Megan Erickson's Blog, page 10

On alphas and good guys

So, there has been some chatter among the New Adult community lately.

For explanation on the New Adult genre, see here. The best, simple explanation I heard was on Twitter, from a writer who had been at the Romance Writers of America conference: “Young adult is finding out who you are. New adult is finding your place in the world.”

New Adult characters are typically 18-25, with an emphasis on firsts — first time away from home, first love, first job. I love this genre. My current WIP (without really trying it, because I’m hipster like that) falls into this genre.

Anywho, can you get to your point, Megan? Right, so my point is there has been a trend in the romance side of this genre on what are deemed “alpha males,” which tend to show men as controlling, possessive, violent and in my opinion, bordering on abusive.

I’m not the only who is NOT on board with this trend. See author Mila Ferrera’s post here, and Jesi Lea Ryan here.

I don’t really want to simply reiterate what they said. I want to explain what I think an alpha male actually is. And what he’s not. The base definition of alpha is leader.

To me an alpha male is a leader, someone that others look to for guidance, who sticks up for what he thinks is right. Yes, he may be controlling, but in a way that ensures the healthy, safety and well-being of those who look up to him. Including the love of his life.

That does not mean that he is possessive to the point of cutting off his love interest from her friends (or his friends; gay men can be alphas, too). This does not mean he’s violent, going off half-cocked if he feels threatened. And this does not mean he insecurely tries to control his love interest’s life.

Because to me, an alpha is wise. An alpha is smart. An alpha has control over his emotions because he is strong. An alpha is secure in himself and in the love he has for his woman (or man), and for that love he gets in return. I like alpha males in romance novels. I just think my definition may be different that others.

An alpha can have issues. He can be scarred. He can still be an interesting character without being a lunatic and beating on anyone that looks at him or his love interest the wrong way.

I’ve met men like that in real life. It isn’t okay. It isn’t romantic. It’s scary and off-putting. So let’s not romanticize this, okay?

To support this, I added a button to my blog made by Mila Ferrera. It’s over there on the right. All sexy and stuff.

Please tell me in the comments what YOU think is romantic. What kind of hero do you like to see in your romance novels?

Line of the Day, 7/10

From my current WIP:

Foiled! Kat walked alongside Shanna reluctantly, plotting her next escape attempt. She needed one of those fake heads like those prisoners at Alcatraz prison used. Penal system history came in handy when trying to get out of parties where nerdy, attractive tutors would be in attendance.

I love my character, Kat! I want to be her friend.

Just write, damnit

So, here is my current conundrum. (By the way, I love that word.)

I’m working on a novel now, which I’m super excited about. In a nutshell – college-age heroine with a learning disability falls for her tutor, who happens to be her boyfriend’s best friend and roommate. Hilarity ensues.

That’s it. Go by it on Amazon. Kidding.

Anyway, right now, I’m at almost 20K words. Not too shabby. But a novel is in the 50K to 60K + range. I have a ways to go. And I know what I need to write. It’s pretty much all mapped out. But instead of furthering what I have and continuing the story, I keep hemming and hawing over what I have already written.

It’s driving me nuts.

I need to just get my first draft down, then review everything. THAT’S WHAT DRAFTS ARE FOR, MEGAN. Jeez.

I wish there was a way to lock myself out of my previously written words to force myself to KEEP WRITING and not change stupid little words here and there. It’s a waste of my precious time, which is incredibly limited with a crazy-assed toddler running around and a three-month old baby.

Send me encouragement.

 

My absence. Explained.

See this darling girl? This is the reason for my writing break. Pretty good reason, don’t you think?

I gave birth to my second kiddo in March and I’ve been juggling the SAHM gig of two kids. It’s been crazy but I’m blessed with two awesome kids.

Also, do you see her shirt? DO YOU SEE IT?!?! Clearly, Target read my book and decided to jump on the seahorse bandwagon. Smart people.

So anyway, I’m going to gradually get back into the swing of things. I hope to continue my Line of The Day (LOTD) posts once I’m actually, you know, writing lines. During the day.

I wrote 1,100 words yesterday, which isn’t a lot, but damn it felt good.

Thanks for sticking with me!

Contest entry

Hello!

I know I’ve been MIA for a while and I have a wonderful explanation for that, which I will post about shortly.

But right now, I want to share a short story I wrote for the Central PA Magazine Writing Contest at the beginning of the year. Out of 164 entries, I was honored to be one of 16 finalists. I attended the awards ceremony and I was so very happy for the gentleman that won. His story was wonderful and once it’s published, I’ll link to it.

Anyway, I was very proud of what I wrote and thought I’d share it here! It’s just as short story, less than 1,500 words, so it won’t take long to read. Enjoy!

DECISIONS AND WHITE LIES

 

I waited for the green-flecked amber eyes, identical to the ones I saw in the mirror every day, to look in my direction.

They finally did, boring into mine over the rim of a recyclable cardboard coffee cup. The last time I saw those eyes, they were covered in greasy newborn eye ointment. The owner of those eyes then lowered her latte to the round, artfully-distressed table between us. With a shaky index finger, she wiped the froth from her upper lip.

“So, what do you do?” Her gaze darted nervously around my face and over my shoulder-length dyed brown hair. I self-consciously fingered my temple, where I knew the gray hair always showed first.

My lips moved but the words crashed and mashed in my throat, like a traffic jam. I cleared it and tried again. “I’m a rape crisis counselor.” I sounded the a as a short vowel sound, as if it would ease the impact of the short a in rape.

Her head tilted an inch to the right. “Wow, that’s an important job, but I’m sure it can be hard.”

I lifted one shoulder. “There are days.”

Silence fell, and the chatter of the coffee shop surrounded me. Customers ordering caffeine-laden treats. The barista hollering orders. The hiss of the expresso machine steaming milk.

My 31-year-old daughter tapping a booted heel on the leg of her wrought-iron chair.

I broke the silence between us. “So, you…you like your parents?”

“Yes, very much. My mom is funny and likes to crochet. The worse thing about her is that she makes me wear her creations.” She fluffed out her scarf, a mess of purple, brown and tan yarn. “Dad worked a lot and still does, but he made sure we had plenty of family time on the weekends. I was the only kid they adopted, so I received a lot of attention.”

I swallowed in reflex, but my mouth was dry. “I’m happy to hear that.”

She kept her eyes on me, fingering a loose thread on her scarf.

“So,” I said, “you wanted to meet with me for a reason?”

Her head bobbed in a curt nod. Fumbling in her beige, worn-leather purse, she pulled out an envelope. She ran her finger under the seal, pulled out a photograph, and slid it in front of me.

For the second time that day, I stared into my own eyes, but now they were set in the face of a little girl. Her light brown hair was pulled into a messy ponytail on the side of her head with a hot pink scrunchie. Her grin showed a gap where two front teeth had been. Behind her, a man with thick-rimmed glasses bore a dimpled smile, his hand on the little girl’s shoulder.

I looked up at my daughter, whose eyes were on the picture. She raised them, blinking rapidly as they glistened. “My husband and I have a daughter. Her name is Cara and she is seven. She likes pink, purple, ponies and-” she barked a short laugh, “-fire trucks.”

I took stock of my expression. My lips were frozen into an open-mouthed smile. I puckered them to test their mobility. “She’s beautiful.”

My daughter smiled then, a crooked smile that I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t my smile.

“Thank you.” She gestured to the picture. “You can keep it if you want.”

A hot flash roared through my head and then down in the pit of my stomach. “Really?”

“Sure.”

I picked up the picture as if it was made of whisker-thin glass, slipping it carefully inside the envelope she handed me. I tucked it into the zipper portion of my messenger bag, nestled among tampons, sugar-free mints, and a dried-up tube of medicated lip balm.

“Thank you,” I said.

She gave a brief nod. “You’re welcome.” She paused and took a deep breath. “The reason I…wanted to find you is because I wanted to know a little about my family medical history. For Cara. Just so I’m aware of whether she is at risk for anything.”

I watched my daughter don her mom-hat and a swell of happiness threatened to rush out of my mouth in a delighted shriek.

I tamped it down and focused on her question.

“Well, I have high blood pressure. My father had diabetes, but that was Type 2, because of his weight. Fortunately, there isn’t much to tell you.”

My daughter’s face relaxed. “Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

I hated to ask the next question, but I wanted to know. “Do you like being a mom?”

Her chin snapped into her neck in surprise and her eyes widened. Then she neutralized her face. “I love it. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

I fingered my coarse napkin. “That’s good. I’m happy for you.”

Her boot began tapping again. “I also…wanted to meet you. I know I waited thirty-one years, but I needed that time.”

“I’m glad you reached out.”

“Me, too.”

We finished our coffees and exchanged phone numbers, addresses and emails. No promises were made beyond Christmas card list additions.

Because she had a mother and father. Good ones.

As we left the coffee shop, I focused on the ground ahead of me, counting down the yards to my car, counting down the minutes until I was free from further questions.

“Sadie?”

It was the first time she had said my name, and her voice cracked on the second syllable. When I looked up, she was biting her lip.

“Yes?”

She released her lip and I watched as the blood rushed back to the abused area. “My birth certificate didn’t list a father. Can you…tell me anything about him?”

This was the question. The question I avoided my whole life. The reason I named my six-pound-seven-ounce baby Hope and handed her over to a young couple to adopt mere hours after her birth. I had replayed this moment in my head many times. It kept me awake at night. It would sometimes sneak up on me while I was doing simple tasks, like vacuuming my floor or cleaning my sink, and it would almost bring me to my knees.

I had wavered back and forth constantly on what I would do if this moment ever became a reality.

And now it was.

It was the moment I had to decide whether I’d tell Hope I was raped at nineteen by a stranger in a dark corridor in my apartment complex. A stranger whose face remained in shadow. A stranger who retreated into the dark as quickly as he’d come. And that she’d been born eight months and three weeks later.

My lips moved, my body and heart making the decision for me. It took my brain a minute to catch up.

“I only met him once. I don’t even know his name. I’m sorry.”

Judgment flashed over her face for a second, and then she sighed in resolution, gazing at the sky over my shoulder.

For the first time since I was twenty years old, huddled over a plastic stick showing two pink lines, my chest lightened. My lungs cleared. My skin slithered over muscles eased of tension.

The decision was made. The truth omitted. The white lie told. I still had no idea if it was the right thing to do.

As she looked back at me and smiled sadly, but with acceptance, I decided I didn’t care.

I nodded at her. She nodded at me. And I watched my Hope walk away.

 

 

Junkie

I make some sort of excuse to my husband and my son to leave the house. The car needs gas. I want a slushie. We are out of diapers.

My husband doesn’t question it. No problem, honey. Drive safe.

My son is excited. Mom store? Mom store?

I cup his cheeks and give him a kiss. He doesn’t pucker up yet. His kiss is with a wet, open mouth. Hey, I’ll take it.

I wave to my husband and leave the house. Walking to the car, I feel a surge of anxious excitement, but guilt battles it back down.

Once I’m behind the wheel, I think maybe I’ll resist this time. Maybe I’ll just drive around and listen to the radio. But I don’t. I pull up to the gas station and shut off the car. I walk in and look around nonchalantly, as if I don’t know exactly what I came for. When I feel as if I sufficiently fooled no one, I amble my way to the counter.

The familiar colors of the package beckon me. The feel of the slick plastic is comforting in my hand. So close.

The cashier rings me up. I throw in a soda to my purchase. Just so I don’t feel like such a junkie.

I don’t need a bag. I’ll consume my purchase in the car and dispose of the trash before I head home. I sit in the driver’s seat in my distant parking spot and stare at the package, knowing the routine. I’ll have to wash my hands and face afterward, before I head home. And maybe brush my teeth.

I feel a flash of guilt, but I’ve already shelled out the money. Might as well go through with it.

I rip open the package, tear off the wrapping, and sink my teeth into the delicious, incomparable, nourishing Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.

Such is the life of a mom with son with a peanut allergy.

I hope you enjoyed my little story. It’s very tongue-in-cheek. It’s obviously not this dramatic. But when I sat in my car the other night, downing a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup in a parking of a gas station, knowing I had to wash my hands before I went home, I couldn’t help but giggle about how ridiculous the whole thing was. So yeah. I’m a mom. My kid has a peanut allergy. And I freaking love peanut butter.

Line of the Day

“Thanks,” she mumbled. She walked gingerly toward the bathroom, which was directly in front of him. As she brushed past him to enter, he grabbed her arm gently.

 

His touch startled her and she looked up into his face. His eyes were heavy-lidded and the pale green of his irises was darker in the early morning light. She imagined this would be an amazing scene in a movie, where he whispered in a tortured voice, Kat, I want you. I’ve always wanted you. Let’s retreat to my boudoir and consummate our mutual attraction…

 

His lips were moving, and she snapped back to attention.

 

“…It was acting up, so just flush twice.”

 

Yep, while she dreamed of writhing naked and sweaty in his sheets, he was telling her to flush the toilet twice. Awesome. Amazing. Not embarrassing at all.

 

This is from my new story I’m working on. I’m having so much fun with it. Can you tell??

How do you write?

I always wonder how authors come up with their ideas for characters/plotlines/scenes. Are they inspired by something they see? Do they then go home and type up a scene, writing it as they go?

For me, I’m most inspired when I’m driving. I’ve been trying to figure out why. I think it’s that my mind is relatively clear since I’m, you know, concentrating on moving a large hunk of metal at a high rate of speed. And I listen to music. I can’t drive without music. Music inspires me SO much.

When I wrote Anchor Me, I listened to one of Pearl Jam’s live concert CDs over and over again. When I wrote Searching for Thorns, I listened to Pink’s new album, The Truth about Love. I LOVE PINK. Her song The Great Escape was a real inspiration for the male main character, Reese, in Searching for Thorns. If you haven’t heard this song or don’t have this album, go buy it. She’s an amazing singer and there are so many songs on this album that really tug at my heart and make me think.

One thing I would say I rarely do is type a scene from scratch. What I mean by that is I usually think of the entire scene in my head, usually when I’m driving or laying in bed. I visualize the scene – what the characters are doing, their facial expressions, where they are standing, what they are doing, what they say, etc. Then I write it out. Almost like I’m watching a play and then describing what happened. It can be hard. Because sometimes I can’t find the right words to convey what is going on. I just keep at it until I feel like I accurately portrayed what’s in my head.

I’m really interested in how others write. If you are a writer, leave me a comment and let me know your process. Do you outline the whole book? Just let it flow?

Update!

So.

Hallo!

Just an update on what is going on in Megan-writing land. I’m so happy with the response to Anchor Me. So right now I’m basking in that afterglow a little.

I’ve been working on a series for awhile now – which I’ve called the Cedar Point Series. It is a set of three books about college-age couples. I really love it and I’m super excited about the first book, Searching for Thorns, which is complete.

I had planned to self-publish this, just as I did Anchor Me, but I decided to try to go the traditional publishing route, which I would still prefer to do.

So, I queried some agents/publishers and received a nibble. Okay, I guess it was more like a bite. Which I’m hoping will turn into a…swallow? I’m not sure where to take that metaphor.

Anyhow, I’m hoping to get more nibbles and it would be fan-freaking-tastic if an agent or publisher was willing to pick up this book. I love it and I believe in it and I’m going to try my hardest to get it out to you the best way I can.

So for now, I’m waiting to hear back from interested parties. I also have a baby due mid-March so…yeah…kinda busy here, haha.

Also, an idea for a kick-ass standalone novel hit me one day while I was driving. I have the rough outline typed up and I have several scenes written already. It’s awesome! I think you all will really like it.

So anyway, that’s what’s going on with me. I’ll keep you updated the best I can. I hope I have a book for you to read this summer, or at least an idea of when one is coming!

Thanks to everyone for your support!

I’m on Facebook!

So, I broke down and made an author Facebook page. Please “like” it. I’ll post when I update my blog, and I’ll also probably make random updates based on whatever I’m thinking about at the time. which may or may not be a good thing.

Megan Erickson – Author on Facebook