Ah

One hundred and sixty-three.

Serutan spelled backwards is Natures

By the fourth day, insomnia is no longer funny.

How to Get Yourself Rejected

I've been known to get frustrated that I can't get the novels out of the driveway, but this Canadian author has really decided to incinerate bridges to ensure he's never looked at seriously again. And his novel has only been rejected 65 times. Hell, I can get rejected that many times before I pull on my boxers in the morning. Yeah, it hurts, but then again, maybe they're right and you're wrong. Y'all have a productive weekend.

Memoir: Open All Night

Before the trend is over, I think I'm going to write my memoir with enhanced incidents, a few that didn't even really happen, and some of the truth. I'll make some money, get caught, act contrite, and then build on that incident by writing a book about how bad I felt writing a bogus memoir. I can use all of the following incidents to help me along. Only one of them is bogus.

1. I jumped out of a three story window on a 25 cent dare, didn't get hurt, but got stiffed on the payoff.

2. I bumped into Mick Jagger accidentally after the 1975 "Rolling Stones" concert in Berlin with Billy Preston ("Will it Go Around in Circles?" It did for twenty-five minutes) and caused Mick to drop his bag of drugs into a sewer drain. Stoned, he only said, "Bugger," and walked away.

3. I sat at the intersection for 24 hours one summer day watching the only light in the small town change because I was so bored. Nothing happened.

4. I told a playmate that what he found were hummingbird eggs and that he should squish them between his fingers because Hummingbirds were a pest like mosquitoes. They really were rabbit turds. When he found out, he swung at me, missed, fell down and broke his nose. The bullies thought I was cool. The playground teacher gave me two weeks of detention. My mom yelled at me. My dad whooped my butt.

5. I drove 1112 miles on Christmas Eve to be with a girlfriend, meeting her parents for the first time when I arrived, and nearly fell asleep under the Christmas Tree waiting for her to come home from work at 1 a.m. on Christmas morning. When she arrived, she stomped around the house angry that I hadn't shown up for Christmas to surprise her and went to bed refusing to come into the living room where I lay. Her parents eventually dragged into the living room.

6. I broke the heart of a beautiful runway model who was the only heir to a multi-million dollar department store fortune when I broke off our relationship because I felt the ring in my nose before there was ever a ring on her finger.

Mysterious Matters to Mull

This blog struck me as interesting for the mystery writers that stumble through here. Take a peek. You might find something there that you need to know. Or, it might just keep you from watching reruns of "Gilligan's Island", the world's greatest mystery, and get you inspire to write something yourself.

The Forest for the Trees: An Editor's Advice to Writers by Betsy Lerner

Guest YA author Ron Voigts has dropped in with a book review...

If you’re looking for a book to improve your writing skill, kick start writer’s block or just inspirational, this is not the book for you, but if you have a novel or two looking for an agent or publisher, this should be a must read. Betsy Lerner has divided the book into two parts. The first covers writer types spanning the “Natural” to the “Neurotic” and everything in between. Although interesting, I didn’t find any archetype I could identify with, but the second half of the book covers the gamut of the business from literary agencies (including rejection) to publication. You get a first hand look at the business and what editors are really looking for. The book is packed with anecdotes, stories to make you think about why you want to be a writer and the hope that you can succeed.

TAXES

TAXES, taxes, SEXAT, taXes, taxes, TAxeS, Texas? Just coincidental? Taxes!

MMWUC for April 14, 2008

"If you don't eat yer meat, you can't have any pudding. How can you have any pudding if you don't eat yer meat?" - Pink Floyd

"If you don't do your taxes, you can't have a refund. How can you have a refund if you don't do your taxes?" - Uncle Cletis

"If you don't have a chicken, you don't need an egg. How can you have an egg if you don't have a chicken." - the farmer in the dell

"If you don't have strong characters, you don't have a plot. How can you have a plot if you don't have strong characters?" - I. M. Wrighter

"If you don't write, you can't get published. How can you get published if you don't write?" - the voices of a million unpublished writers who know the truth, but don't step up to the keyboard.

I like my philosophy with eggs, bacon, and toast.

Is Blogging a Deadly Addiction

Blogging may be a deadly addition according to this article, especially if you're a journalist or someone who thinks that if you're not always on that you might miss something. Some truth to it methinks. All the time blogging and not writing could squeeze your already precious time so that that stress you feel comes from leaving your characters alone. How long can they live without you breathing life into them? Will they ever grow if you don't pay attention to them? Will they eat? Will they find true happiness, a girlfriend, a lover, a life, the fresh packet of underwear you left for them in the chapter you haven't written yet? Is the blogging bug blocking your book? I hope not, but the other day, my protagonist refused to speak to me, and my antagonist locked up my "e" key. I promised I'd blog less and write more. They forgave me for now, but am I failing them?

"Little Shop of Murders" by Susan Goodwill

The second novel in the Kate London series starts out like a mad rush to get Elvis concert tickets and then picks up speed. Kate, her Aunt Kitty, and a gaggle of friends take on undercover agents, a biker gang, a giant man-eating plant, a childhood rival, rebelling actors, and a mumbling President Clinton to recover Kate's advanced-ticket sales stolen by a crazy octogenarian bank robber who happens to be dating septuagenarian and former movie star, Aunt Kitty. Oh yes, the murder of a crooked banker must also be solved. And that's all in the first three chapters. From there, Kate unravels a complex plot with zany twists worthy of a Mack Sennett movie to save Kate's production of "A Little Shop of Horrors" at Mudd Lake's historic Egyptian Theatre during the pandemonium of the town's Sausage Festival. And she must do this in four days while balancing the love interest of Sheriff Ben against the tingling sensation brought on by a past lover. I got so many paper cuts quickly turning the pages of this five star humorous cozy, I can only applaud with my feet.

101 Best Websites for Writers

"Writer's Digest" came out with their annual list of the 101 best websites for writers. Unfortunately, I'm not on it, but there are some excellent resources listed, and I do have links to some on my blog.

Planting Fertile Thoughts

It's 10:04 a.m. I've made and eaten breakfast. Washed, dried, and put away a load of laundry. Feed the assorted inside and outside birds and fish. Two guppies died overnight. They must have been old. The rummaging raccoon will dine tonight. I planted six camellias and two gardenia bushes. This is no small chore on the edge of the woods, roots grasping at every earthen slice of my shovel. Then it's the hauling of mulch, permatil, and top soil to the hole to mix it up before gently sliding the two-year old cutting into promising terra firma, embraced by a surrounding mound of mulch. Then the watering of them and the plants I put in yesterday. I'll shower in a minute. (Aren't you glad the Internet doesn't have smell-a-vision currently.)

Writing! Oh, yes. A memoir to look at and the second installment of a YA story...yeah, that's you Ron...await before my writing begins around 3 p.m. today. Unfortunately, Sydney, my cockateil, will interrupt me at 4 p.m. He cannot abide a day without Judge Judy. He has a crush on her. Either that, or the music appeals to him.

Later, the writing will continue. I can't edit my own stuff until I hit a thousand words. Perhaps this scenario of the writing life is backwards, but the air is cool in the morning, and my brain doesn't warm up until the afternoon. Such is life. Now, get out there and write.

Old Fart Publishing

Are you trying to get your novel into the mailbox, but AARP magazines keep you from putting in your query? Read this article first. It may help you out.

The Dam is Breaking

1,218 words in 22 minutes for Chapter 8. That'sa lotta words for me in a shot span. I think the idea dam that's been clogged is about ready to give way. I can't wait.

If your dam has broken in the past, what kind of productivity did you have?

MMWUC for April 7, 2008

I must remember my own rule: writers write. Sometimes the truth is so simple.

"Big Money" by Jack Getze

Austin Carr gets into more trouble than Dennis the Menace, and Getze's latest novel has more twists than a pretzel factory. It all makes for one great read for those who like wise-cracking protagonists, a slew of beautiful and deadly women, and more bad guys at the Jersey shore than in Rahway Prison. Carr is left in charge of his investment firm. Immediately, he becomes the booby prize for a plethora of bad guys as they stake their claim to the firm hoping to be rewarded with financial rainbows. Getze has improved over the first Carr novel, "Big Numbers," with more cliff hangers than a 1930's serial while Austin escapes one tight situation after another with his gift of gab or famous grin. Getze gives us more of Jersey, more unique characters, and a bit more character depth. And he saves the best twist, like all classic mystery writers, for the very end of the story. Getze didn't pay me big money for this review, but I'll give him a big number for the novel. How about a 5.

All Points Bulletin

Damn you, muse. Where are you hiding? I've looked all day. Read. Wrote. Dug dirt. Planted bushes. Drank, and then DRANK! Hoped for an LSD flashback. Talked to my collection of stuffed bunny rabbits (be careful, I have a double-barrelled shotgun). I sniffed all nine blooms on the walking iris. I went to every website people recommended. Exhausted, I sat on the couch contemplating the wet lint in my belly-button from a hot-cold-hot shower. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the first hummingbird of the year sipping sugary nectar from one of the two feeders I put up on April 1st. He spotted me and hovered near the window and eighteen inches from where I sat. I smiled. He flew away.

NOTHING. The muse was still missing. Maybe she'll be here tonight in my dreams. After all, tomorrow is another day. Hmm. That's a pretty good line. ;-)

"The News from Paraguay" by Lily Tuck

Unrelenting sex drives, senseless murders, a brutal war, intriguing foreign locations, unconscionable acts, out of control masturbation, insanity topped by humiliation like a pineapple perched on an ice cream sundae, and consternation of purpose must be the elements necessary to win the National Book Award. This novel had it all and won that honor. But it lacks a sense of continuity, character depth, and an overarching theme. Passages of extraordinary beauty dot the novel. Small empathetic scenes drove me to tears. But in between, you had to suffer the hop-scotching 1854 to 1870 story told mostly by Ella Lynch. As the Irish-born lover of the President for Life, Franco, Ella bears him many children while he leads Paraguay into a ruinous war for unclear reasons. The last line in the book saved it from a lower rating. Ella's final realization is that he is as dead to her in her in memory as he is in life. This historical love story, a great labor of love, fell short of its promise and earns a three from me.

NOTE: I was stunned to see that on Amazon, this story has a 2.5 star rating.

No fooling

It is April 1st, and I was going to have an April Fool's post announcing that I've sold a novel, but I figured the only person that would be a cruel joke on would be me.

Bracketology: 69 points. Pathetic, but I had three of the final four correct.

Too soon to complain about the four days of drippy weather? Not me. After 18 months of the Carolinas doing their imitation of the Sahara Desert, I'm just fine being a bit damp while doing some outside chores. Besides, I always seem to be quite productive from a writing stance in dull gray, wet, windy weather. Must be the negative ions. Now, if I can only find the spine to the latest story, I'd be more than happy. But I am happy nevertheless. I think I've hit upon a format for a mystery series that I haven't seen out there yet. Yeah, I know, read more Rick, you'll find its already been done...ah, but is it like mine. More on this later in the summer.

So, come on now. What are you up to with your writing?

MMWUC for March 31, 2008

EXERCISE: Who needs a writing exercise? Just write your own story based on my escapades. I feed the birdies. Every six months or so, I get overrun by rats with good PR, that is, squirrels. They're the main reason I'm poor. They eat all the bird seed, and I have to buy more. Have you seen the price of sunflower seeds lately! Anyway, yes I trap the squirrels, but they only become lunch meat for the hawks and owls. The circle of life continues albeit sped up a bit by me and the sacrificial alter at the edge of the woods.

Something has been digging in my garden. Coyotes? Opossums? Rabbits? Voles and moles? Wild dogs? Naughty little children from down the lane? The mystery may have been solved. In my squirrel trap was a huge and fat raccoon. He'd been dining somewhere this winter that was good to him, because he should be lean this time of year. Big enough, he was, that he couldn't notice the open door of the cage because he couldn't turn around to see it. So ornery. He didn't back down after repeated attempts to push him back with the butt end of the broom only meet ferocious attacks. So I let him be. And he sits. I think he's going to sleep and dream about fresh water clams down at the stream and leftover barbecue from a spit.

Me. I'm going to eat breakfast. Your exercise...finish my adventure.

MUSING: Ever happen to you? Tell someone you write and immediately they have something for you to write or edit or co-write or critique or read. Even Fedex guys with Amazon deliveries have notebooks with scribblings that, "You've just got to read this passage." From now on, I'm..."Joe. I body double for the guy on The World's Most Dirtiest Jobs. Let me shake your hand."

Everyone get out there and write!

Where have I been? What have I learned?

I've just finished scoring 2,548 of the almost 200,000 tenth grade persuasion essays from one of our great states. Flashes of brilliance graced some pages. Painfully inept, immature, and inane self-serving thoughts on other pages made me want to stab my eyes with a sharp #2 pencil. Pro and con arguments inspired by the prompt question surprised me, and more than a few students rose above the prompt, suggesting that great leaders and thinkers in our society are still to be found in our public education system. I'm feeling better about our future.

"Ring, ring, ring...." "Bong, bong, bong...." "Clang, clang, clang...." Over twenty times these two-page essays started off with nearly identical openings for the first one, two, three, or more sentences with an alarm clock waking up Johnny or Susie or Jose to start a new school day. Many times I swore that I'd already read the paper (inspiring some deep-seated worries of classroom-wide conspiracies of copycatting). If that many students come up with the identical lines of thinking (and writing), uniqueness is doomed! MY writing is doomed!! With the millions of other writers out there, I AM DOOMED!!!

Finally, I'd find some tale tell difference in the essay, and I could score the paper based on strict guidelines on its own merits and not some lingering vestiges of prior papers of the same ilk. Some papers earned Bronx cheers and some were ready for Pulitzers.

Balance restored to the universe, I'm less worried about someone stealing the totality of my story lines, but more worried than ever that anything I write is utterly thematically not unique. And both worries are traceable back to these essays. It makes me wonder how many unique stories there really are? Yes, yes, I know. Depending upon who your guru is, there are really only 1, 3, 4, 9, or 15 plot lines (themes) for stories, but infinite ways of writing them. Or, is it infinite? Are those monkeys really out there pounding on a million typewriters for 10,000 years and creating Macbeth? It's keeping me up at night worrying.

In these essays and all stories, the overarching theme is: Someone wants something but must overcome obstacles to succeed. How can I possibly come up with something that a tenth grader hasn't already created?

The Swami has Died

NCAA Bracketology: No swami am I this year (39 points vs. 57 last year). Worst year of picking ever. Yuck. Phew! Still, the final four is intact as are 6 of 8 Elite Eight. Villanova? San Diego? At least I warned you about Davidson. Are screenwriters already writing the screenplay? "The Cinderella Year" or will it be another case of deer in the headlights syndrome in the sweet sixteen for these teams.

March Showers Bring May Flowers

The bridies is; in the oak tree; one took a wiz; and surprised me.

The Easter bunny will bring chocolate and my writing will get sharp again. 16 hours sleep today will help chase the sickness away. Man, this stuff just lingers.

Happy Vernal Equinox

Spring has sprung; the grass has riz; I wonder where; the birdies is?

"Falling Man" by Don DeLillo

I had high hopes for this novel based on the author's stature and the penultimate event of my lifetime as the subject matter, but the stories surrounding the lives of the three principle characters before, during, and after 9/11 were flat. The story and writing meandered, which may be some sort of statement implied in the story, but it just didn't work for me. The one character I best understood was the terrorist, riding the plane toward the towers, bleeding, and concerned with nothing other than the complete conviction of his actions. Yeah, lives were devastated from the affects of the attack, unfortunately, I can only feel so much for these characters because they were all somewhat to seriously flawed before the attack for unclear reasons. The results of the attack only made them flawed in other directions. The saving grace is the exquisite language he often uses, rescuing this novel to a 3.

NCAA Bracketology

Since it isn't about writing, so I've posted my hoop dreams on my secondary blog. For those only needing the end result: Kansas edges past UNC while UCLA beats Texas. UCLA struggles but beats Kansas to win the 2008 tournament. I guess the Bear eats the Jayhawk.

Two teams that could destroy many brackets for basically the same reason -- when they get hot nothing really stops them. Davidson could be a giant killer if they take out both Gonzaga which I think they will and Georgetown which I don't think they will. The other team is Duke which I have bowing out at the Elite Eight. They've been fading down the stretch as people figure out how to pound it inside, but there are so many shooters on this team that if they catch fire, a six game run to the championship is well within their abilities.

Free Reviews of Your Book

Under the hard-to-believe news, Reviewyourbook.com is short on books to review. It appears to be a free book review site. I don't know how you published or nearly published or POD-published people procure prolific pontification praising your prose, but here's another one to add to your list.

List? Hmmm. Is there a list of places to get your book reviewed? I imagine agents/publishers have one. I want one!

The Doctor is in the House

C.J. Lyons is special guest this week on Pix-N-Pens and is willing to comment on your 500 word or less medical scene. CJ Lyons is a physician trained in pediatric emergency care and an award winning author.
---
John grimaced. One hand held the elbow of the other arm. "Doc, it hurts when I move my arm this way.

John's anguish rose as he raised the arm over his held.

The doctor looked worried. "Well. Don't move your arm that way. That's $437."

MMWUC for March 17, 2008

EXERCISE: Read this blog about blogging versus writing. If you have the discipline, great! If not, consider brain surgery. It's easier than writing.

The leprechaun made me do it. Now, where is my green beer?

Paul, thanks for the inadvertent link.

Fever Poem

I'm drinking fluids as Far suggests
But something still sits right on my chest.
I'm thinking fever inspires writing
The purple prose is so frightening.

One-oh-three doesn't sound very bad
But the rib cracking cough makes me sad.
And I wrote and found a thousand words
Spewed disorganized like cattle herds.

Burning Books?

Thrown drafts of your novel into the campfire later? I have. Try joining script month writing in April with NANOWRIMO's ScriptFrenzy for a change of pace. Perhaps you're just writing in the wrong medium.

How to write a fake memoir

How to write a fake memoir. Lessons here at Slate magazine. Yeah, that's all I've got today. Wanna make something out of it?

Remember the Pain, or Maine, or something

Baby flu: too sick to feel like doing anything; not sick enough to stay home from work, especially since I don't have any sick days

I know. Write down how I feel and use it in a story someday. Yada, yada, yada.

I ache. Hot. Cold. Small fever. Lethargy invades my soul. My fingers hurt. Cold sweat on my brow that feels slimy when I wipe it away. My back hurts. Where? All over, idjit! I blink, and my eyelids scrape over a moist yet still crusty layer covering my eyes. My nose is not sore yet, and I wonder when the body will stop creating this green slime. I don't swallow. My invisibly swollen throat won't tolerate the abuse. There is no nausea, yet, but there's an inch of water in a nearby plastic, and now I notice, puke green pale. It's enough to make one sick.

The fire's been stoked. It's back to bed I go. I owe. I owe. It's back to bed I go. I feel the brain cells slowing shutting down, and in my head I hear Sinatra singing, "It's my town; its' my town."

MMWUC for March 10, 2008

EXERCISE: "Drop and give me ten." Writing students looked at each other unsure what to do. "I said, drop and give me ten. Are you people deaf?" Students popped out of their seats, looking for space in the classroom to do ten push-ups. The instructor came over to one boy and grabbed him by the belt forcing him up and down. A girl giggled. "What are you giggling about? How'd you like to do an extra twenty?" "Uh, no, sir." "In your seats," the instructor shouted. "Grab pen. Close eyes. Breathe deep. Relax." His tone mellowed. "Now, take ten minutes and write, 'My surprise exploded...'."

MUSING: You can't wade into a story even if you are tapping the ready on the shoulder. Something must be presented that will make the agent, editor, or reader sit up and take notice that a story worthy of their time is now open in front of their face. It is a lesson I don't seem to grasp in my heart yet, but I will, in my next story.

"Fowl Play" by Patricia Tichenor Westfall

Even after fifteen years in southern rural Ohio, Chicagoan Molly West still feels a bit like an outsider despite her involvement in the community helping to run Meals-on-Wheels type business. When a local woman is murdered and several roosters go missing, the investigation flutters into her lap due to her scratching at clues and pecking holes in the stories locals tell. Soon she's dragged deep into the investigation along with the seventy-year-old matriarch of the area. The writing is fine, the murder case is thin, some of the humor okay, and the dignity of the people kept up, but Molly's sociology professor husband, Ken, crows too often and too long about the Appalachian culture for my tastes. Still, it will keep you occupied on cold, cloudy day. For cozy lovers, it's a four. I like more meat on my chicken and old roosters don't taste too good, so it's a three.

Haiku for You

I worked hard all week

But can not write, read or sleep

Chocolate, I seek

...and now back to our regular programming.

The Book according to Rick

George Harrison once wrote a song that had so few lyrics that it was lampooned on SNL as a song with only six words just rearranged. I want to write a novel like that, shove in two hundred blank pages with a fancy ambiguous picture on the cover and blurbs from Stephen King, Amy Tan, John Grisham, Cormac McCarthy, Evil Knievel, Jr., and Oprah tauting its brilliance.

Let me try...



God gave. Left. Returned. Cried forever.




At least I don't have a graven image of him/her/it. (I've got to stop watching "Dogma".)

Paper Cuts Can Kill

I had too many characters in my new novel. I wrote each name (other than the protagonist) on a separate piece of paper and then tossed the thirteen pieces of paper into a hat to let fate decide who was to die. I pulled out a name. Mary B. No not Mary. I can't kill Mary. She's the protags new love interest and the romance angle to the story.

Doh! Mary was perfect to kill off. That would really throw off the reader.

Next. How? Gun, knife, poison, poison dart, strangulation, car accident, electrocution, paper cut infection, blunt trauma, hanging, disembowelment, run over by a train. That seemed be enough.

Next. Where? And so it went with my own personal game of Clue.

Tell me. How do you decide which right-angle turns you want to throw at the reader?

"Blood Moon Lovers" - Steal this idea

"Until the red moon comes, I'll thirst for you love." Count Vitameatavegamin kissed Lucy's fingertips before the lunar eclipse in February, 2008 concluded and she turned back into a thirsty werewolf. Their nearly four-hundred year old love affair would resume and end in December, 2010, the next lunar eclipse. Then, and only then, with a simple kiss will the curse be lifted and their unholy, unrequited union end. Their lives as young medieval lovers could move forward unencumbered.

It would happen if only they could elude the vampire hunters, werewolf slayers, and the 12th generation gypsy queen who can enslave them once again so she can live like royalty on the goods they surreptitiously must acquire for her, safe in the knowledge that neither can kill her, themselves, or live eternally apart.

--- ahem ---

How does the story unwind? I don't know. It's yours, but you better get cracking if you want someone to publish this in time with the next lunar eclipse...wow...talk about your tie-ins and right before the Christmas holiday season.

--- ahem, ahem ---

Extra points for the origination of the Count's name.

Safe Houses for Writers

Mexico has a safe house for oppressed writers from around the world.

I wonder if I qualify? I'm forced back into the working world by my birds who demand more and more bird seed, fish who will only eat food sticks from Dr. Foster, and an organic garden that demands only the best supplements. Do you get forced to pick tomato worms at dawn because you can't use insecticides? At least the frogs in the goldfish pond eat them. Every little weed gets picked by hand in the blazing sun. Worms are carefully transpanted from the stink pile to the garden to break down the three-year-old leaf mulch that I have to rake up each fall.

The slave labor continues by the chopping and stacking of wood to create fires to keep warm during the winter, and during the summer, I have to pick flowers and arrange them in vases for the lady of the house. Laundry, vaccuuming, dishes, dusting, car maintenance, grass cutting, and deer thinning must be done in order to receive, ah, well, favors. I guess I should be glad for small things. She doesn't know how to work a Kalashnokov.

Safe house in Mexico, heck, I'd settle for 10 days at the Writers Retreat Workshop.

MMWUC for March 3, 2008

Exercise: "Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and relax. For the next ten minutes, write from the protagonists POV, 'I tripped the light fantastic with...'" Less than a minute later, the anal retentive members of the writing class began fainting from lack of oxygen to the brain. Some writers had written far off the paper and onto their desks. Other writers, relaxed as wet noodles, slid out of seats. "Such are the results," Dickens, ever the jokester, chortled from the raised dais, "when one follows a silly request too strictly."

Musings: In "Self Reliance"Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines." I guess it can be that way when writing and trying to stay between the lines of the rules and ignoring the fact that all the writing rules are merely guidelines within which we drive our stories. Learn the "rules," and then color outside the lines to capture the attention of those who rule the writing world.

JK Rowling Betrayed?

JK Rowling feels betrayed by someone writing a lexicon of Harry Potter. But after reading the article, I'm not sure I understand her betrayal or the suit to stop publication of the lexicon. I almost buy the explanation that she's upset because she hasn't gotten hers out there first, and I'm going to assume that she has a bunch of helping writing hers just as these guys have had and maybe their site is, in a bizarre twist, even a reference for her. Madness, I tells ya. It's all madness. What thinks you?

"Fateful Decisions"

Happy Leap Year, y'all. I'm up today on six sentences. Maybe I'll be in the New Yorker next week.

"Secrets of the Highlander" by Janet Chapman

Several mysteries play second-fiddle in this romance novel, but darn I wanted more investigation into the mysteries because at times they seemed more interesting than Megan and Jack's volatile romance with baby already in tow. Jack's character was perplexing. Strong, insightful, and resilient in one scene, he retreats into his alter ego, nerdish Wayne, in the next as the Megan and Jack play ping-pong with their heritage and emotional baggage. Still, it was a very good read that kept moving forward with the mysteries and romantic entanglements effectively wrapped up by the end of the book while setting the foundation for yet more Highlander adventures in Maine. True romance and mythological creature lovers will probably give it a five, but as a genre-straddling mystery reader, I'll have to bring it down half a peg.

NANONUT

John Stradling's NaNoWriMo Word Count this past year was 518,335 words in thirty days. Math wizards, that's 17,277 words per day. That's a book every three days. Were they good words? I don't know. But it makes me want to up my daily words count nano or no nano.

What to do with your NANO novel? Try NANOEDMO in March.

You'll only get published if you write and edit and date someone in the publishing industry or know Paris Hilton or can channel Ernest Hemingway...

---

The bear charged.

I shot.

He fell and the mountains heaved a sigh at the passing of the majestic beast that had roamed as a symbol of freedom, uncaring and unafraid for years with an unbridled thirst for life.

I feasted well and imbibed his spirit.

The woman fell at my feet. They stunk, but she didn't seem to care. I drank her lust and the tent shook as leaves in a storm dance before the climax.

On Writing Books

In the Chronicle Review of the Chronicle of Higher Education, Gina Barreca claims that Betsy Lerner's THE FOREST FOR THE TREES: AN EDITOR'S ADVICE TO WRITERS to be the best book on writing. Many people chose Stephen King's ON WRITING or Anne Lamott's BIRD BY BIRD as most inspiration. Even the irrepressible scalawag Austin Carr claims that Carolyn Wheat's HOW TO WRITE KILLER FICTION is the "must have" book for writer wannabes.

Me. I have a host of books under Writing Resources: some inspire; some instruct; some provide the secrets to the universe of writing if you can apply those secrets.

So what's on your shelf that you grab when someone asks you to name your most valuable writing resource book?

MMWUC for February 25, 2008

EXERCISE: Cormac McCarthy shuffled up the classroom aisle outfitted by L. L. Bean. He taped a newspaper article up on the white board and slapped a hand against it. The headline read: "Country Blows Away Oscar". He wheeled around to face a classroom of eager writers. "Always write what you know and what you want. The rest will come." Oprah jumped up and down on a couch in the corner of the room, pumping her arms into the air. "Yes! Yes! I love that old man." He headed for the door shouting, "Write. Damn you. Write. And not just for ten minutes."

MUSINGS: Thank God for the Coen Brothers. I've always enjoyed their work. Now, it is time to go off to, dare I say it, work. I'd rather be writing.

"Murder Sets Seed" by Janis Harrison

Janis Harrison's second book (2000) "Murder Sets Seed" is another cozy pitting Bretta Soloman, florist extraordinaire, against several people who have the blackmail and murder of an elderly high-society woman on their minds after Bretta buys the woman's century-old mansion through an unbelievable stretch her deceased husband's insurance policy. So be it. The well-written story moved briskly along with many interesting subplots; however the tangled explanation of where the seeds of murder had been set was hard to accept and I'm still not sure I understand it. And the climax was so clumsily handled that I'd lost track of one of the characters until the protagonist casually mentions the person had died, but I'm not sure how. Her second novel is a lukewarm three for me and a probable four for cozy lovers.

Mountain Climbing

Science confirms it. The fastest way to climb a hill is to zigzag. Lately, that's how I seem to be writing. The bottom of the hill is the start; the top is the finish. In between, I'm going left and right with the story, writing, sitting on it, then editing, then going on to the next scene, and all the time trying to zig or zag the story in a surprising direction while still moving forward. Tough work. Expends a lot of energy and occasionally there are avalanches to watch out for, slippery slopes to navigate, and billy goats threatening to bump me off and destroy the story or bring me to my senses that this is too steep of a hill to climb and the gentle sloping hill over yonder looks easier...just not nearly as rewarding. The effort expend is worth the reward gained.

Sir Edmond Hillary climbed Everest, "...because it's there." I guess I write for the same reason, "...because the story's there."

Now, let's get out there and dull some pencils.

Muse Moment of Madness

For a writer, I don't spell well. So, I'm so pleased that my spellchecker feature is working again. It's not a panacea for writing errors, but any help to eliminate errors is a bonus in my eyes.

Evil Rockwell portrait moment last night: Brother-in-law and I spending an hour deconstructing a troublesome Kenmore dryer to access the broken heating element, and our respective spouses hovering nearby in a constant chatter about the weather, missing gold, old Jewish jewelry (I didn't follow that one at all), what makes bad and good fried rice, cancer, traveling, men's ego with regard to home repair, and the relative coldness of my southern home (it was 72 degrees inside). We got done and pulled out the offensive part. The all-knowing spouses looked at it and in unison, as sisters are want to do, "Knew all along that's the bad part. Quiche anyone?"

The muse was whispering in my ear, "Murder, most foul."

The Beneficiary (2)

--- What happened Next? ---

Detective Jones and the Mutt and Jeff cop tandem had allowed a winter chill to settle in the foyer. His revelation of Beth’s death and my unexpected naming as her beneficiary accentuated the shiver that streaked down my back. Reflexively, I grabbed my coat from the coat closet to go with them.

I stopped. “Why do I need to come with you?”

“We have questions.” Detective Jones popped something into his mouth before grabbing the door knob. His gaze didn’t waver from me. The cops leaned toward the door as though it was magnetic, and their steely glances and tin badges couldn’t resist its pull.

“Why don’t you ask your questions here?”

“I’d prefer to ask them at the station.” He released his grip on the door knob. The two cops stood at ease, the magnetic pull broken.

“I’d prefer they be asked here.”

“That would be inappropriate.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

He took a step toward me and split open his tan overcoat to place his hands on his hips. He stood several inches over six feet but was reed thin in his loose fitting brown suit. The long face appeared elastic and a droopy eyelid nearly covered one of his pale blue eyes making him appear older than he probably was. I pegged him for his mid-30s like me. The thin Roman nose had been broken and an impossibly large cookie duster hung like a costume prop above his thin lips.

Jones leaned towards me. “Because I said so.” His words carried the sweet smell of cherry cough drops.

“My mother used to say that to me. I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now. Am I under arrest?”

“No.”

“Then I choose not to go. Whatever you have to ask and whatever you have to tell me, do it here.”

His eyes moistened. His mouth opened to an oval. I thought he was going to cry. He swung his arms in front of him like pendulums. His sense of authority evaporated along with my mild indignation, yet the feeling of being strong armed remained. I hung up my coat, snickering silently at his comical stance despite the underlying sadness and peculiarity of why he was here.

He pointed to the taller of the two cops and then opened the door with a jerk. “Arrest him for obstructing a murder investigation.”

Novelists Must Become Actors?

The trend to make movie-type trailers from novels has been going on for some time on the social websites. Now, Simon and Schuster introduced a site, http://www.bookvideos.tv/, which broadcasts short videos of authors and will also produce them.

This author stars in a video for his own books: http://www.mattbeynonrees.com/video.htm. (I hope he is making fun of himself).

Can we now expect to see videos of Jack Getze as Austin Carr ("Big Numbers", "Big Money"), Susan Goodwill as Kate London ("Briga-DOOM", "Little Shop of Murders"), or even Janet Chapman's ("Secrets of the Highlander" on the NYTimes best seller list) main squeeze as one of the heart-stopping MacKeage men?

I sure hope I don't have to appear as a character. I might have to show up as this guy.

Power Writing

Most people think of power writing as plowing through a story getting thousands of words down on paper as fast as possible, racking up 5, 10, or even 15,000 words in one long session, leaving the editing for some future point in time. For me, power writing is getting the electricity back on after a harsh wind has knocked the power off somewhere up the line. I'm the second to last house own our electric grid. Anything that happens upstream, storm, car accident, Godzilla attacking the electric lines, affects my house.

It's nice to have power. I hope you kept writing. I got the garden cleaned out, some wood chopped, and the snow peas planted. The only good thing was the mild weather (70s with an unseasonable overnight low of 61.

Now, let's get out there and write.

Saturday, in the bark, one more big tree to go...

I think I wrote enough yesterday. Check it out. Chopping wood today before Sunday's rain. Maybe I'll continue with the story later on as the wind picks up tonight...hmmm.

It was a dark and stormy night...

The Beneficiary

--- Where it all started. ---

It was lunch time, and I could almost taste the egg drop soup at the China Palace, but I had one more stop to make first.

I shouldn't have sauntered into the bank like I had nowhere else to go. I shouldn't have made eye contact with the brown-haired woman too old to be in braids, too young to be wearing bifocals, and too cute to be kneading her brow like an overworked teacher. I shouldn't have responded when she said, "Excuse me. Excuse me, sir. Excuse me."

"Yes," I said when I realized she was talking to me.

"I need two witnesses for these papers I want signed or the bank's Notary won't sign them." She sported a pleading look in her blue eyes. "Can you help me?"

"Uh, okay. In a minute."

She smiled. She had a nice smile. Her tanned oval face was pleasing without a hint of makeup. A faint smell of almond cookies accompanied her, but it could have been that I was hungry. She tucked an errant hair behind her ear and sat down next to a tall gaunt man wearing brown work pants covered with blotches of yellow paint. His thinning brown hair protruded from his too-small knit cap and a salt and pepper beard was too many days old too be fashionable. He glanced at her when she sat, and then stared at his hands resting on his knees. Head bowed, the scruffy beard rested on his black sweatshirt potmarked with cigarette burn holes. He must be the other witness, and I wondered if she'd dragged him in off the street.

Barry Manilow sang about Mandy over the intercom while I deposited my checks. I don't care what anyone says, I like that song. Afterwards, I met the woman by the door to the bank official, Mrs. Faraday. The woman wore a loose-fitting red plaid shirt tucked into nondescript baggy blue jeans. She squeaked the damp floor with her throwback sneakers. Her unzipped blue insulated windbreaker looked several times too large. She was about five-six, and the coat could have easily fit the other witness. While ushering me and the other witness into the office, her bright red fingernails that looked recently manicured brushed my elbow. The woman smiled again. The man stood expressionless next to me. Based on his odor, some of the cigarette holes must be new.

She had the nervous energy of a child waiting to use the bathroom and kept her feet nearly tap dancing while we stood in the small office. She handed the papers to Mrs. Faraday. "Sorry that this is all so last minute, but I don't like to fly and I've been in a rush and my mother has Alzheimers and I got delayed and the trip is...."

Mrs. Faraday cut the woman off by exhaling loudly, just short of a cough, as if this transaction interfered with her lunch hour. She stamped the paper three times. "You wrote this will yourself, Beth?"

My glasses slipped down the bridge of my nose when I raised my eyebrows in surprise. I pushed them back up just as Mrs. Faraday scanned me and the other witness.

"Yes, I wrote it." Beth grabbed a pen. She printed her name, signed, and dated the paper.

Mrs. Faraday shook her head. "Witnesses need to print your name and sign below it."

"First spot," Beth said abruptly and handed me the pen. The man cleared his throat.

"Anything else?" I asked while signing.

"No. You're done," Mrs. Faraday answered.

"Thanks a million," Beth whispered without looking in my direction, her face lifted up, and her eyes nearly closed as if in a prayer. Her nervousness seemed to have dissipated with her chore now nearly completed.

I left the bank to eat my soup.

Seven o'clock that evening, I answered my front door to find two policemen and a detective on my doorstep. I invited them to come into my foyer and out of the cold. My assumption was that we'd had more mischief in the neighborhood.

"Are you Miles O'Connor?"

"Yes."

"Do you know Beth Wilkerson?"

I hesitated, drawing a blank on the name. "No."

The cops repositioned their stance. He stared at me. "You witnessed her signing her will." He held up a piece of paper in a plastic baggie.

The blank moment passed. "Oh, the woman in the bank today. Yes, I witnessed, but I don't know her."

"You need to come with us."

"Why? What's up?"

"She's dead, and you've been named her beneficiary."

Weather Woes in Works

I recently read "In the Bleak Midwinter" where the unusually cold and snowy winter weather was as much of a character as any person. How have you used weather as a character?

Songs in Stories

Ever wonder what was the number one song on the charts the day you were born? Well, it can also be another tiny piece of information that brings a bit of realism to your writing.

Perry Como began singing "Don't Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes" yet again. It pushed Barry over the edge with the lack of originality with the station's playlist. He hadn't come to his senses yet when President Truman passed in front of the crosshairs of his rifle.

"Roots of Murder" by Janis Harrison

Janis Harrison's first book (1999) "Roots of Murder" is a typical cozy. Suspects grow like weeds and topics are cast across the pages like so many seeds. That is part of the problem. Though the characters are unique, they rush past you like leaves on a windy day, not always easily identifiable. I spent too much time trying to keep all the characters straight. Once I did have them straight, I thought I knew the murderer just past the midpoint. I was sure of it before the potentially interesting protagonist, Bretta Soloman. She is a recently widowed owner of a florist shop who just lost 100 pounds and can't help branch out into other people's business especially after an Amish friend is murdered. More depth into the copious topics raised and a less hurried pace to character introduction would have helped. For me, it is a three. For lovers of cozies, its real audience, it would harvest a four.


Note: The problem of too many characters in the opening plagues me also. Need to learn my lessons by what I feel is the problem here.

MMWUC for February, 11, 2008

Class dismissed.

Exercise: Read yesterday's post about posing crime-related questions. Do so. Getting expert advise is like finding the correct verb. Exquisite.

Musing: I try to be as accurate as possible in my stories; however, I don't think a story can be perfectly accurate, especially police procedurals. The reader would probably get bored to tears if all the minutia were included. How do you decide what is enough detail and when it is too much?

Time Critical: Get your questions asked.

Dr. Lyle is the award-winning author of many books. He serves as a consultant for television and film writers, and he’s a practicing cardiologist in the L.A area. He will be answering questions on Monday on Lee Lofland's interesting crime and mystery-related blog on Monday. Lots of good stuff there for you mystery writers.

Eclipse of the Mind

What happened to Saturday? I don't know. After four hours of chopping up a fallen poplar, I kind of fell asleep, helped make six pizzas, and watched "Gattica". The dog ate my homework, and there's a total lunar eclipse beginning 10:51 PST on February 20th (that is, 1:51 a.m. EST). I suspect vampires and werewolves will be out in full that night, so wear your silver and spray garlic in the air. It also repels horny deer and voracious rabbits. Okay, the dog didn't eat my homework, but Sydney, my pet cockateil, did take a bite out of it. Oh, I guess Saturday was still there after all. I rewrote the query for "One Promise Too Many" and alerted the post office to expect another couple hundred mailings for Monday. Agents...you are on alert!

Yea, I hear them shaking in their boots also.

P.S. Is it just me or is everyone's blogger spellcheck on the blink?

Steal this idea - "Love Hang-up"

This news article about the storage of text messages is rife with ideas for stories, especially about the two policemen unceremouniously fired over their investigation into the mayors hanki-panki only now it appears they were right.

Harold Jones thought he'd met the perfect love in Cheryl Sanford. The only thing standing in his way was her husband, Bert, the President of the United States.

The Best Writing Workshop for You

It's simple: the best workshop for the best value to improve your writing is the Writers Retreat Workshop, May 23 t0 June 1, in Erlanger, Kentucky. If you're serious about your craft, GO. I have it on good authority that there are only five slots left for writers who want to succeed. These are some of the successes from past participants in the last three weeks.

* Jack Getze, author of "Big Numbers," was guest editor this month for the "Spinetingle" ezine. His follow-up novel in the Austin Carr series, "Big Money," arrives in March.
* Gene Sittenfield garnered his first publication "Last Man Standing".
* Dennis Lahane announced Lorin Oberweger as winner of the Best Of Award in her literary grouping during the Writers In Paradise conference in St Pete, FLA.
* Janice Croom's "Death of an Island Tart" is a semi-finalist in the Amazon/Penguin Breakthrough Novel Award
* Kimberly Frost's first novel "Would-be Witch" is scheduled for release in February, 2009.
* Susan Goodwill has received the final edited copy of "Little Shop of Murders" her follow-up to her stellar first novel, "Briga-DOOM," in the Kate London mystery series.

Check it out. Rick (WRW05 and 06)

Bookcrossing - Where freed books roam.

Do you know where to set books free? Try bookcrossing.

What's black and white and read all over? A book. rimshot! I'm losing it.

"In the Bleak Midwinter" by Julia Spencer-Fleming

The 2003 Agatha Best First Novel winner pulled me in from the beginning to the end. Using the stark northeastern New York winter as a backdrop, the story follows newly ordained Episcopal Priest Clare Fergusson and Police Chief Russ Van Alystyne as they try to identify the parents of a newborn left at the church. The investigation intensifies when a young woman is murdered. Ultimately, the story intensifies putting the investigator's lives in danger. Coupled because of their mutual interest in ensuring the baby's welfare and the mutual "the buck stops here" attitudes toward their jobs, a romantic undertone permeates but doesn't get in the way of the story. While a few scenes seem somewhat contrived to enhance the plot and tension, numerous twists and turns keep the reader guessing as to the outcome. For mystery lovers, this is a five.

MMWUC for February 4, 2008

EXERCISE: A giant stood in front of the writers. "Close your eyes, take a deep breath and let it out nice and slow. For the next ten minutes, write from the protagonists POV, "He saw his dream taking shape...'." The giant smiled and left for a party.

MUSING: I mused yesterday. Today I have to chop wood or look for work or do some writing or read another book or work on my bills or clean up around the house or ... how come my fictional characters never do that stuff?

A Day in the Woods

Spent Saturday helping with the 8-20-40 mile Uwharrie Mountain Run by manning the 8/32 mile checkpoint. 500-600 runners depleted the atmosphere of oxygen and increased the carbon dioxide levels by pounding the rocks, mud, roots, and branches of a rugged trail into submission while running, jogging, walking, gimping, and crawling through the forest scaring the bejeebers out of coyotes, bear, deer, opossums, raccoons, and partridge in a nearby Bradford Pear tree. Nearly every runner fell once during the race. A 78-year-old participant refused to quit at the 32 mile checkpoint despite the setting sun at his back and a nasty looking cut on his forearm from a counter attack from an oak tree root. We had 80 gallons of water, gatorade, Coke, and Mountain Dew at our aid station, and those greedy, sweaty, smelly runners drank every last drop of it. One runner commented that he gently subcumbed to gravity at some point and lay on his back watching the bare tree limbs extend skyward as part of some runner's hallucinagenic trance after nine hours of massauging his knees with earth-shattering jolts. He smiled gleefully as he told his story. I kept backing up. But the course was fast, the day sunny, the weather perfect for the volunteers if just a tad warm for the runners (30 at the seven a.m. start; mid-50s at four p.m.).

I picked up a gleam of a story last year from this race which is now captured in ten pages of notes that I might get to someday. Not so much this year, except the rehash of memories when I used to pound mile after mile in long distance races. If not for the day in the woods, all those memories would probably wither and die. I have the stinky, funny, happy, disappointed, ecstatic, elated, weary, frustrated, disconsolent, excited, and courageous runners of this race to thanks for keeping those memories alive as potential book fodder in the future.

I played (over and over) the "Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi" piece from Orff by Carmina Burana for the 40-milers when they came through our aid station. Okay, obscurely titled, but you do know it. It's that piece with the lush, medeival-sounding orchestra, with heavy drums, and a chorus of hundreds that commercials and sports pieces love to tap into to show the agony and ecstasy of an athlete in action. It garnered more than a few grins, some requests to switch to Carolina Beach music, but there was one couple who came through who actually knew the piece by name. The husband breathlessly said, "That's Orff. That's her favorite piece for inspiration." She turned and gave us a thousand watt smile.

I cranked that sucker up to full volume as the climatic drum pounding ending and choral crescendo echoed in the air while they headed up the path into the woods to do battle against the limits of human endurance.

Eight more miles of the runner's high for them. One more memory for me to cherish in the twilight years.

Starting from nothing

It was a gray and stormy morning. A fine spray filled in where the thunderstorms had rumbled through. A lone figure fed the birds and then stoked the fire.

Do you ever just start a story just to see where it would go? What happened?

The toenail was never right: too long, too short, too raggedy. It caught on the bedsheets; it scratched his lover. It ached whether it was too long or short; it never let up. It dominated his thoughts and once had him lose it at an interview in a Tourette's Syndrome-like outburst at his toenail after the interviewer had asked him if had any special job requirements. It's not that the toenail didn't have its place in his life. It did protect the toe from hard objects dropped--the owner of the toe being a klutz, but it had gone too far this time. This time, it had overreached its importance.

I don't know. Things just spill out from my fingers.

"Tied to the whipping post." - A. B.

My face-to-face critique group meets tonight at my house for one last thrashing of "One Promise Too Many" before it goes out to agents one last time. If no takers this time, this WIP goes into the dark closet of doom. I'll have two dishes to serve them. They better critique wisely.

How many books do you have in the dark closet of doom waiting for resurrection when your novels are selling like hotcakes at a Catholic breakfast and Spielberg has you on speed dial for movie rights to your next novel?

I've been nominated for a Nobel!

Well, not really. But now that I have your attention, you ARE my guest blogger today. Don't just pass through, leave a comment about a writing concern you have. Maybe together or with the other people passing through, we can shine some light on a dark area of writing and get you one step closer to a Nobel, okay, maybe a National Book Award. No, a Pulitzer. Oh, I see. Just being published would be fine.

Modeling

When I write, I use a breakdown of "The Fugitive" (yeah, I know it's a movie) as a model for my ups and downs in my story, when my right angle turns occur, when my character learns what he/she needs to know to fight back, and when my character learns the antagonist's Achilles Heel that helps the protagonist fight back during his black moment in front of the climax.

I'd love to use "Casablanca" (my favorite movie), but "C" does something unique as pointed out by Robert McKee in his book "Story". "C" starts off setting up the subplots before the inciting incident of the main plot line occurs. It is brilliant and tough to match up against.

What book/movie do you hold up as a model for guiding you through the pacing of your novel.

MMWUC for January 28, 2008

EXERCISE: His crumpled dead body occupied the center aisle when the first student stumbled into the class room. Yellow police tape surrounded him like a forgotten May pole game. One student screamed; one nearly passed out; two giggled until they detected the faint coppery smell of blood emanating from a small pool of it. Shortly, a tall thin man entered the room his detective badge displayed over his coat pocket. "Sit, relax, close eyes. Take a deep breath." A few students coughed as the decaying process moved forward. "For the next ten minutes, write 'I wanted it not to be true, but...'."

MUSING: I think I need to go work in the morgue with Lindsey Lohan for a couple of days. The grist of reality might help my (or anyone's) writing. Or maybe I'll just learn some new drinking games from "Lindy".

Books that make you dumb.

Fascinating little survey about your readership of your novels at the college level mapped against multiple colleges and universities. I don't even want to tell you where my college ended up, but I think I need to repeat some English classes at Duke up the street.

Flash Fiction

Need to get those six sentence stories off your chest? Try the 6S site.

Don't have enough for six sentences? Try 55 words.

Got another site for flash fiction?

Marketing: Getting your book out there

Need to get your book in front of more people? Try looking at this site for a list of sites to freely list you novel.

When you write your novel, do you purposely create tie-ins for marketing or do those things evolve after-the-fact when you think, "Holy cow, I've got to sell this thing?"

Inspiration Initiator

If Monday Morning Wake-Up Calls (MMWUC) are not enough for you, spark your imagination from this site. The site is now listed as Writing Prompts under Writing Help should you need it later.

The Birth of Your Character

Guest blogger, Ron Voigts, wrote the "Penelope" YA mystery series that his agent is shopping around. We met at the Triangle Writers Circle in Cary, NC in 2001, and he has been a member of my face-to-face Movable Critique Group since 2003.
---
I’m always curious how the character in the story developed, or perhaps a better word was born. Did Harry Potter start out with blonde hair and blue eye, but then J.K. Rowling realized dark hair, spectacles and a lightning bolt scar worked better? Was Monk a manic-depressive, but then the show’s writers found phobias and OCD had better viewer appeal? Was Harry Holmes a flop until Sir Arthur Conan Doyle changed his name to Sherlock?

In my YA series, I originally had a college aged woman returning home for the Christmas holidays; the problem was her antics were too immature. So I scaled back her age to sixteen, but that brought along baggage that I didn’t want and the character still seemed to be younger. Finally I made her thirteen years old, wearing bib overalls. She was short for her age and had terribly curly hair that she hid under a stocking cap. Suddenly she came alive, disagreeing with adults and taking on the supernatural to solve a murder. Penelope was born.

How were your characters born?

"Better Off Wed" by Laura Durham

The 2005 Agatha Best First Novel winner is a well-written cozy that is a breeze to read with some off-beat but believable characters, including Annabelle Archer, the troubled wedding planner protagonist who has to suffer with the much hated mother of the bride before she's murdered at the wedding reception by the end of Chapter One. I vow that there is no bloody gore, but the reveal at the end is a bit too pat even though it is pulled off with a classic bit of panache. Good humor rings throughout, and her assistant, Kate, mangles enough phrases to keep the best punsters in snitches. An excellent first wedding of humor and mystery, but it was a bit light and somewhat predictable for my taste. I give it a four; however, cozy lovers will decorate it with fives.

My MMWUC Exercise. Share if you dare

The wind had died during the night, and the quiet cold settled in the usual places, around the deck, the open front lawn, and my knees as I walked around filling the various bird feeders and casting seed on the frozen ground that crunches underfoot like shredded wheat in my cereal bowl. The bird baths are frozen, so I take the little one inside and thaw it next to the wood stove that warms the inside of the house. It's cold, not bitter inside at sixty-four degrees, but the master bedroom is usually five to ten degrees cooler. The sun has inched over the horizon miles in the distance, and its light casts bony shadows in the yard. The early morning feeders, cardinals and titmouse, peck away earnestly at the seeds. The sparrows, various finches, chickadees, and other visitors will wait until the brightness of the morning signals them. A raccoon and cat have left their tracks on my deck in yesterday's fresh snow. I will have to set the re-education trap for them. I fill the bird bath with warm water that will freeze in forty minutes, and as I place it on the deck, a slight southwesterly breeze pushes the cold aside for a moment, and the birds chirp loudly in celebration.

MMWUC for January 21, 2008

Writers are on strike. They left this message for me. "Close your eyes, take a deep break, and relax. In the next ten minutes write one good paragraph about a cold frozen morning."

Musing: The muse dances within my head, strokes my brain with tantalizing ideas, and then splits with George Clooney, leaving me to struggle on my own. Oh, we writers do most things on our own.

Do Nothing. Avoid criticism.

That is a Dilbert philosophy as he sleeps leaning back on an uncomfortable office chair in a cartoon. It is not the credo of any author I know.

Get it. Got it. Write it. There is only one rule!

But for today, I think I'll find a comfy chair and stare at the rare southern snowfall, a disappointing two inches, and temperatures not rising above freezing while rooting on my favorite teams in the AFC/NFC Championship games.

"In Stereo Where Available" by Becky Anderson

Phoebe Kassner, a 29-year-old virgin, inches her way into a romantic situation that could be the real deal. When it does turn serious, it surprises her obsessive, list-checking roommate, Phoebe's not-so-identical twin Madison (a Yankee in the "Belle of Georgia" television show seeking her own perfect mate), and the rest of her family. Some of the light-hearted chick-lit aspects of the story take a backseat as contemporary adult relationship issues are dealt with heartfelt honestly. Chick-lit novels are not my forte, but some of the not-so-right dates Phoebe endured had me reminiscing about some of mine and made me smile. The humorous antics of Madison on the reality show nearly steals the novel away from Phoebe. An excellent first novel from an author who shows lots of promise, I gave it a four on the five star scale.

How to write about a disaster! Create one!!

Morning? No coffee; no diet coke; no chocolate; no sun. Shelves in pantry fell down. Must fix. You don't understand the size of my pantry! 17x6!! Note to self. Never store the Kitchen Aid on the upper shelf. Is that molasses on the floor or dragon blood? Amazingly, no glass broke, but there's this eerie looking pattern on the back wall that I think leads to the fourth dimension. A trail of socks leads to it, and I'm sure that something passed through it to knock down the shelves. This is how adventures begin. Who knows where it will lead.

The Kashmir Kid

Okay, I have this little map of the world at the bottom of my blog that indicates where people are when they access my blog. I find it mighty interesting, but then again, I'm into maps. The scale is rather small, but who is accessing me from Kashmir? Is that you, Osama?

The Garret

2:43 yesterday afternoon. I had tired of chopping wood and had been filling out job applications ever since Judge Judy made a deadbeat pay the maximum of $5,000 to an ex-girlfriend for bills he ran up. "I didn't think she'd mind" was his defense. I couldn't get warm. I was waiting for today's snow, which never came. I looked around my office and the junk piling up. "I look like a poor starving writer living in a garret," I said to Sydney, my cockateil. He bit me sensing another pity party afternoon.

Lightning struck inside my brain. The muse landed with a thud, and the basis of a story hit with a beginning, middle, and ending!

Yeah, yeah! I know. I'm struck with inspiration twenty times a day, but this...well, it was different. It had the smell of novel in the afterglow. I wrote down what I could, and this morning I looked at my notes. IT WAS STILL THERE. Mark this day. Six months from now, you'll hear more about "The Garret" (tentative title).

Kicking the Query Letter up a Notch

Today we have a guest blogger: Ron Voigts. I met Ron at the Triangle Writers Circle in Cary, NC in 2001. He has been a member of my face-to-face Movable Critique Group since 2003. His agent is pounding on Publisher's doors with his series of YA books. So Ron, what saith you?

The careful shopper compares products and asks why should I buy this brand? Most literary agents are careful shoppers. They read your query letter and ask why should I buy it? Or why would the publisher? Or the book shopper?

Good query letters should have a catchy opening (the hook), summary of book (title, word count, characters and plot idea) and closing (asking them to buy). But most often omitted is a pitch why your book is better than the rest, why the readers are waiting for this book and what benefits the reader receives.

When searching for an agent for my first book, a murder mystery with a thirteen year old detective, I added the following line to my query:

“With today's young readers moving up grade levels for adventure and excitement, the story line presents them with the classic murder mystery, while minimizing the violence.”

In 25 queries, I had three agents request the book and landed agent number three.

Remember: it’s not enough to write a good book, unless that shopper (or agent) has reason to buy it.

Twisting Your Plot

Plot twists are great. Here is a list of what the Premier website thinks are the 20 best of all time. My favorite was the ending to "The Sixth Sense." Totally didn't see it coming. What's your favorite?

MMWUC for January 14, 2008

EXERCISE: I awoke late and exercised by sprinting to class where I found all the writers gone, save for one who had backed himself into a corner with a thermos of coffee, squeezed into minefield of tables and chairs, hidden behind a stack of papers as though he was in a writer's bunker. "Where are they?" I asked. "Writing," he said, not raising his head or missing a stroke of his quill pen. "Oh," I responded brilliantly despondent that no one would hear my brilliant and inspirational words. The writer heard my sorrowful one-word response. "They're writing," he said. The scratching of his pen halted. "That's all that matters."

MUSINGS: Got the point. Let's get to it. The lack of a muse can't stop you from laying words on a page. Sometimes you have to purge yourself of the meaningless words before the muse will return. The muse doesn't like to work in a trashy environment.

Banishing Overused Words

Lake Superior State University has come out with its 2008 list of words (or phrases) that need to be banished. (Thanks for the reminder CJ.) It made me think of four things when writing.

1. Don't overuse unusual words in your stories, for example, purloined. (Unless, of course, your name is Edgar Allan Poe.)

2. Don't overuse common words. (How many times are you going to use "up" in that scene?)

3. Rein in the jargon and popular cliches least you end up dating your material before it is even published. (Unless, ya know, that you're like, ya know, doing a period piece, hehehe, about some silly female pop singer who screws up her life, like ya know, I'm a pop princess and I can do, oh is that another dog I can get while I go into a strip club with my kids in a car?)

4. Use the correct word. Always look up the definition of those words of which you only THINK you know the definition. (You can't whine like in Mrs. Brown's seventh grade class, "Well, you know what I meant.")

Have a great Sunday...reflect...eat well...cheer your favorite team...write...write...write.

Steal this idea - "Mom Kills Car"

Good for the mom who sold her son's car after finding booze under the front seat. Good for Judge Judy when the kid sues the mom for the cost of the car claiming he paid for it. I don't have a fully formed story idea because I'm suffering from chocolate cake withdrawal, but this seems like the kind of thing that should inspire someone even if just for a scene in a novel.

Two guys try to cash a dead man's check in a for real "Weekend at Bernies". I'd make a separate posting for it, but the idea has been done already. Can you improve on it?

Because we get into ruts

Don't forget to feed the world one grain of rice at a time and learn some new vocabulary words.

Check the list of contests. There's plenty to be entered for those who enjoy that.

And don't forget the label DA GUIDELINEZ as you revise your stories.

Psst. The alien food eating French Poodle (see yesterday's post) was standing outside my deer fence last night. It's eyes glowed at me when I arose at 3 a.m. and looked outside. It bayed at the moon (even though it was cloudy). It's getting weird out there. Soon, she'll be shooting crepe flambeau from her mouth and making little children do her bidding.

Ya'll have a nice day.

Aliens have Landed

Well, at least I thought that the pod people had arrived in my backyard. And man, you can't imagine the hundreds of stories that ripped through my head as I examined the alien pod I found after raking away some leaves. It was the size of an enormous white chicken egg or a turkey egg. In fact, I thought it was an egg. I picked it up and the tissue thin white outer layer started to peel away. At that point, I was glad I had gloves on, but the memories of the blob racing up that old man's pointy stick made me put the object down. I pulled back part of the white tissue and noticed that the inside was a greenish gelatinous mess, and underneath the mess was what looked like dozens of small eyes. For a fleeting moment, I thought about an old monster movie where a monster evolves quickly from a small egg, Gorgon, I think, from Venus. However, the thought vanished the moment I remembered that there was a root to this thing: a dozen or so angel hair pasta extensions, the longest being about eight inches long. I didn't dare put my face closer. I'm no fool. That's exactly what it wants so it can grasp onto my face and suck my brains out. (Boy, would it be disappointed.) The eyes, however, looked lifeless, and as I looked at them more intently, I was wondering if it was making me do it or if I was doing it on my own. I decided, not eyes, but almost a small pockmarked pit with dark centers in each of the indentations.

I called a master gardener friend, figuring this was organic. She told me to leave it be. Then her cell phone cut out. Could it be that the pod people had gotten to her already?

I checked the Internet, and though I can't be certain, I think what I found was the egg stage of the Stinkhorn mushroom (Phallales Stinkhorn Gleba) which grows to be a penis shaped fungus about eight inches high and stinks like rotten meat or bad smelling feet to attract flies to suck of the gelatinous mess and spread its seeds. And in France, they eat the pit. EUUWWW. YUCK! Give me McDonalds.

I just checked outside to verify the dimensions. It's gone. Some paw-shaped footprints go off into the woods. All my lights are now on. My doors are locked. And I'm on the lookout for my neighbors French Poodle. Spooky.

Steal this idea - "The Chicken Bones"

Bones is a popular word in many book titles recently: "The Lovely Bones", "The Bone Collector", "The Bone Garden", and many more. How about "The Chicken Bones". Stay with me here. Some schmo burglarized an apartment, ate some chicken, and eventually got caught because of his DNA on the chicken bones. That's kind of funny in of itself, but what if that is only the tip of the iceberg to the story. What if one of the guns he stole out of that apartment led to a famous historical murder and the cops have a new clue, but some powerful people don't want the murder to be "resolved." Could be dicey.

A Few of My Favorite Things

Murder and mayhem and psychos and villains;
Killers and victims and coppers and hit men;
Assassins who kill the queens and the kings;
These are a few of my favorite things.

Chases and shoot-outs with fiery crashes;
Hoods in dark places with knife blades that slashes;
PIs with tight lips stare jailbirds to singing;
These are a few of my favorite things.

Men in deep trouble and women in peril;
Heroes with dark pasts who always are sterile;
Moments so dark that my readers are tingling;
These are a few of my favorite things.

When the dog bites,
When the bee stings,
When I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I don't feel so bad.

MMWUC for January 7, 2008

EXERCISE: Eager writers fill the classroom seats. Most are writing; some adjust their caffeine drips; one dozes with a thin silvery stream of drool no wider than floss angling across the table. Emily Dickinson floats up the aisle without meeting the students' stares then stands before the students. She has been dead, after all, for almost two hundred years, her shyness intact. Her pale blue eyes focus on a matchbook size piece of paper. She clears her throat. "Tighten, tighten, tighten," she roars louder than a foghorn, clears her throat again, and in a voice slightly more than whisper, "Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and relax. For the next ten minutes, write from the protagonists POV, 'I never saw...'." A puff punctuates her sentence, and she is gone.

MUSING: I'm revising for the last time one of my novels. It either sinks into the abyss after this or swims like swan fully emerged from an ugly duckling. I've given it a fair chance to find its way. My efforts have proven futile nearly one hundred times. I love the intricate story, but some characters lay like toy soldiers on the floor in the recreation room of my childhood rising to action only to the tune of my imagination and no one else's. We will see what the last revisions can do, and then it's on to the next story beating on the lid of the toy box to be let out.

Steal this idea - "The Dead Candidates"

John Wilkes Struthers is fed up with the political system, and his unlikely friend, next door neighbor, Xi Chang, agrees that something must be done to stop the flood of illegal immigrants, high taxes, and America's involvement in foreign lands. Xi even agrees that English should be the official language. "I work very hard to speak my adopted country's language. All these other wahoos can do it too."

John, an ex-demolition expert in the army, sets out to level the playing field with financial support from Xi. "If I blow up all those yakking politicians at the next debate, maybe someone with commonsense will run for president." While John and Xi start to figure out how to get rid of the politicians in Capital City's big debate in three weeks, Xi, a Chinese mole, has his small organization plow the field to make sure John can execute his plan. With the current set of candidates out of the way, the pro-Chinese candidate will surely rise to the top.

Who will stop him or can this plan just work to our advantage.

Saturday in the Park

You'd not confuse today with the fourth of July, as the song lyrics would suggest. It's winter. Normal winter again, not that bitter cold stuff sent from my writing friends in Maine, but an average winter day in central North Carolina. I'm finishing the clean-up from my NYD party, catching up on emails, and looking for work. (The horror;the horror.)

I've written a few email responses on the craft of writing this morning, and I must confess. I now have to again, go back to some of the basics about the craft and ensure I'm not delusional in what I'm writing, that I need to put some writer Visene in my eyes and make sure I'm following all the good advice I've picked up over the years that I parrot out to others.

Is there tension on every page? Is there tension on every page of what you write? Even if it isn't a thriller, I need to make my reader squirm in his/her seat about the potential of my protag not reaching their stated goal. I want the reader to be afraid to move forward in the story because they've invested so much in the protag, that they don't want him to fail, but must read on just as I have to go down in my crawlspace, cold, dark, dank, probably bug infested, with maybe some mice or a rabid opossum, and find out what that noise is that I hear and hope that it's not Lestat. Pray for my character; pray for me.

Workshops to Catch

Okay! Everyone is back at work and sneaking a peek at their favorite blogs. Here's hoping mine is one of them. Several writers have asked me about workshops lately. Here's my favorite...

Writers Retreat Workshop in Marydale, Kentucky in late May/early June is ten days of great instruction by wonderful people in a learning environment on YOUR material at a great price.

Here's an on-line workshop that I think will be tops for mystery/action/adventure writers...

RWA's Mystery/Suspense Chapter's COFFIN College of Felony and Intrigue MURDER ONE online Workshop for the month of FEBRUARY 2008 taught by Bob Mayer.

Looking for witticism's this morning? Go away. It's hard to be witty when your sweetie rushes into the bedroom and yells, "The car won't start," and you have to stumble out of a dream starring Jane Seymour from the bond movie into a 21 degree morning (hey, that's cold for central Carolina) and figure out why. Could it be connected to the glove box that was reinstalled on New Year's Day? Stay tuned for updates or just check out the workshops mentioned above.

Oy!

I think I have a hangover from eating too many fried wantons at yesterday's New Year's Day party at my house to ring in the new year.

The second lead story on the noon news today was about the minuscule line of snow flurries sneaking through the Raleigh area. It snowed for four minutes and twelve seconds at my house. That was just long enough for me to check and see if we have enough milk and bread, find my snow shovel (I'm the only one on the street with one), and my big boots. Yes, that was sarcasm.

Reminds me of the time I drove to Wilmington, North Carolina in November out of boredom. I had little money, no work, and time. A snow squall spawned from a cold front followed me down I-40 for the three hour drive while every radio station broadcast its progress. Hunger overcame me when I arrived so I stopped at small hamburger joint and ordered a late lunch. Two burgers, a large fry, and a soft drink arrived at the counter a few minutes later. As I pulled out my wallet, a strong gust of wind that hit the building like God doing a high-five and a horizontal burst of snow quickly obscured the buildings across the street. The middle-aged women behind the counter screamed as though Godzilla had asked for four thousand fish sandwiches and she only had six prepared. Quicker than Marion Jones, she dashed to the door shouting, "My kids. I've got to get my kids home from school."

A thin layer of white covered the ground five minutes later. Ten minutes after that, the wind had blown the snow to the edges of the parking lot into mountainous drifts four to six inches high. I walked out into the sun-dried parking lot to my car and assumed the woman had saved her kids. Thanks be to God for southern snowstorms and free lunches for a poor man.

My Doppelganger Wrote This

I can't believe no one wanted to steal my idea from 12/30/07. Oh well.

For you sci-fi writers, check out this article about the REAL possibility of parallel words. Can you imagine the credibility in your story by quoting a CERN scientist that someone like me is writing the exact same words at this moment! Maybe I should rent the doppelganger movie that was out in the 1970s. Start off the new year blowing my mind with possibilities.