I recently read an interesting article from two editors that outlined 50 tell tale signs (for them) that a writer is an inexperienced newbie (no, of course I can’t find the article, that would be too easy).  Ironically, the two editors agreed on some of the sins, but differed on others.  That got me thinking about what people consider the greatest missteps committed against writing.  Here are mine:

1. “Using too many tags and adverbs,” said the frustrated editor frustratingly.
2. Grammor errors
3. Switching POV, he though with longing as she felt the depth of his despair at the horrific faux pas.
4. Wrong! punctuation..?,.
5. Run on sentences are the bane of an editor’s existence they make them mad.
6. Gggrr… hiya!.. No conflict
7. Cringe-worthy metaphors and simile’s are like a set of heaving bosoms pendulously swinging across the engorged seas darkened by the swells of their disastrous union.
8. “It sucks when these romance writers don’t do their research,” said Candy Cane Johnson as she laced up her corseted gown after flushing the toilet in her 16^th century England. 
9.  Relying on Missouri Senate candidate Todd Akin’s advice that women love rape in romance novels
10. Vvrroomm… vvrrrooomm.  Here comes the info dump tractor, throwing all its contents on page 1
11. Wash.  Rinse.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.  The author uses the same “it” word 2,356 times in one novel.

Those are just a few.  Drop of your pet peeves.

That first moment when you see that ad is the ouch factor. Within a span of ten seconds, you go through a myriad of emotions. First, you can’t believe it. You check the company and the language in the ad.  Yup, exactly the same.  Word for work.  Then confusion sets in.  Maybe there was some sort of mistake, mishap with the publishers, a cruel prank?  When those options don’t pan out, anger swoops in.  How could they pass up on someone like you (remember, they REALLY built you up).  You were amazing, wonderful, fabulous.   And then, comes the inevitable crash. It’s the realization that not only did you not get job, they didn’t think you were the greatest thing since sliced bread, but they were willing to start the process all over again because you were that bad of a candidate. It’s truly amazing, but all those emotions course through your body in one giant ball that can only be classified as a big “ouch!”

The ouch factor is really just the knee jerk reaction to rejection. Nothing more, nothing less. The only good thing with the ouch factor is that, like a bandage being ripped off a hairy arm, it comes in the form of a pointy arrow that shoots and then leaves.  So in the end, maybe it’s better that the rejection came with such a swift force. At least it’s better knowing.

Right now, I am swimming with the fishies. (Not literally, I hope). But I am on vacation. And it is during this time, I always take a step back and remind myself to be thankful for everything. Here is my partial list for 2012.

I’m thankful:

1. My kids are healthy

2. For Ben and Jerry S’Mores ice cream.. there’s no better way to take the ouchie out of a query rejection

3. I have a great husband

4. For the nutty life I’ve lead because it’s given me lots of angst and perspective I can use in my writing

5. For my wonderfully dysfunctional family who love too much and expect the world

6. I somehow managed to fit into a dress I wore when I was 22 (don’t get jealous folks.. it’s verrry stretchy because it’s been stretchin’ for two decades)

7. To have found the love and support of the Mermaids.. and my goals is to spend more time with them; virtually and otherwise

8. Finally, I’m thankful that I live in the greatest country on earth where I am free to write whatever words I choose without fear of retribution or death.

I recently read an article about some actress (can’t remember for the life of me who she is) who has her agent to set her up on “dates” with women.  No, she’s not a lesbian, not that there’s anything wrong with that.  But rather, she just wants to be introduced or get to know women she finds interesting.    This phenomenon, known as a girl crush, is similar to the bromance we keep hearing about of late.

When I think back on my life, I realize there have been a number of females I have found absolutely fascinating.  There was Stephanie, the girl in my fourth grade class, who had poker straight blonde hair that fluttered in the breeze when she glided across the playground.  She was everything I wasn’t.  Confident, popular, smart.  Everything she touched turned to gold.  I studied her from a far, wishing not only that I could be like her, but that maybe one day she would concede to be my friend.  In high school, I was friends with a girl who again, was the complete antithesis of me.   Jet black curly hair and a face that  Angelina Jolie would have envied, she had a talent for dancing, singing, drawing, writing.  We formed a deep and lasting bond (to this day), but I never gave up that idolization at her ability to draw people to her and command the spotlight.

As I think back on all these “girl crushes,” I realize that when I create my female characters, in some way, they become crushes too.  Yes, we want readers to fall in love with the hero, but it’s the heroine that in some cases may make or break a story.   Women are multi-dimensional creatures and our relationships with women are just as complicated as with men.  Maybe even more so.   To that end, the characters we create must tiptoe on that fine line of being attractive, but not too attractive.  Likable, but not a doormat.  In other words, she has to be the kind of woman an actress will ask her agent to set up on a date.  So in honor of all female crushes, dish on who is your crush.  Here are mine.

Writer Crush (other than a fellow Mermaid):  Sarah Mayberry.  I recently discovered this gem of a writer and I’m green with envy at how she can convey emotion through characters.  Not only that, she is cool as hell.  She actually answered my email, the one where I asked for writing advice and sent back a heap of helpful suggestions.

Envy Crush:  I’m ashamed to confess that this envy crush is strictly superficial.  I once had a friend who was truly disgusting.  5’8” a size 0 with real DD boobs and legs that would put any model to shame.  To make matters worse, she was hilarious, a PhD student in biology and could sew the most amazing outfits.   I couldn’t hate her because she was just so awesome, but boy was I ever miserable when we went trolling for men together.

Fascination Crush:  Okay, I admit.  For some crazy reason I have an absolute fascination with Kate Middleton, or the Duchess of.. I can’t remember what.  I don’t know if it’s the whole princess from a modest background or the fact that she’s so tall, willowy and has that thick mane of chestnut hair.  Or actually, it may be the clothes.  She seems to look good in anything (dang her!).  She also seems so natural and down to Earth.  Again, yes, I know it’s all a fantasy because no one really knows what she’s like except the people close to her, but indulge me.

Fictional Character Crush:  Harper James from Kristan Higgins’ My One and Only.  The way she wrote that character, I actually felt I was in her skin.  I truly wanted to be friends with this woman.  Or at least be there as she traveled the road Kristan so skillfully wove for her.

If I wasn’t straight, I’d be with…Crush   You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine!

I sit at our kitchen table.  My head is tilting upward, in prayer to some celestial being floating high above our nondescript townhouse.  I don’t need Manna from heaven.  Just a tiny bit of help.  A gentle nudge in the right direction.  I look back down at the outline for my next book and there I see it.  Not what’s there, but what isn’t.   Symbolism.  The missing piece d resistance to the twisty new story I contrived.  The characters, resplendent in all their intricate psychological finery, are poised and at the ready to scale the hurdles I contrived for them.  But the one thing that’s flagrantly absent is that little scrap of tangible something that takes the ordinary and makes it extraordinary.

As I’m grousing at the gods for their refusal to grant me my thousands wish for the day, my five-year-old toddles into the kitchen.  A flurry of chatter swan dives into my ears.  But as I look up, her actions are what freeze me in my place.  She takes a piece of gum from her mouth and puts it into the wastebasket.  Then proceeds to sneak a fresh stick from the pack.  She unwraps it, without paying particular attention to the silver foil, puts it in her mouth and walks out of the kitchen. 

On icy feet, I walk over to the trashcan and open the lid.  The grayish wad is still in there.  Sticking to the side of the trash bag.  Teeth marks still mar its gummy substance.  I reach in and gently pick it up.  And that’s when it happens.  I’m sucked back to a cold faraway place.  A five-year-old is kneeling on the dirty sidewalk.  Her nose is almost one with the lumpy concrete.  Her little hands are furtively picking at a dark brown spot, the size of a nickel, tightly sealed between the ridges of the pavement.  Brows furrowed in determination, she ignores the people passing on the street.  Her only focus is the spot.  Time flies as she digs the spot out of its hiding place, but finally it is done.  She holds up the hardened piece of substance, as if it were a diamond or a ruby.  With a huge smile, she runs home, careful to hold onto her bounty.  At home, she dashes into the bathroom, turns on the lukewarm water and brings her treasure into the light.  Over and over, she washes it until her fingers turn to prunes.  But still, she is careful with it.  Holding it with one hand, but keeping another hand underneath so there is not chance it falls into the drain.  When water finally runs out, she carefully dries it with a towel and places it in her palm.  Her heart is thumping.  She bites her lip, as if unsure if she should do it.  Whether she is deserving of this prize.  But finally, the desire grows too strong.  She closes her eyes and puts it in her mouth.  And begins to chew.  At first, the process is slow and painful. 

Maybe it won’t ever go back to its former state.  But as the crunchiness slowly goes away, in its place is elasticity.  Still tough, but it is there.  Her smile widens and this new found knowledge gives her the strength to keep on chewing. 

Later that night, when it’s time to go to sleep, she takes the substance from her mouth, puts it on a piece of plastic and puts it in a secret box.  True, it’s only a discarded matchbox, but it is hers.  And it is special.  Clutching it in her hand, she takes a deep breath and falls asleep with a smile.  The next day at school, she arrives with her prize.  It takes a while for everyone to notice, but once they do, she is surrounded.  How?  Where?  When?  They all clamor for answers.  They crowd around her and suddenly, she is no longer invisible.  Envy, awe, admiration is clear in the twenty pairs of eyes looking at her.  She clamps her teeth over and over, amazed and in wonder how she was chosen for such a prize.

For two months she follows the same ritual.  Chewing by day, hiding her bounty by night.  Each day, she becomes more used to it.  Assuming it’s going to be around forever.  And then one day, on a cold and blustery Saturday, she’s sitting on her bed, playing with her bear, when her friend says something funny.  And so she laughs.  A big hearty open mouthed laugh.  The kind of laugh meant to be done laying down and rolling around holding ones belly.  And so she does it.  She laughs and laughs and .. suddenly.  It’s gone.  One second it’s on her tongue and the next, she feels it in her throat.  Help me get it, she yells at her friend.  They scramble around the room, eyes wild.  Distraught.  Think, think, she tells herself.  She sees a chair and lunges for it.  She goes around and throws herself upon the rigid back.  Right in the stomach.  Maybe that will do it.   Force her treasure back from the journey it has begun.  Over and over she does it, but there is nothing.   Her most prized possession is gone.  She crumples upon the bed and weeps.   Two months.  At least she had two months. 

I close the lid to the trashcan and smile sadly to myself.  At that moment, my daughter runs back into the kitchen, reaches for the packaging and pulls out another piece.  “What?” she asks in response to my staring at her.  “It always tastes better at the beginning.”  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her not to go through so much gum.  But instead, I lean over and kiss her on the forehead.  “You’re right.  It does taste better at the beginning.”  And as I hug her close, I look up toward the ceiling and silently thank whatever gods are up there,  that she will never know what it is like to peel gum off the sidewalk and think you’ve been given the greatest gift on earth.

When my 1-year-old is having problems falling asleep, he fights it and fights it, but then flops over onto his belly, sticks his butt in the air and falls quickly asleep.  Watching him, I thought maybe I could solve some of my writing problems the same way.  When I tried it at home, I realized I was in danger of getting saddled with a third “oops” child.  At work, I believe they were thinking of resending me to the HR seminar that talked about proper workplace etiquette. So hoping for a less obvious method of getting past a blockade, I figure I’ll ask the lovely Waterworld ladies.

My problem:  when I write my stories, I seem to be writing more motion than emotion.  I gravitate toward describing what the character is doing, rather than what she/he is feeling or experiencing.  I realize there is finesse in being able to entwine both, but I haven’t found it yet.  I do realize my difficulty in getting the reader into my character’s head probably stems from the fact that I would rather flop on my belly and stick my butt in the air on a busy downtown street, than exeprience intense emotions.  I don’t like them.  And I don’t welcome them.  But at the same time, writing is an outlet.  So it becomes a double edged sword.

So how do you lovely ladies do it? (not the butt trick.. my 1-year-old has the market cornered on that one).  What do you do to submerge yourself into the scene, the character.

All thoughts and comments are welcome.  Including ones that kindly request I don’t perform the butt trick  in public.

What a Character.

As writers we are taught that characters are the main ingredients in a story. Without likable flawed believable characters, the best most amazing writing in the world won’t be able to shoulder a good story.   So how do you create memorable characters? It starts with the what but ends with the why.

Suppose I tell you my character is terrified of MRIs and hates potatoes. What does that tell you? Not much. But if I throw a little “why” into the equation, maybe the person becomes more real.

Terrified of MRIs. I watch them load her onto the narrow slab of plastic. The machine begins to slowly chug her into the coffin-like confine of the apparatus doctors say is a miracle. I hear a gurgle and then a sob. I realize she’s gasping for air. I yell for them to stop the machine.   I run to her. “What’s wrong?” Her wild eyes stare past me into the horizon.   Sob filled gurgles staccato from her chest. “Help me,” she croaks but I am helpless. “Don’t let them get me,” she whispers, her fingers crushing my hand. It’s only years later, I learn her story.   They put her in a ditch and buried her. Alive. Beneath enough dirt to fill a coffin.   She couldn’t scream or cry. Had to stay deathly still. Otherwise, the soldiers would have found her. And killed her. And so she stayed there. God knows how long. And waited until someone dug her out. She was only five.

Hates potatoes. Every day after work, she got off the bus and walked 10 blocks to the dumpster. Placing her bag on the ground, she leaned forward and hoisted herself into the putrid container. She had a mission. Potato peels. Lots and lots of them. She had to collect as many as she could find. Maybe today, the other cook would be on duty. The one who wasn’t as careful with the knife. He didn’t take time to peel the thinnest layer. He left good chunks of meat together with the skin. Her hand collided with the slimy bounty. Oh good. Still fresh, she thought. She grasped as many as she could and dumped them out onto the street. Her knowing fingers gauging the thickness. A small smile played on her lips. The sloppy one was on duty tonight. When she was done, she hopped back out and put her spoils into the bag. Around the corner and up the stairs. She turned her key into the dingy door and creaked it open. Two small gaunt faces greeted her. “Tonight we eat,” she said and went into the kitchen to cook some potato peels.

My grandmother was a stoic woman. She had to be. She survived attacks on her village, Stalin’s famines and the hardships and hilarity of five people living in a 10×10 sq. ft. room. She came to a new country, only to lose her husband a few months later. She raised kids, grandkids and great-grandkids. She wasn’t a woman prone to too many smiles (who could blame her), but she had a killer sense of humor and a wit sharper and faster than a chainsaw. When asked why she never imposed curfew on my teenaged mom, she simply said, “If she wants to do something, she can just as easily do it at 4pm as she can at 4am.” When asked if she ever wanted to go back to Russia, she replied, “When we left, I packed everything I needed. Thank you for the offer.”

During the last decade of her life, dementia slowly began to eat away at her. As did her Parkinson’s. Her lucidity filtered in and out but there were still times she remembered those around her. She responded well to children. Especially babies, as if their eyes contained some magical cure that anointed all her past ills. But over time, those moments rarely came and quickly went. During her final hospital stay, when I came to visit her, she grasped my arm, her jagged nails digging into my skin and whispered, “They’re trying to kill me.” Her eyes were wild and vacant as she watched with terror or suspicion the nurse who came to get her tray. I wiped the wiry gray hair from her forehead and kissed her, whispering in return. “It’s okay grandma. You’re safe.” But her eyes darted side to side and I knew she was back in a faraway land where soldiers chased little girls, killing them and leaving them to bleed on the side of the road. We said our final goodbyes Thanksgiving weekend and even though I said no words, my pen silently did all the talking.

How often had I written her name
Most times without a care,
Never giving a second glance
How it was written or where.

But now it’s time to etch again
In front of me is her face.
I finish up the final stroke
And seal her resting place.

Sleep tight, my sweet lady.

My name is Masha and I’m a contest stalker.  Instead of night vision goggles and restraining orders, I use RWA as my match.com.  I peruse the “personals” looking for those three magical words:  no synopsis needed.  Or better yet:  low entries.  Actually, that’s my favorite one.  Somehow, it makes me think, erroneously, no doubt, that I have a better chance of winning. Fat chance.

So why do I enter them?  Contest for me are like that elusive mirage.  Just within my grasp, but oh so far out of reach.  I look at the list of agents and editors and think, what if?  And so I go, where so many others go with me.  Scouring the rules, making sure my name isn’t anywhere on the pages.  Filling out the forms.  Sending in my money.  And why? For the chance to get my stuff out there for that agent who is going to change my life.  But as usual, reality is a different beast.

I’ve entered a number of contests and so far, my experience has been mixed.  A number of years back, in one contest, three judges had three different opinions.  One said my work was fabulous and I was going to be published in the next year.  The second one said what I submitted was garbage (her exact words.  she must not have taken her Prozac that day).  And the third one was somewhere in between.  Confused, I stared at their comments, unsure how I felt or what it meant.  I wanted, really wanted, to believe the fairy godmother who said I should already be published.  I desperately wished I could boo and hiss at the one who trashed my work.  But then, there was that middle one.  The one who didn’t make any promises nor take a weedwacker to my confidence, was the one I didn’t pay attention to.. and the one I should have.  The judge was a published writer and took great pains to point out issues with my work.  There were a few congratulatory comments, but most was a critique.  At the time, I wanted to ignore her suggestions because to be honest, of course what I really wanted was my work to be editor-ready and for that editor to be handed to me on a silver platter.  Or better yet.  Two editors, fighting over my manuscript.  But alas, that was not to be.  Back then, my work really needed a lot of work. I know that now.  I didn’t know that then.  When I look at the state of my manuscript, I realize I have come a long way baby.  But I’m not there yet.  I wonder if any writer ever gets “there.”  I think writers become more proficient with greater experience, but the quest to improve the craft should always be there.

And that’s why now, when I enter a contest, or two, I don’t see it as my end-all be-all.  Sure, it would be great to win.  But that doesn’t mean I’ve arrived.  At least as my work is concerned.  I realize others are different and I have been a judge once where I saw firsthand, the difference between good and outstanding.  That’s where I want to be.  Outstanding.  But for me, that won’t come naturally.  I will need to keep working on it.  And maybe one day soon, that editor will be handed to me on a silver platter.

We write romance, right?  Hearwarming, mushy, (maybe) trashy, bittersweet, emotional, but above all, romance.  In my quest to staple my butt to the chair and write, I’ve noticed my productivity resembles one of those shaky rollercoaster rides that was put together by someone of dubuious skill, dexterity and mental capacity.   I sit, I start to write, sometimes it flows and sometimes, someone must have forgotten to turn on the spout.  The next day, I go back over what I wrote and most of the time, I can’t help but think “eewww”.. did I really write that?   The whole process reminded me of beer goggling.  You know what I’m talking about.  That amazingly hot guy from last night’s party who could beat Fabio in his early days?  Well in the harsh light of the morning, he looks more like a recent attendee of a Star Trek convention.

Just like beer goggling, I find myself writing goggling.   With a fresh set of the same eyes, I look over my writing and like many of our sisters have done with the Star Trek guy, I look at what I wrote and think, “Did I really do that?  But it looked so good last night.”

On a similar note, the same can be said for inspiration.   Is it true that the stars  have to align with the right constellation for me to feel and be productive?  Or is this an excuse for not writing?  When do you allow the overwhelming moments of life to interfere and when do you say that enough is enough and you can’t use that as a crutch forever?

So what exactly is my spoke in this wheel this time?  Okay, I’ll spill the beans.  My grandma is sick.  Really sick.  Hospital sick.   Between that, starting a new job, sick kids, new daycare, blah, blah, blah, I’m finding it very hard to feel productive.   And productive that’s emotion related romance is even harder.  Or maybe it’s just me.  Maybe others use those tough times as fodder for creativity.

That’s what I want to know.  If you’re feeling down, gloomy or uninspired, do you work better or worse?

Even thought summer is just about over, I still have heat on my mind.  And it’s not the stuffy opressive air quality that has me gasping for breath.  It’s the level of heat you prefer to read, or even more important, write.

With such a plethora of sub genres, romance is a universe unto itself.  Contemporary, historical, young adult, erotica, futuristic, chick lit, time travel, inspirational, paranormal.. I could go on.  But just as there are many genres, there are also varying degrees of heat or sensuality.  With some genres, it’s pretty clear the level of heat a book will entail.  I won’t assume to know everything there is to know about inspirational stories, but I will venture to guess you won’t find too many “F” words littered throughout the pages.  To that end, there probably won’t be explicit detailing of three-somes with farm animals.  On the flip side, even though I’m not.. pardon the pun.. intimately familiar with erotica, I believe there is a wide array of sub-categories of that niche as well.  When I’ve perused submission guidelines for Ellora’s Cave, there were quite a few terms and terminologies that I must admit, I was not familiar with.

I know there has been a wide debate about the use of bad words in romance and in general, the level of heat in a story.  From reviews, and even musings on the RWA, it would seem the people who are risque averse become very frustrated/angry when the level of heat is ratcheted up too many notches or there are one too many “F” words thrown in the mix.  And on the flip side, someone who wants a highly sexual story can feel very let down if the naughtiness factor is not met.

So the level of heat got me thinking.  What is your heat preferance for reading and for writing?