title for the novel. Along the floor are a series of mosaics, one for each “class” year. The mosaic for the Class of 1896 was titled “The Truth Seekers,” and this struck me as a perfect description of my young lovers.

Many of the other locations mentioned are actual places in Chautauqua, like the hotel across the street from my hero’s lodgings. The real St. Elmo Hotel (demolished in the late 1980s and rebuilt as condominiums) was also the inspiration for the screenplay for St. Elmo’s Fire, which was written by a lovesick bellboy one summer. The governor’s mansion is based on the Packard Manor, and even the assorted benches and paths have real life equivalents.
Of course, I was not in the same position once my hero absconded to Italy. However, thanks to my art history studies (I was something of a Renaissance junkie in college) and the terrifyingly heavy textbooks I’d held onto, I was able to at least send my imagination on the journey while a crew of men tore off and replaced the roof on my house. I’d love to travel to Florence, but I’m far keener on keeping my home in one piece. For the time being, I’m content to just live vicariously through my imaginary friends.
This is a novel I didn’t see coming, but it is also one that ties into many different important areas of my life. Because of this, it is intensely personal on many levels – as is all good fiction, I think. My characters were certainly insistent that this story be told, and I hope that Geoffrey and Miranda capture my readers’ hearts and imaginations as much as they’ve captured mine.
Check out the original post here:
Lisa Bilbrey Blog - March 18, 2012 Guest Post 

The Writer's What-If

Sometimes I think I’m more interested in the hypothetical than in reality.
Case in point: when I was a child, I went through a phase during which I mowed through reams of grid paper, drawing up blueprint after blueprint. I can still vaguely recollect designing an elaborate building intended to be a residential summer camp for children. There was also a fantastic artist’s loft, a multi-storey mansion complete with secret passages, and a weirdly pragmatic office building. I loved creating the designs, but I never felt the urge to bring them to life. The dream of a career in architecture or interior design did not grip me. I just enjoyed looking at how spaces might work and ruminating on how people would exist – together or individually – in the environments I’d thought up.
When I was very young, I also did something that I am told is painfully common in girls: I dreamed up designs for wedding dresses. Of course, I grew up and got one of my own (it was lovely), but I found that my manic single-minded attention to the planning of this event in my life was motivated by a strange sense of obligation rather than any true interest on my part. When I get stressed out, I tend to deliver monologues to any unfortunate person who makes the mistake of asking me how I am. In retrospect, I believe that it was this quirk that was responsible for most of my Bridezilla moments.
Whether that’s true or not, one thing is certain: when I now read a romance that culminates in a wedding, I am profoundly uninterested in the event itself. I wonder if, perhaps, my husband and I had slipped off to the Justice of the Peace instead and kept the idea of a traditional wedding lodged in my head as a purely hypothetical experience, would I still be interested in reading fictional versions? All I can say is that I was not always so uninterested in depictions of the “big day” as I am now.
So I’m sitting here pondering this (hypothetical) insight into myself, and it occurs to me that this may explain my choice in professions. As a novelist, I can create environments, worlds, people, families, scenarios, employment situations, friendships – whatever I like, without any commitment. I can roll around in an ocean of What-Ifs to my heart’s content. And when I’m done playing in one sandbox, I can walk away and go create another.
Consider the phenomenon that is fiction writing. Generally, the process begins with a What-If that has niggled its way into the author’s brain like a badger. What if there was a door to another world in the back of a wardrobe? What if a boy discovered he was really a wizard? What if a governess fell in love with her employer, only to discover his mad wife was locked in the attic? What if there was a chocolate factory that really was as magical inside as any child could possibly imagine it?
Once the question has been asked, the author begins construction. This part of the process can take many forms. Some writers prefer outlines and character sketches and copious background research. Others prefer starting at the beginning and then stopping once they’ve reached the end. Some even start in the middle and work in bits and bobs until the whole is gradually fused together. It doesn’t matter much how this step is accomplished, since the end product is the same.
There are buildings and towns and planets that didn’t exist before. There are people with families, friends, loves, hates, pets, and pet peeves who have been hypothesized into existence. A world is created, designed, populated, and observed – and then the novelist presents his or her grand What-If, complete with all the trappings of a fully indulged imagination, to the reader.
I wonder if this means that the novelist by definition must then be the sort of person who cannot commit to one particular lifetime – the sort of person who feels compelled to try out all the possibilities without ever settling down to one path. Instead of living these possibilities, bouncing around their real lives aimlessly until they are introducing themselves at parties as magician-physicist-pilot-archeologists and living in their mothers’ basements, they can allow these wild conjectures to come to life through their writing alone. So many authors have day jobs – I suspect that coworkers might be surprised to learn that quiet, helpful Mary in Accounting goes home and writes BDSM vampire novels in her free time, or that George in Shipping has a healthy fan base for his epic sci-fi alien war games series.
Would Stephen King actually like to live one of his novels? Doubtful. He strikes me as the sort of rational person who appreciates the merits of not being slashed to ribbons. He is simply indulging, developing, and sharing his What-Ifs with the rest of the world. The reality is not necessary (thank goodness).
Perhaps fiction writers are gypsies in a world of possibilities and What-Ifs. Novelists must have talent, determination, and passion for their work in order to successfully bring those possibilities to life through pen and paper.
The most critical element by far is that they must enjoy the journey.

Hunted: The Gates Legacy Cover Reveal!

Book One of the Gates Legacy!
Deep in the heart of New York City’s underworld, a horrible disease is ravaging the vampire community. The Vampire Council is on a crusade to obliterate those infected, and Harrow Gates is target Number One. The unwitting source of the plague, he suffers from the same nightmarish symptoms as his victims. The world he'd been thrust into was cold, cruel, and intent on eradicating him, and the legions of afflicted vampires he created with his bite. 
A bounty hanging over his head, satisfying his hunger has become an enormous challenge for Harrow. The less he feeds, the more hideous and painful his lesions become. Constantly running for his life and learning new tricks to survive, Harrow is in no position to refuse when Pritchard Tack offers him a unique opportunity. Pritchard not only gives Harrow a new beginning, but also a purpose and a chance to rectify the chaos he created in the vampire world. However, the multi-billionaire has an agenda of his own.
Jordan is a reluctant new vampire and a woman on a mission. After the demise of her family and her own transformation at the hands of Goran, the ruthless leader of the Vampire Council, her only focus is revenge. Constantly faced with one frustrating dead-end after another, a stroke of luck leads her to an underground facility that she suspects is the lair of the monster for whom she is looking.   
Upon learning more about the truth behind the secret bunker, Jordan must fight against her growing feelings of friendship and concern for the facility’s inhabitants. One man in particular threatens to pull her heart away from her sworn mission. There is something behind Harrow’s dark lenses that unsettles the hardened female. Once again, she trembles and hungers for something other than red-stained revenge. Is love strong enough to override her hate-fueled thirst for vengeance?

About the Author:

Lorenz Font discovered her love of writing after reading a celebrated novel that inspired one idea after another. Hunted, the first book of The Gates Legacy trilogy, is her debut novel. Written in forty-five days, the grueling writing schedule was a personal challenge, even though she thought it was madness at first.
She enjoys dabbling in different genres with an intense focus on angst and the redemption of flawed characters. Her fascination with romantic twists is a mainstay in all her stories.
She currently lives in California with her husband, children, and two demanding dogs. Lorenz spends most of her free time writing while also working as a Business Office Manager for a skilled-rehabilitation hospital.