Not Writing aka Real Life Causes the Blues

We aren't writing. We're blue. We have issues. We have tension.

We miss writing. We feel bad not to be producing pages of deathless prose. When people post on Facebook about their successes in word counts we commiserate with chocolate bars and dark muttering that quantity doesn't always equal quality.

Quality ain't shit when you aren't producing anything at all.

We had some momentum going. For awhile we were both writing, exchanging pages, having long breathless conversations about plot and character developement and our tensions over tenses.

That was ages ago.

We're limping in the marathon of writing life. We're pathetic.

Oh yeah. And by the way: my book comes out on Monday. 666 Angel Lane. Preorder on Amazon.

(*g*)

Oh Joy!

I just discovered Jeanienne Frost. I know, I know, what took me so long, right?

What can I say - I'm old and slow. ;-)

Can we say backlist???

Bah!!

Penquin must think a hell of a lot of Lauren Willig - even her backlist is damn expensive for a romance ebook!

I wanted to try The Mischief of the Mistletoe, but she's a new to me author, so no, just no. Her backlist is even more expensive. Penquin adds tax too. Pfft!!

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=Lauren+Willig&x=14&y=22

This is something I am not thankful for! (Please excuse the dangling participle.) It's a shame, because if I had liked her storytelling (and I'm not so difficult to please) I would have gotten her entire backlist.

Just for the record - Penquin really pisses me off!

Giving Thanks

The internet is full of complaints that sometimes border on hate. For sure it's not a Norman Rockwell world out there anymore.

But even in the worst of times, we have things to be thankful for. Sometimes it's small things, things that seem insignificant to others. Or it might be the people in our lives, or our pets, or the guy on the bus that smiled and gave us his seat, or it might be a woman who doesn't mind being called an Old Fart and sets up a place where we can play.

The food on the table is a symbol for all that is good in our lives. Although money is going to be tight again (it's that time of year when hubby’s job slows to a screeching halt ), I am truly blessed.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.


***From the Other Old Fart

For me the joy of the season becomes the baking and cooking and trying to fatten up the world around me. And in that I find so much pleasure in the scents and tastes and sharing.

As we say thank you, I'll be thanking the Creator and Maintainer for the friendships that surround me and the love I'm blessed with daily. I'll also be saying a prayer for those in our lives who are facing losses.

This has been an interesting year. Next year will hopefully be one of accomplishment. We thank everyone who drops in on us for joining in the conversation and the giggles.

Hopefully the best is yet to be.

Oh Geeze ....

Just finished doing a tour of People of Walmart. It makes one proud to be a member of the human race. Uh huh.

Now I know why I read Romance - the characters are usually handsome/beautiful and despite their many conflicts usually act and dress with intelligence.

Much prefer fiction to the real world. Good Lord!!

http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/

Sorry, still don't know how to make a live link. :-(

Holiday Reading

Are you a reader who likes stories reflecting the seasons? Because I'm sitting here, a few days before Thanksgiving with a world of snow outside and I'm longing for a book with snow and Christmas trees and a hot cocoa and fire to read by.

Last year I gifted one of my coworkers with 3 Harlequin Christmas books as well as some chocolate to nibble as she reads. I bought myself a few too (both books and chocolate).

This year I'm going to write a Christmas story I think. I have a wickedly funny idea and this year I finally have a fireplace and cocoa in the pantry. I'm totally in the holiday zone.

How about you?

Annoying Friends, Neighbors and Absolute Strangers

I have a book coming out. In 2 weeks and three days my first novel/ebook will be released to an uncaring and unconcerned public. I'd like it to sell because I'd like people to read it and honestly, a few extra Benjamins are always appreciated in my household but I don't want to be one of those annoying Facebook/Twitter writers who acts as though the world should stop because I gots a book to sell.

So what does a writer do?

We can offer a release day give-away. We can... um, sacrifice a goat to the writing Gods for good fortune. And uh...

What have people done to get the word out but not annoy others? I want to have some fun with this truly and give away some copies as well as generate a little interest.

Ideas needed. The crazier the better.

The Essence of Writing

You know the saying "you can't teach an old dog new tricks"? I'm living proof it's a lie, a dastardly lie. I'm an old dog and I'm learning all sorts of new tricks.

I love to write and I want to learn to write well. I have some differences with the modern style, which seems to be less is more, because I do love me some hyperbole every now and then and have been known to descend into purple prose. I'm taking the cure for that - it's called an editor. Heh.

Five years ago after a long dry spell that began when I graduated high school, I started writing fan fic. I don't know if I should be ashamed or not, but a fact is a fact. Still, I was completely ignorant that there was a whole world of fan fic out there. I worried about being sued and such, but hell, we were on the group's own official forum and no one, least of all them, seemed to care so it was full speed ahead.

I wrote some stuff that'll never see the light of day outside of the archive Lori and I set up. Sometimes I think it's a shame, because a strange thing happened.

We got better. Really - we did. We began to stretch our wings (or pens), usually with Lori in the lead dragging me kicking and screaming behind her. We graduated from fan fic and began to fight our way into mainstream and finally found success.

This is an example from a fic I was working on:



It is always dusk when she comes to me.

In this crude hut there is no light but the faint flicker of flame from the wick floating in the bowl of oil; or the blinding blaze of sunshine when Flower or her mother opens the door.

I live – I exist – in a twilight dream. I lie trapped and sweating, tied to a makeshift bed; held not by ropes but by the weakness of my broken body. Planks joined together by vines – in the beginning I could smell their nectar. Planks that make a solid surface for my broken bones, with a special cutout to clean my body of its wastes. To allow them to wipe my naked ass. Lying here, helpless, alone, there is plenty of time to regret the past and to hope the coca leaves will bring forgetfulness. She gives them to me to ease the pain and perhaps they do, to a degree. But not completely. It is not the agony it was, but I think I shall never again be free of the hurting.

I am losing my manhood. I have lost the use of my legs because one, the one belonging to the shattered hip, cannot be moved, and my right arm, my dominant arm, is in a splint and sticks out from my body as if it belongs to someone else. My left hand and arm are good for nothing. Nothing! I can finger the deep and swollen wound on my face, but even now I find it difficult to hold a cup or a bowl to my lips without making a mess like a small baby. Citlali put stitches there; what she used I cannot even guess, but some of them broke with the swelling and she did not see fit to replace them. I will have a pretty face, if I live through this.

She put a hot knife in my neck – I can remember this thing vividly – and pulled out a piece of metal. I suppose I should be thankful to be alive.

But I’m not.

It is dark when next Flower comes, bringing with her the fresh air of freedom and a bowl of food. There is no shaft of sunlight from the open door, only more darkness, but still I turn my head away. She has come to complete my humiliation.

But I have been alone too long. I turn back to watch her. I see her face reflected in the small light of the bowl as she sets the food on the rough table. It is a young face, with slanting eyes and high cheekbones and a mouth that is made for kissing. I feel myself get hard. At least there is one part of me that still works.

She wears her hair uncovered this night; the blackness of it blends with the dark room except where it covers the shoulders of her red blouse. My broken bones must be improving, because I want this woman. I suddenly want this woman with everything that is in me.

She bends over me, her hair tickling my bare chest. I close my eyes and concentrate on control.

“Qhipa,”** she says. This is what she calls me. I don’t know what it means and I don’t know why she uses it; she knows my name, I have said it enough. She talks to me in her birdsong language but every now and then there is a Spanish word and somehow we manage a communication. She is teaching me the words of her language when she has the time; there is much to do to stay alive and there is only Flower and her mother Citlali. These are strong women.

Her hand reaches down to uncover my loins. She has the stone pitcher ready. My good hand jerks out to grab the covering, but I am too slow, too late.

She stares at my erection and moves her gaze to my eyes. I look away, ashamed. I don’t know why I am hard, I feel so impotent. I squeeze my eyes shut to force back the tears.

“Qhipa …”

Her hand is small, the skin no rougher than my bearded cheek. She turns me back to face her and I venture to open my eyes. She is smiling. She nods and sets down the stone pitcher. I watch in amazement as she hikes up her skirt, catching it with her teeth, and straddles me and my bed.

She puts no weight on me; her bare feet are flat on the floor, her womanhood poised above my cock. Automatically I try to shift my position and she hisses ”Non!” Obediently I lie still. The stab of pain has convinced me to let her be in charge.

I watch, entranced, as she guides my cock to her entrance. She is tight, I can feel the resistance and I know she is virgin. But she doesn’t hesitate. Slowly my cock disappears into her warmth as she lowers herself until I am deep inside her. Her arms are outstretched to keep her balance; I see the muscles of her thighs flex and relax as she moves above me, never touching any part of me but my cock. She stares into the distance as if she’s in another world, and then she lowers her skirt and I close my eyes to concentrate on what is building inside me.

I go from heavy breathing to panting. It is so huge, it has been so long. Muscles tighten in anticipation, bringing more pain, but this pain I bear happily. My orgasm bursts out of me, along with a cry of anguish and repletion. And she stops moving as I empty myself into her.

It is the most unloving loving I have ever experienced, and yet I know she cares for me, as I am beginning to care for her.

She dismounts as if from a horse or motorcycle and cleans herself without embarrassment. “Qhipa,” she says tenderly and kisses my cheek before briskly cleaning me too. She holds up the stone pitcher again and raises an eyebrow in question. I nod.

This time I am not ashamed.


** Flower is speaking Quechua, the language of the Incas. “The adverb qhipa means both "behind" and "future". For the speakers of Quechua, we are moving backwards into the future (we cannot see it, ie. it is unknown), facing the past (we can see it, ie. we remember it).” From Wikipedia.


A dream/memory, part of a story that never was finished. A fan fic. It's not perfect, not even close, but if I can continue to write at this level, then I have hope that my stories will find a home.

God, I just love it when the words come together!

Magic Realism

I love Sunday. My daughter is laying on the couch playing a video game, her cat is lying across her back loving her closeness. I'm sitting on a comfy chair only a foot away with my laptop on my legs and I'm trying to describe natural magic as it can happen in American lives.

I love magic realism. The description of it is simply the placement of magic in everyday lives. Since I believe that our everyday lives are already chock-full of wonder, obviously I'm attracted to the elements of magic/wonder in fiction.

I like paranormal and even some urban fantasy. I just ordered the Iron Duke because I imagine that steampunk will ring my bell. But what I love most is the ordinary that is anything but.

One day I'll do a real review of Sarah Addison Allen's books but she embodies the American version of magic realism to me. Years ago I read Gabriel Garcia Marquez and other hispanic writers who are considered the creators of the genre. However, I love the americanization of the genre and the idea that it can and does exist in our lives too.

Sometimes I think that one of the reasons I love cooking and cooking based novels is that anything that involves ingredients that take a new form (cooking) that then alters a person's life, even momentarily (eating) has an intent of magic to it.

I'd love to read more modern authors that include these aspects to their writing. If you have any suggestions please let me know.

My Turn Now

I'm never quite sure what to post on this blog. I ususally don't get the urge to post unless something rattles my chain. I'm a shy little thing but if I expressed all my opinions, no one would ever speak to me again.

But you can't have a blog without posts and poor Lori's been carrying the load. That's cause she's the Idea Lady. So, I'm doing what I'm good at - recycling. This is a post I wrote when we first opened up, but never got used. Why let it loll around doing nothing? Let it earn its keep!

~~~~~~~

A Not So Learnéd (Short) Essay

Which do you prefer? Nora Roberts or J. D. Robb? Is there a difference? I submit there is quite a difference. (Please - y'all just pretend this hasn't been gone over before, perhaps to ad nauseum.)

Nora can be rather formulistic. She loves trilogies or - what is the word - quatrolgies? Four books, anyway. And although there is a story arc that encompasses all the books, each book details the romance of one main couple. All the couples have to work together to defeat evil or win whatever game they're involved in.

Her stand alones usually involve suspense and/or mystery and one main couple only, although secondary characters may also have a romance.

The In Death series, on the other hand, now numbers 31 books. (I can't keep the titles straight to save my life, I sometimes wish they weren't so alike.) They detail the growth of the relationship between one couple. Secondary characters grow and change also and even find romance, but all the emphasis is on Eve and Roarke. It has been fascinating to watch Eve progress.

I didn't like Eve at first. I didn't like her a lot, and almost didn't continue on to the next book. I thought she was hard and stubborn and, in her own way, egotistical. But as the series progressed, I learned of her softer side, her fears and the struggle she has to overcome them. The nightmares sucker punched me and that's when I started buying into Eve.

Roarke and Eve could have been broken people, even after they succeeded in the lives they chose. Yes, even Roarke has his weaknesses. One of my favorite parts is when Roarke finds his family and Eve is there for him, just as he has always been there for her since the start of their relationship.

Both Eve and Roarke make each other stronger. They have reached the place where they know they can trust and depend on each other. They may be unhappy when they fight and disagree, but they alway come to a compromise and isn't that part of what a relationship is all about? You can't always have it your own way, and if you love someone, you want them to be happy.

So. One woman; two completely different authors. Two different ways of writing the stories.

I confess I prefer J. D. Robb. Oh - except for the Quinn brothers in Nora's Chesapeake Bay series. Um - and the MacKade brothers ... and can't forget the Irish trilogy ...

Okay, I'm conflicted. Again. *sigh*

Shall we just say she's a damn good writer no matter what name she uses, and leave it at that?

Thank you very much. :-)

Desperately Seeking Sanity

Nano and I are not friends this year. The story I'm writing is enjoyable and I like spending time in this little town with these people. But where is the time to write when there's a full time job, an attention seeking child and so much HGTV to watch?

I know... women have been doing this for years. I haven't though. I used to have time. Lots of time. But now it seems that the one thing i never have enough of is time.

How do you do it?

Do You Nano?

If his father wasn't home then Carlos would sit in the kitchen and slowly savor the sensations. The ache of the ancho chili complimenting the sadness of the acoustic guitar and the soft wail of the singer remembering a past love. The sweet, colorful peppers redolent with the call of his mother's people. Her hair in it's long plait, her wide feet bare on the cold tile and he was home in the Mexican haven she created.

November is National Novel Writing Month and all over the internet and the world people are nano-ing. 1,667 words a day to end November with a 50,000 word novel.

Nano is an amazing process of learning to write with the internal editor turned off and the word count being the thing that moves you. I learned to count by the 100s when nano-ing.

This year I'm way behind. But I'm plugging away. If you're nano-ing, buddy me. I'm LoriGreen on the nano website.

Let's commiserate together.

Can I Brag a Little?

http://hea-reviews.blogspot.com/2010/11/review-666-angel-lane-by-lori-green.html

My first ever review. And it made me squeal. Honestly.

We also discovered http://www.amazon.com/666-Angel-Lane-ebook/dp/B00472O33W/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=books&qid=1288968476&sr=8-1

Can I mention one more thing?

Romantic Times December issue. That's an ad by Lyrical Press and that first book cover is mine.

*swoon*

The Workplace Conversation

I'm going to preface this by saying that management and I are never friends. It might be my loud-mouthed nature, my take-no-prisoners sense of humor or just the fact that I curse like a sailor and am unapologetic about who I am but we clash. Often.

So in the last clash, I was sitting in an inquisition and my boss asked me, "Are you the author of an erotic novel?"

As a character in a book I'll never write would say: "Butter my buns and call me biscuit."

In other words: say what?

I have written a book. That book is coming out soon and I'm excited about it. I'm delighted and overjoyed and dancing on ceilings. I don't annoy everyone with conversation about it but I have done a little bragging and given a little whoop.

Apparently a nearby nurse voiced her disapproval because I have spoken of and shown the cover for a book that she disapproves of. Because she's decided it's erotica. (It's actually a humorous, paranormal romance with lots of imp tossing.)

My manager disapproves of my smut. (Yes, she actually said the word smut in describing my world.)

I'm in a tizzy trying to understand how my writing has any bearing on my job or even my discussing my writing with an interested co-worker can be grounds for a managerial scolding. At what point does my right to enjoy my life and my personal labors become inappropriate and open for discussion with management? When do they have a right to label my work with a title of "erotica" and therefore call it unacceptable?

Needless to say, I am not a happy camper.