Elizabeth M. Lawrence's Blog, page 30

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

The fine people over at Renaissance Romance Publishing have asked me to participate in this blog hop thingie, and I like to keep publishers happy! I shall now interview myself, which is not nearly as inappropriate and kinky as it may sound…

What is the working title of your book?
My upcoming short story is titled “My Apple Tree.” I am also working on an historical romance titled The Truth Seekers and a paranormal mystery titled The Irrepressibles.

Where did the idea come from for the book?
“My Apple Tree” was inspired by the old Celtic song “I Am Stretched on Your Grave,” which Sinead O’Connor included on her album I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got. It’s a very raw look at grief and bereavement and innocence, and I wanted to explore how those emotions can evolve until the point where new life and love can grow.
The Truth Seekers is a story that came to me while staying at Chautauqua Institution in New York State. It’s a beautiful, timeless place, and so you almost can’t help but imagine the lives of the people who have gone before. I also got the initial idea for The Irrepressibles there, but the true inspiration for that book was an old key to a demolished building that I was using as a keychain. Sometimes it’s the smallest details that give you the most vivid pictures.

What genre does your book fall under?
I consider myself a romance writer, but my pieces tend to be very different from each other. “My Apple Tree” is very dark at times, but it is more of a traditional romance, whereas The Truth Seekers is an historical romance and The Irrepressibles is a paranormal mystery with romantic and comedic elements. No matter what, my books do focus on relationships between people, and romance is a large part of that. 

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
I am terrible at this sort of question. My characters are their own people in my mind’s eye, and I don’t really model them on any particular person. I think that Christopher Eccleston would make a lovely Geoffrey in a film version of The Truth Seekers. He has the right kind of intensity for that character. I think the characters in The Irrepressibles would be easier to cast, as long as you found actors with good comedic timing and chemistry.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
For “My Apple Tree,” it would have to be a quote from the ballad upon which it is based: “I still would be your shelter through rain and through storm, but with you in a cold grave, I cannot sleep warm.”

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
Renaissance Romance Publishing will be publishing all three unless I don’t get my head out of my ass and finish editing them.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
It’s hard to say. I started pieces of “My Apple Tree” years ago, but only recently brought all the threads together and began to polish it into one complete draft. The Truth Seekers and The Irrepressibles both began life as NaNoWriMo novels, so the first draft for each took thirty days, but revisions will take several months because of the insanity that comes from attempting to write fifty thousand words in thirty days.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
I’ve had my writing in The Irrepressibles compared to Jennifer Cruise, which was incredibly flattering, and The Truth Seekers is somewhat similar in flavor to A.S. Byatt’s Possession, although I’m sure it’s nowhere near as good.

Who or What inspired you to write this book?
Generally, my surroundings inspire me, but it’s really any small thing that catches my imagination. A song, a key, an old building, a strange hole in the wall, a lonely bench hidden away in an overgrown garden… the inspiration is always in the details.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
The Irrepressibles really is a mad romp. I enjoyed writing the banter between the two lead characters tremendously. Their relationship is somewhat like Nick and Nora’s in the movie The Thin Man, I think. I’m really looking forward to doing more with them.


Next up...  Anne ChaconasDavid MichaelKatherine SilvaLayne FaireMelissa ConderDeborah Garner

Rules: 
***Answer the ten questions about your current WIP (Work In Progress) on your blog***Tag five other writers/bloggers and add their links so we can hop over and meet them.It’s that simple.
Ten Interview Questions for The Next Big Thing:
What is the working title of your book?Where did the idea come from for the book?What genre does your book fall under?Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?Who or What inspired you to write this book?What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

It's My Birthday, and I'll Blog If I Want To

So now I’m forty. Woo. 
Age is just a number, but it does pack a bit of a psychological whammy. When I turned twenty, I felt like I was finally leaving my childhood behind. When I turned thirty, I felt like I was now a “real” adult. (I was very depressed over that particular birthday.)
And now here’s forty, getting all up in my face. What a bitch.
Forty feels weird because it’s sort of the point at which people stop saying, “Oh, you’ve still got plenty of time to marry/have kids/buy a house/build a career.”  There’s a new feeling that the clock is ticking, and that if you’re going to get anything accomplished, you might want to get a move on.
I’m not completely depressed, because I do have things I can point to that show I haven’t just been doing macramé and watching YouTube all this time. I quit smoking – for real, this time – so I’ve got a much better chance of future birthdays to piss and moan about. I’ve got a number of manuscripts that I am slowly preparing for publication, and I have copy-editing work to keep me out of trouble. I took the leap and left my law gig, and I’ve been swallowing my self-doubt and putting myself “out there.” I’ve gone to workshops and voiced my opinion on writing, even though I had a strong suspicion that my view would be in the minority. I’ve actually allowed other people to read my work and give their opinions. I’ve learned to listen to criticism without hiring a hit squad to ice the person who would dare to think that there was a gaping plot hole in my book. Even though there totally was.
No, I haven’t gone to print yet. No, I haven’t written the next big thing. No, they are not making a movie out of my book. And no, David Tennant hasn’t called me up and asked if we could be best friends. Dammit.
All the same, I do have things to feel good about. I’m not going to say I’m “truly blessed” because that phrase makes me itch. (“Truly” as opposed to what? “Kinda blessed”? Looked like “blessed,” but turned out to be a clever disguise for “royally fucked” at the last minute? Why do people feel the need to say “truly” when they’re expressing their blessedness? I don’t get it.)
I digress. It’s what I’m good at.
I have wonderful people in my life. One can only assume they’re there because they want to be. As little as I may understand why they feel that way, they appear to value me. Since I think they’re all pretty amazing, it’s a happy thing. Look at all these super-groovy people who think I’m the shit! (Go, me!) I have a wonderful family of friends and relations who like me for who I am and see good in me that I’d never have noticed myself (and frankly am still skeptical about). Once I stifle the irrational fear that I will disappoint them, I can only be grateful to know each of these unique and quirky people for making my life an interesting adventure. It wouldn’t be half as much fun without them.
I have two phenomenal children who will either become dictators of small countries or who will help make the world a better place. (It’s a fine line.) They like who they are, and they’re not afraid to be different, which makes me so proud I could spew glitter.
I have a husband who is almost too good to be true. He cooks, and he fixes computers – what more does a writer need in her life? Fortunately, he puts his foot in his mouth just enough to keep him from being too perfect. We’ve been through hell together, and I can’t think of another person I would have rather made that trip with. Maybe someone with an ice chest. And some beer.
And here I am at forty, carving out a new career for myself. I’m finally working toward the dream I have had since I was a little girl. I may succeed, or I may fail. I’m giving it a shot either way. All the writers out there who are struggling to get published, wrangling editors and query letters and Oxford commas with sincere passion and devotion, are in the same boat that I’m in. We want to succeed so badly, and every year that slips by makes it harder and harder to hang onto those dreams. 
I guess all I want to say is – your life isn’t over until you stop living it. Dreams can still come true. Even after you’ve turned forty.

Losing Faith

Every so often, I lose faith in humanity. We hurt each other, we stubbornly and willfully resist change, we deny truth, and we seem to only recognize strength in anger and violence. Today’s news about the young victims of the shootings in a Colorado movie theater was hard enough to hear. People’s reactions to that news were even more disturbing.
(Excerpts from CNN website comments)

“Oh my word, these idiots commenting on it! I can't even take it! Do shotguns just walk around shooting people on their own? No, but psychos do! People need protection from the psychos...guns without psychos are pretty okay.”

“Get your check books out right wing scum this killer will need funding.”

“coffins of dead movie goers make great soap boxes to push their anti gun agenda from.”

“Nut bags like this is why we still need the death penalty. When the evidence is beyond a shadow of doubt they need to be put to death. In a case like this pleading insanity would be no excuse.”

“Whelp, another candidate for execution. Goodbye scum, thanks for making it so easy to pick you out.”

Are we only capable of responding to violence with more violence?
I don’t care what you think of Rush Limbaugh or the Obama Administration or whether there should be prayer in schools or if you believe that giant spuds will take over the world next Tuesday. Can we not all come together and discuss these problems without separating into factions and personally attacking each other for having different points of view? The truth is that events like this frighten us. When we are frightened, we tend to strike out aggressively to defend ourselves from the perceived threat. But if we don’t stop lashing out at each other and work together to find solutions, then the problem will only continue to grow.
You can’t fight hate crimes with more hate. You can’t battle ignorance and intolerance by being ignorant and intolerant. You can’t promote peace and harmony and love with a fist and angry words.
We need to change our own hearts before we can change the world.

The Novelist at 40

I’m turning forty this month, and I can’t say I’m particularly happy about it. I mean, I’m nowhere near mature enough to be middle-aged. I’m certainly not ready to start acting like a productive member of society. How can I be turning forty?
Oh, wait. That’s right. I’m a professional writer.
My profession is one of my absolute favorite things about my life, because it’s like belonging to an exclusive club: The Pedantically Insane Club for the Compulsively Verbose, if you will. This club’s membership stretches back to the dawn of time and includes such pillars of the community as Charlie Dickens, Willy Shakespeare, Dorothy Parker, Hunter S. Thompson, and Virginia Wolfe.
By pillars of the community, of course what I really mean is brilliant lunatics who made it socially acceptable to be an eccentric misanthrope with permanently ink-stained fingers, a complete lack of tact, and a dodgy sense of fashion.
If you think about the writers whose works have endured – particularly if you are a writer yourself – you will notice a pattern. Each of them is described by contemporaries with words such as “socially inept,” “caustic,” and “completely batshit crazy.” While we accept this as the natural order of the universe when studying long-dead masters of the written word, we still seem to be surprised when we encounter the same qualities in contemporary wordsmiths. Generation after generation of writers has been confronted with society’s clearly unrealistic hope that they will behave like normal, rational human beings. All this accomplishes is to guarantee that modern writers are just as misunderstood and ostracized as their long-dead counterparts.
Our world has manufactured a criterion for socially-acceptable insanity: brilliance. Once you have been labeled “genius,” you can be as rude and unhygienic as you please. Unfortunately, it is rare that such a distinction is awarded prior to the death of the weirdo in question.
However, it is possible for modern writers to take comfort in the history of censure that those who have gone before us have endured. As writers, we are traditionally expected, and in many respects are obligated, to behave in a socially inappropriate and often blatantly disrespectful manner. Crazy is simply just one part of the job description. Hence my self-proclaimed status as “professional oddity.” It’s not just an arbitrary title – it is a sacred trust.
So it’s okay that I’m turning forty, because I’m a writer. No matter how old I get, I’ll never be old. I shall wear my immaturity and irreverence like a badge of office until I draw my last breath. And if I’m very, very lucky, my writing will still speak for me after my own voice falls silent.
Until then, I’ve still got stories to write!

Why Squirrels Are Better Than People

I haven’t been blogging lately. I’d love to say it’s because I’m so busy, but that’s not entirely true. Yes, I’m busy. But I’m also in a bit of a writing slump – known as “hell” in some writing circles. As a recovering Catholic, I am still plagued with pointless flutters of guilt from time to time, so I decided that I should write SOMETHING for my blog, even if it was off-topic.
It was at that point that I realized that this blog doesn’t have a topic, so I thought I’d talk about that a bit.
I do not have ADD, ADHD, or any other string of letters, but I do have a deep-seated love of the random. When I have what my colleagues in the publishing house call a “squirrel moment,” it isn’t because I’m easily distracted. It’s because there are so many wonderful random ideas and thoughts and nuggets of inspiration out there, and I just can’t stand to ignore them when they pass by. A phantom of an idea can become a whole story arc before you know what hit you. If you see an elephant walking down Main Street, you can turn back to what you were doing, or you can stop for a moment and have the experience. That moment then becomes a story you can share with your friends. If you never allow yourself to be distracted – if your attention never wavers from the task at hand – how many stories will you have to share? How many experiences will you have missed? Before you know it, you’ll be old and crotchety and won’t have any stories to tell or memories to cherish. That would suck.
So that’s why I’m not going to turn this into an educational blog on the art of writing. There are a ton of people out there much better equipped than me to do that. I’ll stick with the rambling randomness. It works for me.
Anyway… people are annoying. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but it bears repeating. My nearest and dearest often observe that I have never really been a big fan of the human race as a species in general. I would like to explain why that is.
Humans have opposable thumbs, are self-aware, can dream, can create art and music, and place value in things beyond the basic necessities of life. We sing and dance; we dream of worlds far different from our own and bring them to life for others to enjoy; we have a concept of eternity and the universe. My cats are pretty awesome, but I doubt they’re going to contemplate anything more complex than their food-and-nap routine any time soon.
We are so fortunate – we can experience our lives in a way no other species can. And this is why people make me so stone-cold crazy.
Why are we arguing about religion? I’ve heard people laugh about how Doctor Who always seems to encounter aliens in London, England. Obviously, that is because it is a British television show. Little British children might continue to hide behind their sofas because of an alien invasion happening in Boise, Idaho, but people tend to relate more readily to stories surrounding what they know – their home turf. It’s now been well-established that the earth is a microscopic speck in the staggering scope of the universe. Assuming that the “one true God” only came to our speck and only delivered the “one true faith” to a select number of people living on that speck is sort of like believing that romantic comedies predominantly take place in New York City because only people who live there have embarrassing dating experiences. In other words, that’s just silly.
Why are we arguing about marriage equality? We’re specks on a speck. Our galaxy is a speck. Are we really prepared to persecute an entire group of people who just want to spend their lives together based upon something a bunch of old dudes wrote? A) The Bible was written by men. B) Those men were attempting to interpret the Word of God – they weren’t taking dictation. C) Men often get things wrong. D) Moses didn’t stop for directions, either.
Why do we worry so much about our outward image? I live in Ohio. If I see one more suburban kid trying to look “gangsta,” I may choke. My husband is from Santa Ana, California. If we had the means, I’d rent a big bus and start shipping these little wanna-be-bads down there. We could leave them on a street corner at 1:00 a.m. and see how gangsta they really are. And don’t even get me started on the ladies I tend to refer to as “hoochies.” Don’t tell me you’re looking for a man to love and respect you when you’re dressed like you charge by the hour. And trust me – heterosexual men know you have breasts, even if you don’t shove them in their faces. I see all sorts of people throughout the day, and I always wonder what they’re trying to prove. Be yourself, not an image you picked out from a catalog. If you learned to embrace your true self, then you wouldn’t have to depend on other people to discover your worth – you’d already know it.
We build houses that are many times larger than what we need. We buy cars that could seat ten but never do. We happily destroy our planet and its natural resources because heaven forbid that we be inconvenienced. We even elect politicians that we KNOW are crooked, materialistic, egomaniacal asshats because they promise to protect our completely destructive and irresponsible way of life.
Humans have created opera, sculpture, and film. People like Michelangelo, Mozart, and Shakespeare showed the incredible beauty that humans are capable of creating. Even the advances in medical science are astounding – when people take their knowledge and build it, reaching out for more answers in response to a need in the world, it is an amazing thing to witness.
But then we also developed guns, bombs, and poison gasses. We took the words of wise men and turned them into religions, but then used those religions as a vehicle for hatred.
I don’t know who invented Lycra and polyester, but anyone involved even peripherally should hang their heads in shame.
The moral of the story is (yes, I do have a point) that I dislike people because of the choices they make. They put having a fancy car before helping to feed the poor. They use their imagination to find new ways to kill rather than new ways to communicate. They constantly devalue themselves and others, and they are determined to continue to be ignorant. As I said to my friend yesterday, the mom in me wants to sit them all down and give them a stern talking to before sending them to their rooms to think about what they’ve done. But since no one would listen to me even if I did, my only consolation is that I can still retreat to a world of my own imagining, in which people learn to overcome the fears that hold them back from being truly great.
Ooh, look! Squirrel!

My Children's World

I haven’t been blogging recently because of deadlines, but I read an article today that I thought was worth chewing over. It is entitled, The Curse of Chief Wahoo.


To begin: 
BACKGROUND POINT #1:  Anyone who has bothered reading my blog will already have figured out that I am a U.S. citizen of European decent. In other words, I’m so white, I’m practically transparent. My own diversity comes from the sheer quantity of different countries to which I can trace my lineage (I will spare you the enumeration). My children, on the other hand, have a lot more on their genetic plate, so to speak. In addition to the European Caucasia-palooza that I have passed on to them, they also have Mexican, Nicaraguan, and Native American bloodlines.
BACKGROUND POINT #2:  I currently live in Cleveland, Ohio, where baseball is a favorite sport and where the local team is the Cleveland Indians. The team’s logo is Chief Wahoo.

So that’s the background.
I am the first to admit that I didn’t always understand why Native Americans bothered to protest Chief Wahoo every year on Opening Day. I honestly didn't think it was a big deal. But then, when I was younger, I did not differentiate between races or creeds. I had never been taught that there were any differences between people based on the color of their skin or their cultural heritage. 
I was wrong. There ARE differences. The most glaring difference is that as an educated, middle-class white girl, I had no appreciation for what it felt like to be on the receiving end of another person's prejudice.
I never had to worry about being discriminated against when I was growing up. It was the 1970s and, while women were certainly still fighting for equal treatment, my own mother was a successful professional. Whatever the reality was for the rest of the nation, in my house, my gender was not a limiting factor. 
I was raised in the religion that was most dominant in my neighborhood. Even in my extended family, everyone was one version of Christian or another, so the concept of religious persecution was completely foreign to me.
Further, my family was financially comfy without being wealthy, so while I played with friends from both poorer and richer backgrounds, there was nothing to prompt me to notice one way or another.
In other words, my ignorance on the subject of discrimination stemmed directly from my ignorance of prejudice itself.
Of course, as I grew older, my innocence got banged up a bit and I eventually realized that there were some whack-jobs out there who really did think that skin color or gender or sexuality or religion were perfectly legitimate reasons to judge, hate, and even kill another person. I was completely flummoxed by this, and honestly still am.
Here’s what happened:
First, I befriended a girl in grammar school who was picked on mercilessly. She came from a particularly poor background, and our spoiled suburban classmates constantly tormented her for her lack of designer clothing and general polish.
Then, a boy in my class told me I was stupid because I was a girl. I must say that my reaction was not particularly mature, but he did eventually get off the floor and stop crying. Two words: saddle shoes.
Next, my teenage years brought me my first close friendships with people from non-Christian backgrounds. This marked the first time that my assumptions about religion were really challenged, but it was generally a very kind and gentle process, if occasionally a bit awkward.
I went on to college and eventually brought home a cute Hispanic boy to meet my parents. He was sweet and played guitar and sang me love songs in Spanish and was everything I hadn’t known I had been looking for, so I married him. 
Not long after we brought home our first baby from the hospital, I had one of those defining moments when everything shifts. After observing a group of Hispanic men walk past, an acquaintance of mine turned to me and said, “I hate Mexicans.”
Blink. Blink. What?
Excuse me - that’s MY CHILD you just spewed blind hatred at!
So back to Chief Wahoo.
It’s just a baseball team logo. Does it matter enough to make a fuss over? 
In the article, Marjorie Villafane, a Sioux, is quoted as saying: "I'm here so my grandchildren can be proud of their heritage. People act like we're trying to take their baseball away from them, but we're not. It's just, why do they have to turn us into Chief Wahoo?"
Here’s what I have to say about this: 
It absolutely matters.
Chief Wahoo is a logo. It is a marketing gimmick. It is used for entertainment purposes. It could be replaced.
My children are unique and wonderful. They are human beings who have the innate right to feel proud of their heritage. They are individuals who deserve to have their bloodlines treated with the same respect as any others. They ABSOLUTELY deserve not to be judged negatively for the color of their skin or their cultural heritage. And what my children deserve is what all children deserve – the chance to grow up and learn about your family background and feel proud of where you come from.
As pretty much the entire planet has realized by now, there are MANY, MANY, MANY things wrong with prevailing attitudes in the United States. One of those things is the sad truth that a cartoon created to promote a group of overpaid men in tights who hit balls with wooden sticks is seen as more important than an entire population of indigenous people who only want to see their children walk tall. And that makes so little sense that I can’t even begin to reason it out.
I'm sad that I have to raise my children in a world in which they will be valued less than a baseball mascot. All I can do to fight that, however, is to raise my boys to change the world and hope that my children's world will someday be a better place.

Momma says I'm more important than baseball.

Laura Braley & the women of "Life is More Than Candy Hearts"

I'm very pleased to present this guest post from Laura Braley, contributing author to the compilation of short stories titled Life is More Than Candy Hearts. Laura will be interviewing the female protagonists from each of the three stories featured in the book. This guest post is stop #27 of the Read2Review Easter Egg Blog Hunt, so make sure to follow the link below for the stops you may have missed! I am also giving away a promotional pen from the authors of the compilation - enter below!

[image error] Read2Review Letter is: R

And now, here's Laura!
Elizabeth has graciously allowed me to drop by with the lovely ladies from Life is More Than Candy Hearts, a collection of short stories written by me and my two closest friends and business partners, Lisa Bilbrey and Michele Richard. The stories contained in Candy Hearts are all love stories, though maybe not the most traditional telling of them. 
Emma Dawson is the female protagonist in Life’s Unexpected Gifts by Lisa Bilbrey, Juliette Morrison  from Changes of The Heart by Michele Richard, and Lindsay Brandon joins us from Smoky Rooms by Laura Braley. I appreciate you ladies taking the time to tell us about yourselves and your stories.
So tell us a little bit about yourself: 
Emma: Okay, this is gonna sound like one of those online dating sites I’m sure, but here I go. I’m Emma Dawson.  Just a small town girl, who is trying to find her way. I work at the local diner. Most people wouldn’t really enjoy working there, but I don’t mind. I enjoy getting to know everyone, having a place in their lives. Not really sure what else to say about myself.  But I’ve been lonely, lost in myself perhaps. Maybe that’s why I fought against him so much. 
Lindsay: I’m originally from southern New Jersey. I danced and performed all my life in local theater productions. When I graduated high school, I had the opportunity to audition for Julliard, but thought I had a better plan. I bailed on my audition and struck out on my own. I had some early success, until my situation changed and my life spiraled out of control.
In the stories in Life is More than Candy Hearts, all three of you ladies are offered the opportunity to take a chance on love.Lindsay and Juliette, you are both taking a second chance on finding love – Could you tell us a little bit, without giving away the story, about what happened the first time around? 
Juliette: Billy Joe was my first love and high school sweetheart. My parents warned me, but as all teenagers do, I didn’t listen. We snuck off after I discovered I was pregnant. He was less than interested in me once we hit the big city. His temper got the better of him and he began taking his failures out on me. After Cole was born, he started cheating. By the time Cole turned three, he was long gone.
Lindsay: Erik was a fellow actor, cast to play the male lead opposite me in an off-Broadway production. I thought we were in love, until my popularity waned and he couldn’t ride my coattails anymore. He left me high and dry with a mountain of debt, no career, and a broken heart.
Emma, your situation is a little different, isn’t it? Yours isn’t the loss of a first love, but the loss of a loved one, right?   And why has that made you wary of falling in love? 
Emma: Yes, with the loss of my daddy. My Momma and Daddy had the kind of love that little girls dream of. He was her Prince Charming, loving her with every breath he took, as did she in return. They set a certain standard, I suppose, that I wanted in the man I loved. After losing them both, I got scared to let anyone get close to me again. What if I lost them, too? 
Tell us how you met the men who become part of your lives in your stories? 
Emma: Hmm, now that is a good question. We met in high school, but we weren’t really friends. In fact, we ran in different social circles; he was a jock and I was a bit of nerd, I guess.  
Juliette: I met Gabe by plowing through his fence one icy night in the middle of a blizzard. Who know it would lead to us being stranded with the snarky farmer.
Lindsay: It’s so cliché, but I met Chance in a bar. I ended up there one night when I couldn’t bear the thought of going home alone, and he was on the stage performing. I recognized him from his previous life as a rockstar, and knew he had a lot of his own baggage to deal with. I recognized a kindred spirit in him. I continued going back time and again, until I finally gained the courage to talk to him when he approached me.
What do you think your story offers to a reader? 
Emma: In my personal opinion, my story offers people the idea of being swept off your feet. To have someone who loves you so much they are willing to risk everything just so that you smile or laugh. 
Juliette: The knowledge that you can always go home and fix what you broke. It’s not easy, but with effort, most things can be overcome. Have a little faith in love. 
Lindsay: The belief that everyone deserves a second chance to get it right. What you’ve done in the past doesn’t have to define the opportunity to make a new future – one built on hope, faith, and love.
We so appreciate Elizabeth giving us the chance to tell you a little bit about these lovely ladies and their stories. You can find out more information about Life Is More than Candy Hearts at the publisher’s website, Renaissance Romance Publishing. 

 
Available at:AmazonBarnes & Noble Joseph Beth Booksellers Smashwords

More of a Project Pony than a Plot Bunny

So I have gotten nothing accomplished recently. This is very frustrating for me, since I had planned to have taken over at least a portion of the world by now.
Since my world domination plans need to be readjusted, I thought I’d take a few minutes to write another blog post.
The reason I am so behind schedule is simple. If David Tennant had had the decency to be a lousy Doctor Who, then I wouldn’t have gotten sucked in to watching the last six seasons on Netflix. My children then got sucked in themselves because they’re nosy little things who always have to know what I’m watching; in the interest of family togetherness, I was practically forced to watch all six seasons all over again with them at their insistence. Then we started watching the classic series from my childhood. My youngest son has named Tom Baker the “Disco Doctor,” and my teenager is completely appalled at what passed for special effects back in the day.
We all loved Christopher Eccleston, of course, but it was David Tennant who really captured my boys’ hearts. Of course, he compounded this sin by being charming in interviews, witty on British television programs, and having the audacity to continue acting in other roles in a generally talented and engaging manner. So, David, if you’re out there – my schedule is shot to hell, and it is entirely your fault. Hang your head in shame.


One of the programs Mr. Tennant did as part of his evil campaign to turn my calendar into an absolute mess was called “Who Do You Think You Are?” His bit was “So You Think I’m Scottish?” This program interested me for several reasons, the first being that I dearly love a good story, and generally you get a good story if you dig into your family background as he was doing. It was also an excellent way to teach my boys a bit about their own heritage and give them a sense that they are here today because of the countless choices and challenges in their ancestors’ lives.
What grabbed my interest in particular when watching this program was the idea that what we consider “history” really happened to people and that events like the Clearances in Scotland, the Troubles in Northern Ireland, and countless other significant points in time that we study at school directly impacted who we were destined to become. For example, had my own ancestors not been religious dissenters, they would not have hopped on the Mayflower. Who would I have been then? Well, that's easy - I would never have existed, since the intermarriage between other nationalities that has gone on in my family tree since we set foot on Plymouth Rock would never have happened. In fact, I have so many different nationalities in my background that my children tend to refer to my side of the family as simply “European.” At any rate, when you look back at a specific person from your family tree and learn about who they were and what their life was like, it brings their humanity into sharp relief, and you begin to see them as a fully three-dimensional human being, which in turn gives you unexpected insight into the person you are.
So I was thinking about this in terms of my writing and the creation of fully-actualized characters. I do become impatient with books that give the protagonists one central idea that motivates and informs all of their decisions and actions throughout the story; to me, that seems to be over-simplifying how people work. If writers could “discover” their characters in much the same way we learn about our ancestors through research and legwork, I think that it would make for much more dramatic and believable characterizations. I know that all writers work differently, and so I can only speak for myself. Generally, I will get a plot idea and develop it in my head before creating characters to fill the various necessary roles within the story. But what would happen if I constructed the person before I constructed the plot? How would that impact the finished book?
One of my cousins has suggested that I should write the story of our family, particularly that of our grandparents. I have shied away from tackling this project in the past because I really could not figure out how to even begin, but now that rascally David Tennant has given me an idea. As my fellow novelists know, an idea is a very, very dangerous thing in an imaginative mind. I have some other pieces that are currently in progress and must be completed, but once those are taken care of, I am considering tackling a new project based on the idea of a story driven entirely by history rather than characters bending to the will of the plot. I think this might make for an interesting string of blog entries as well. Guess we’ll have to wait and see! If it results in anything worth publishing, I’ll have to dedicate it to Mr. Tennant.
That little troublemaker.

The Voices are Talking Again

One of the most irritating pieces of advice I have received on writing is that I need to “find my voice.” No one has ever come up with a satisfactory explanation of what that phrase really means, and yet it’s absolutely true. So I’ve decided to blather about it for a bit.
I think it’s a pretty well-established fact that an author is most successful when writing within the genre that he or she most enjoys reading. This is an easy idea to grasp; you like gory murder mysteries, you should write gory murder mysteries. Simple.
And then someone slaps you upside the head with the whole “find your voice” speech, which simultaneously seeks to help your development as a writer and also throws a gigantic, amorphous roadblock in your path. (If you’ve never had this experience, yay for you. A lot of us have, though, so you’ll just have to trust me on this.)
Something I have in common with a lot of authors out there is that I enjoy reading books from different genres, so beyond narrowing down the sort of book I should write, that indicator doesn’t help me much. Even when you have picked out a particular genre, that still doesn’t give any indication of the sort of voice you’re going to use. Will you be funny? Dry? Bitter? Clinical? Flowery? Passionate? Sarcastic? Even when told in the third person, a book takes on a certain voice that sets the tone for both the story itself as well as how events will be presented to and received by the reader. I could tell you the story of Red Riding Hood, for example, in a way that was humorous or in a way that was darkly suspenseful. The voice of the story has a huge impact on the success of a novel, and finding the voice that works best for you is crucial.
I write romances that tend to incorporate paranormal or mystery themes, but I have written a fin de siècle novel that is deadly serious and uses tons of really big words, as well. It was fun to write, but I don’t think I could do novel after novel in that voice. I just don’t take myself seriously enough. I have also written a more “traditional” romance along the lines of a mainstream Harlequin, but I got bored by the end and slapped a marriage proposal on it and called it finished. And therein lay the clues to my “true” voice.
My current work-in-progress is an absolutely crazy, anything-goes romance that relies heavily on humor, sarcasm, and wit. It’s not any easier to write than my other novels were, but it does feel more natural. I enjoy knowing that the insane ideas or quirky bits of dialogue that pop into my head can actually be incorporated into the story, for one thing. For another, it is much more in keeping with my personality. What makes me (or any other writer) able to produce new stories, ideas, and characters is my unique point of view. What I see when I watch people interact or how I react when something happens around me is completely different from how another person would.
So what do you do when someone tells you to find your voice? Go to the local Voices-R-Us superstore and pick out one that looks pretty? Often, there’s nothing to help you except trial-and-error, which is my least favorite way to learn things. The error part really sucks.
How did find my voice?
One day, some unfortunate soul had made the mistake of asking me how I was. I love this question, because to my mind, this is an invitation to tell a story. As I launched merrily into an extremely tongue-in-cheek account of my trip to the grocery store and how I believe that the incident with the kiwi fruit was a clear indicator that ninja squirrels were out to get me, I realized that humor was the way to go.
I went home and gave it a try. I liked it. And the rest is history.
Which is not to say that my other voices (in a strictly non-multiple-personality sense) have been kicked to the curb – or kerb, if you’re in Great Britain. I’ve still got those other voices inside me, but they’ll be special little treats for when I need a break from the serious task of snark production.
In the interests of marketability, one probably should stop and consider that an author needs to build up a readership. That readership might get a tad cheesed off if the author has some sort of psychotic break and writes a novel in a completely different voice. So if you want to explore more than one voice, and your options are rather extreme in their differences (as mine are), I will just remind you that there are these wonderful things called pen names that can help you organize your different writing “personalities.” Think of it as The Three Faces of Eve, except with editors. And less makeup. And you probably won’t win an Oscar, but hey, you never know!
And really – it’s 2012. With Internet and e-books and a thriving indie writer community, the publishing world is your oyster... or we’re careening toward Armageddon (though we’ve still got a few months left, I’m told). If you want to write each book in a completely different voice, why not go for it?
Write what you enjoy.

The Mom Phenom

When I was younger, I often treated my friends more like they were my children. Sometimes it was blatant, others more subtle. As we have grown older, it has become an irritating habit that I still struggle to suppress. For example, I never let my friends pick up the check at restaurants; in my mind, I assume that it’s a given that I’m paying in exactly the same way that parents with small children do. Since my friends are all grown-ups, this gets on their nerves from time to time. I did, however, finally manage to stop talking to my best friend like she’s five. Most of the time. (That would be my best friend who is actually half a year older, several inches taller, and physically much stronger than me.) She hasn’t threatened to smack the shit out of me in ages, at any rate. Since Tuesday at least.
In odd moments over the years, I have contemplated this weird phenomenon. It’s especially weird because, in general, I can’t stand children. Mine are great, of course – I just really don’t do well with other people’s young. Particularly when they’re still at the drooling, gurgling stage. If you hand me a baby, I’m likely to give you the look that says, “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”
Time and time again, I have watched as acquaintances have learned about my “mom streak” and been shocked. I mean, I’m not exactly a warm-and-fuzzy kind of gal. My lip curls in disdain whenever I encounter an adorable little tot. Or the tot’s parent. I wouldn’t say I’m hostile… just somewhat unapproachable. It might be the cat o’ nine tails I carry with me… nah…
Seriously, I don’t consciously do anything to give people the impression that I eat puppies and unicorns for breakfast. Today, I had oatmeal. However, they do tend to gasp in shock when they find out that I am capable of being nurturing and compassionate and shit. 
I pick my battles, of course, but there are some things that bring out the lioness in me faster than you can say “Run away!!!” The number one hot button is any form of emotional or psychological attack, like bullying. I go completely apeshit and head right for the jugular. I like to think that it’s because of my strong sense of moral rightness, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the real reason.
In a nutshell, I have seen too much cruelty in my years on this earth. I have never become used to witnessing the ease with which human beings will tear apart others for the sake of their own sense of acceptance or worth. It is, by far, the number one reason why I’d be fairly okay with the idea of human extinction. The human ego is the root cause of so many atrocities – more even, I think, than organized religion, and that’s REALLY saying something. 
For example, what’s wrong with our politicians? Ego. Their priorities are not their constituents and just governance, no matter what they say; they are solely interested in the glory and power and money that come to those in control. (No, I’m not going to say “some” or “most” of the politicians. They’re ALL egomaniacal glory-hogs.) 
Hell, even middle school bullies terrorize their victims for reasons based on ego and acceptance.
People will never get tired of abusing each other for the sake of feeling better about themselves. Feeling like they have control. Feeling like they have power. Feeling beautiful. Feeling successful. Feeling wealthy. Me me me me me me me.
Whoops. Sorry. Wrong soapbox. Anyway…
My point is that whenever I witness cruelty or blind hate, I tend to turn into a mama bear protecting her cubs. And I really, really, really wish I never had to. I would love it if we could all treat each other with more kindness, more compassion, and more care so that defending another person against hate crimes and bullying was never an issue again. Unfortunately, I doubt that the human race will ever reach that point, in my lifetime at least.
So I’ll just say this: If you’re going to be an fuckwitted jackburger and treat another person cruelly because of how they look, who they love, what they believe, or just because you are a fuckmonkey doodletwat who needs to feel superior to someone else, DON’T DO IT IN FRONT OF ME. I’m a mother. I’m a friend. I’m a protector. And like the Incredible Hulk, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.