HI. I’M A ROMANCE READER READING A HORROR NOVEL. SOMEONE HOLD MY HAND.

My reading life right now is not what it should be for a devourer of romance. I’m reading R.S. Belcher’s The Brotherhood of the Wheel. I’m about a third of the way through and it’s fantastically written. Suspenseful, intriguing, horrifying. Engaging. As I writer, I’m reading this book thinking, “Wow. This guy can write! Must. Study.”

The Brotherhood of the Wheel is an urban fantasy. And in my opinion, it’s also horror, although I haven’t seen anyone categorize it like that. People should have asked me before they put this book on the shelf.

Romance readers, this book is on an entirely different continent from what we usually read. No, it’s on a different planet. This book—at least the first third of it--features men. Manly, macho men. Men who call women ol’ ladies and sweetbutts. Brotherhood is populated with truck drivers, motorcycle club members, mechanics whom you never ever want to tow your car, and also, serial killers, who aren’t all men but are mostly men.

So far, the only softness in this book is that Jimmie, the main character, truly loves and cherishes his wife. That tiny, minuscule aspect of the book is written in a way that’s worthy of a romance. Also, Jimmie is 110% pure hero. He’s on a mission to save innocent people from terrible fates.

If you’re a horror fan, this is a book for you.

I’m reading it for a book club.

I love book clubs! I haven’t belonged to one in at least six years. Seven? Eight? More? I’d been lurking in this club on Meetup for a while, and I finally showed up two months ago…having read the book, of course. I’m so grateful for the pandemic loneliness that finally pushed me to act.

One of the reasons I love book clubs is that I read books I never would have picked up. Like this one. Plus, a book club gives me external motivation to finish books outside my preferred genres.

(If you too need external motivation for things, rest easy. There’s nothing wrong with needing that. Do not feel ashamed. It’s normal. (I’ve learned this thanks to a class I’m taking on creative focus.))

One of the great things about this club is that all the members love fantasy and sci-fi, but they’re open to reading pretty much anything. Any genre. Even non-fiction. The only rule is that if the book is in a series, the series must be complete.

 And now, a gentle public service message on behalf of authors of series:

You gotta buy books as they come out. This allows the author to get paid, which allows her to keep writing the books in the series. Otherwise, she gets no money as she’s writing. Which means she has to get a job. Then she has less time to write, and the series comes out even slower. Or it may never be completed because why publish a series that no one is buying?

So buy the book. Read the book. Review the book.

Sit with the anticipation of more to come. Savor it like the countdown to birthdays or ticking off the days until a vacation. Scientific studies have shown that anticipating a vacation is the most rewarding part. Maybe this pertains to books too?

Now let’s get back to the Brotherhood and Jimmie…

Fellow romance readers, after consuming 179 pages of this book, I am never going on a road trip again. I am certainly never traveling anywhere near Missouri or Kansas. I say this as a person who loves the Midwest. #Iheartcornfields. I have enjoyed all the time I have ever spent in Missouri. (Never been to Kansas.)

But no more. Never again.

I think this guy can help. And he looks like he might already be in Kansas.

Has anyone else had this problem while reading Brotherhood? Will I feel better by the time I get to the end?

Also, people who live in Four Houses, Kansas, do you need help? Should we send in a few of Suzanne Brockmann’s Navy SEAL heroes? They’re from the late 90s, early 2000s, but they’re probably still in pretty good shape. I’m not entirely sure Jimmie is up to the task of saving you, even with the help of the motorcycle club guy.

To ensure I finish Brotherhood of the Wheel on time, I’ve given myself weekly page goals. If the book wasn’t so scary and creepy, I’d binge it all day and to heck with the rest of the things I need to do. The writing and storytelling are that good. Instead, I read until I’m unsettled, discombobulated, never turning off the lights again, and booking flights to all my future cross-country destinations. (Not that I have any destinations.)

Then I treat my terrified brain to a gentler book. There, there, little brain. All is well. Just read this romance and it will be safe to turn out the light. Probably. Maybe. Fifty/fifty chance.

Maybe I’ll just keep the light on until hubs gets into bed, too ….

Curling my toes is quite a feat. ;)

“What the everlasting f*** are you doing here?” ~Raphael in Dancing with Danger by Kerrigan Byrne

I admit it. I love when a hero gets all angry and protective because his heroine has done something dangerous and reckless. This line curled my toes. The heroine is risking her safety for something important to her, sacrificing to ensure the welfare of those she cares about as best she can. And what does the handsome, sexy hero see? The threat to her, the one he cares about—the one he loves, whether he sees it yet or not—about to lose the things he wants for her: a safe life, security in following the rules of society.

When the two characters collide, the passion is delicious. Dancing With Danger has such lush prose it’s like biting down on a never-ending piece of chocolate cake. I’m 85% through it. It’s the fourth book in Byrne’s A Goode Girls Romance series, and I plan to go back and read the all the others. (I started with this one. Yes, out of order.)

I feel like my blog is probably also saying “what the everlasting f*** are you doing here?” Followed by, “I thought you’d abandoned me.” I haven’t abandoned you, lonely blog. In fact, I’ve thought about you quite a lot. Much like I’ve thought about cleaning my house, eating healthier, getting on the scale.

Thought about it.

Didn’t get much further.

The last months (and months and months), I’ve discarded most ideas about making actual progress on anything. This pandemic has put me in lockdown in more ways than one.

Anyone else?

So it’s quite a feat that Kerrigan Byrne’s book is holding my attention. You know life is strange when a romance reader struggles to read romance novels for months and months. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve persevered and managed to get quite a few titles under my belt. I would tell you about them, but I can’t remember very many of them. The pandemic has confiscated that, too. (Also, Kindle Unlimited doesn’t help because I have to return the books. Can I blame Amazon for my poor memory?)

So this year, I’m keeping better track of what I read. Manually. ‘Cause I love my calendar, and the more things I have to write in it, the more fun I have! Here’s a pic of what I’ve got so far. And nerd that I am, getting to add to this list is a reason to keep reading. It’s the little things, right? And I’m all for those little things to keep us going as we (hopefully) get to safer times this summer.

What are you reading? And what little things are keeping you going right now?

P.S. Did you see the cleverness in that headline? “Curling my toes is quite a feat.” Feat…feet…toes. Okay. I know. It’s bad. I’m leaving now….

Day 3 of Covid-19 Home-Everything

Peter Parker and I walked this morning early so I could sit down at my computer and have two hours to write uninterrupted. This meant I walked before I had coffee.  Hardest walk ever. This is going to be a hard habit to build.

Speaking of odd coronavirus habits, every time I use the last of a roll of toilet paper, I get a little nervous. We have plenty. Still, I’m paying attention to what’s the minimum amount I can use comfortably. That’s crazy to think. Crazier to write and post here. But I figure I’m not alone in this.

For dinner tonight, we ordered pizza from my favorite pizza restaurant, the one that doesn’t always accept our UberEats orders because they’re so busy. Last night, they accepted before I could even see on my phone that the app had contacted the restaurant. When the pizza arrived, the Uber driver looked at me like I was nuts when I told him to just put the food on the sidewalk and I’d go pick it up.

Frankly, that is nuts.

Also nuts? Wondering if I needed to wipe down the pizza box before I put it on my kitchen counter. For the record, I didn’t. I immediately threw away the bag that the boxes of salad and rice balls came in. But I didn’t wipe down those boxes either. Did I just give us corona?

As for the Christmas lights idea, my daughter—my usual partner-in-crime—isn’t keen on this. I might do it anyway if I can find an extension cord long enough. (We have NO outside electrical sockets on the front of the house. Illogical!) I did try to sell her on it. I told her we could call them Corona Lights. She’s too young to get beer jokes, so I had to explain the humor in that. That’s okay though. We gotta laugh. Everyday. Seriously. That should go on our to do lists.

DAY TWO OF COVID-19 HOMESCHOOL / HOME-WORK / HOME-EVERYTHING

Peter Parker the Poodle got a pandemic haircut. No one in the house appreciates the results. I don’t think he likes it either. (Before and after shot is below.) I admit this is shorter than I intended, but it will grow back, and it lets me postpone the next grooming trip that much longer.

Likewise, in order to postpone the next grocery trip, I’ve become very cognizant of what’s in my fridge. (One portion of vegetarian casserole to be consumed by tomorrow. Raspberries: tonight. Got to keep Kid 2 drinking the yogurt drink. Deadline: March 29.)

I always knew I should be a better food steward. But there is a reason I never reached this goal before. It’s hard! #coronavirusgoals

For instance, if you’re actually going to use those strawberries you bought yesterday, best get them washed, sliced, and eaten today. There’s no time for laziness because they’ll go to mush in a blink. (What can you do with strawberries gone to mush? The answer: https://www.epicurious.com/ingredients/save-use-mushy-old-strrawberries-article)

 Tomorrow for supper we’re having pancakes using a never-opened mix with a “best by” date of January 20, 2020. Not something I’d usually do. It’s not that we’re hard up for food. But waste not want not is the theme of the times. So far, everyone’s on board…with that aspect of isolation at least.

Last night, Kid 2 said, “this was a long day,” as if he’d just realized it. It hit Kid 1 too, who declared she can’t do this for eight weeks. I’ve decided that to combat this we’re going to have to get outside more. At least twice a day. Maybe go to a park. Drive somewhere. Maybe someone needs to put their Christmas lights back out so we can drive through a neighborhood that’s all lit up. Seriously, I think this is a good idea. Who’s up for this?

DAY 1 OF COVID-19 HOMESCHOOL / HOME-WORK / HOME-EVERYTHING

I‘ve made a crucial mistake. In order to keep myself from eating all the chocolate candy that I bought for isolation/quarantine/apocalypse, I asked my daughter to store and hide the goods so I didn’t eat them all at once. My daughter has self-control. I’m not sure how she developed this trait. It was not from my genes nor did she acquire it from the environment in which I raised her. (If not nature or nurture, then aliens?) Now, no matter how many times I ask, she won’t give me ANY candy. This morning I went to the grocery and did what I should have done all along: bought my own stash and hid them in the kitchen drawers no one uses but me.

I had Toffifay for breakfast.

 Go me.

 At the grocery, there was a man coughing and not covering his mouth.

 Dude.

 He was at the end of the aisle I had just entered. I turned around, went someplace else, and avoided him for the rest of the trip.

 Also this morning, homeschool had been in session for about 25 minutes when kid 2 had technical issues and had to switch to his other computer. This house contains every computer and device anyone could ever need; we’re a technologically savvy household. How are other people going to manage if this is already happening to us?

There is resentment among the children that they can’t go anywhere. Kid 1 needs to return a damaged book to Amazon. She chose Whole Foods as the drop-off. But as I am the designated errand-runner, she won’t be going. I predict this resentment will grow exponentially.

In other news, I have 15 days to finish this draft of my novel. I’m sure my two hungry, now-homeschooled, housebound teenagers will be very supportive.

Syphon's Song.... Chapter One

At the end of fall 2019, I got my rights back for Syphon’s Song and Enchanter’s Echo. I’ve spent the last months updating both books, but especially Syphon’s Song. It has a new first chapter. This is part of the story I was afraid to put in when I was first published because I didn’t feel it let the book jump into the action fast enough. I worried that it prevented the reader (and a potential acquiring editor) from getting to the Meet Cute between the heroine and hero.

Live and learn. Or, rather, write and write and write and then learn. I think this book is so much better than it was originally. (And not just because of the new first chapter. There are a lot of updates.)

Check out your favorite ebook retailer for the rest of the book. It’s not available everywhere yet, but it will be soon.

Chapter One

Bronte Casteel set her violin case on her tiny stoop and rummaged through the endless depths of her purse. Her keys were hiding, and the dim glow of her porch light wasn’t enough to see by. The moon was no help either. Though it had shined bright after her band’s show at the bar, clouds now devoured its white gleam. Night’s darkness prevailed.

The keys jingled. All the way at the bottom. Not in the side pocket where they were supposed to be. She pulled them out and then froze.

Someone was behind her. She wasn’t sure how she knew…had she heard his breath? Seen his shadow?

She spun around. A bearded man stood on the gravel walkway, tall and lanky, but his slender frame gave her no illusions. He was far stronger than she was.

He was well-dressed despite his heavy beard and his too-long hair. His pants were crisp, his shoes polished. The black leather jacket was much too heavy for the overly hot autumn night, but he looked cool enough for his breath to fog in the air. His cooling spell must be working overtime.

A mage in a trailer park of Nons.

This was never good news for any of the residents. She’d certainly never had one visit her.

Though Bronte was a mage too, she had no spells and so she passed herself off as a Non. Easier. Safer. Not that she’d had a choice.

Did this man know what she really was? Her heart sped up. The world around her crystallized—mundane adrenaline at work.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

He held out an envelope. He was too far away for her to reach as if he didn’t want to come any closer. Perhaps he did know what she was. She could tell him he had nothing to fear, but he probably wouldn’t believe her.

“The message you are to deliver,” he said, his voice smooth and polished.

Oh, not this. She shook her head. “I already told her no.”

Her mother had called two nights ago after thirteen years of silence. The last time Bronte had seen her was when her mother had cast her into exile. She’d been hidden away because her power was embarrassing, dangerous…forbidden.

And most of all, her power was secret.

Everything always came down to power in the Republic of Mage Territories. And that was why Bronte had never fooled herself into thinking that her family had forgotten about her. She’d always known they’d use her if they needed her. Somehow. Some way.

Apparently that time had come.

She pressed her lips together to hold back the bitterness. “She must be desperate to be sending me.” Over the landline, Lady Casteel had demanded Bronte deliver a message to the Rallises. Her mother had poured out the morbid details of the job.

Bronte had absolutely refused.

The Rallises. Of all the founding families. They were the most powerful in the Republic.

“Lady Casteel’s state of mind is none of your concern.” The porchlight’s glow gave the messenger’s dark eyes an evil sheen. “And she reminds you that your sponsorship requires obedience.”

A threat. Of course.

All Non-mages who resided in the Republic of Mage Territories were required to have a mage sponsor. Since Bronte masqueraded as a Non, she too had a sponsor.

“Or she’ll throw me in jail?” Her voice was soft but steady.  

“Indeed, the Standish Institute for Reform has been notified that the Casteels may have a female candidate for intake.”

“You can’t be serious.” Her shock let the words fly free. The Institute was legendary among the Nons. Bronte had first learned of it when she’d moved into the trailer park. It was only spoken about in whispers, the boogeyman of grown-ups. Nons who entered the Institute didn’t come out.

In the man’s other hand, a pair a wrist cuffs appeared as if he’d summoned them from thin air. They were thick in the center and sharp on the edges, designed to cut into its victim’s skin if he struggled. The light glinted off them just enough to see the Institute’s initials etched into them. They swung in his grip like the watch of a hypnotist. She couldn’t look away. She could already feel them squeezing her, cutting her off from freedom, from this life she’d built from scratch.

There was no choice now. She was going to Rallis.

“What’s in the envelope?” she asked. Her voice had turned hoarse. She could hear her own defeat.

“You don’t need to know that.”

“I do need to know if I’m handing something to Rallis that’s going to get me killed.” What was she saying? Simply going there would probably be the end of her. The only silver lining was that they’d likely do the job faster than the Institute’s infamous torture.

“The body of the late Senator Casteel was stolen and is believed to be on Rallis property.”

“Lady Casteel already told me that.”

“Well, that’s what the letter in the envelope says too.” Sarcasm drawled through his word. “So now you know. Your task is simple. Drive to Rallis Territory. Deliver the letter to their senator. Return home.” He smiled. His incisors were oddly pointed. His dark bushy beard emphasized their whiteness. “Nothing more. Nothing less.” The wrist cuffs disappeared like a parlor trick. “And nothing to fear.”

She had everything to fear. Vincent Rallis knew the truth of her power. “Why me?”

“No more questions.” He held out the envelope, sliding it to the side with his fingers and revealing another piece of paper behind it. “This is your pass that permits you to leave Locke Territory. You have twenty-four hours to get to Rallis, deliver the message, and return home.” He tossed the papers to the ground. They landed just shy of the stoop.

“Twenty-four hours?” That would never be enough. “It’s nighttime. I need to sleep. I’ve been—”

“You leave tonight. I’ll follow you.” He lifted his hand again. This time he was clutching her violin case.

Horror smacked her with a sharp hand.

How had he done that? It had been right beside her. She hadn’t even seen him move. Her violin was everything to her, her companion, her sole income, the key to her happiness...her soul. “Give that back.” She dashed forward, but he scampered away faster than she could track.

In a blink, he was fifteen feet away from her. His head was turned slightly to the side, his chin a little too far back. Fear. Of her.

“You’ll get it back. In twenty-four hours.” He shook the case by the handle. “Consider this a little incentive to make sure nothing goes wrong.” His tone turned light and airy, like staccato notes, plucked from the strings of her life in a tune that had turned deadly. “Don’t think to plead your case to them. Don’t pull any poor little me stories on them. You return here as friendless as you are now. Not that they’d really want you. No one wants you.”

He walked away, calling out over his shoulder, “Hurry back home, Bronte Casteel.”

On the perils of giving advice

FRIDAY, AFTER SCHOOL:

Kid 2: I want to go to the gym every day.

Me: Ok. You could go right after school. I could drive you straight there and drop you off. It can just be your every day routine.

Kid: How would that work? I wouldn’t have my stuff.

Me: Pack it the night before. Leave your gym bag in the car. It will be waiting for you after school. Change at the gym.

Kid: Ok.

SUNDAY, BEDTIME:

Kid: I don’t feel like going to the gym tomorrow.

Me: You can’t count on “feelings” to make you want to do anything. Have you ever thought, “I feel like doing some homework?” No. You have to do things even though you don’t feel like it.

MONDAY MORNING, GETTING IN THE CAR TO GO TO SCHOOL:

Kid: *throws packed gym bag into car.*

MONDAY MORNING, AFTER I’VE DROPPED OFF KID:

Me: I should get to work. My deadline looms. But I don’t feel like it.  

Mayflower Mages reboot!

It’s official. I have my rights back for my first two novels: Syphon’s Song and Enchanter’s Echo. 

(A version of this post appeared in my newsletter last week. Sign up here to get future emails. And then check your junk mail if nothing appears in your inbox.)

What does this mean for you, dear reader? If all goes well, it means more books to come because (hopefully) I can increase profits from the sales of these two books. And that means I can continue to fund my writing business. In the meantime, I’m giving both books a polish. Especially Syphon’s Song. A task underway now.  

Syphon’s Song was my first published book. I feel I’ve become a better writer since then. But putting the book through a gentle edit has been rather painful.

I only know one or two fellow authors who enjoy reading their old books. Those rare authors can lose themselves in the story just like readers. There’s a part of me that wishes I could do this. Instead, reading my old books is like looking at myself naked in the mirror.

All I see are the flaws.

I shared this with my current editor. She said she’d heard such sentiments from many authors. She pointed out that an author’s debut novel is a huge learning experience. And when it’s all done, there are probably things an author would have chosen to do differently if they’d known what they know now. A bit of a Catch-22. 

Also, for better or worse, times have changed since I wrote and published Syphon’s Song. For instance, there’s one point in the story when the hero’s mother says to her family that they need to be on the lookout for a wife for the hero’s brother. She says, “we need someone liberal. Open-minded. One who doesn’t mind a syphon in the family. Keep watch for that type of energy.”

When I wrote this book seven years ago, the word liberal was not the hot button it is today in the United States. Should I take it out? On one hand, I know my books won’t please everyone. Heck, often they don’t please me. On the other hand, I want readers to be able to escape into the world of my mages and leave the trying bits of the real world behind. But maybe that’s not a realistic expectation...maybe we have to bring the tough times with us when we slip into a book, but characters offer us a different way of seeing the world.

I’m also questioning if Vincent is too much of an alpha-hole for a #MeToo world. I’m wrinkling my nose as I write this, because as a reader, I kind of like reading alpha-holes sometimes.

Ok, not kind of. Definitely like.

 And not sometimes. Many times. Most times?

All I have to do is look no further than one of my favorites…Mad Rogan in Ilona Andrew’s Burn for Me. There’s no doubt that he’s an alpha-hole, and he’s My #1 Book Boyfriend Ever. Mad Rogan is bossy and overbearing, and he kidnaps the heroine in their first encounter. (But Nevada is tough enough to take it.) If Ilona Andrews went and changed him, I’d be pretty darn upset!

Darn upset!

As a side effect of updating Syphon’s Song, I’ve renewed my acquaintance with Bronte’s sister, Selene, and I think I’m ready to take on her story. She’s a complex person, a rather angry one, but I’m up for the challenge of writing her.

I’d love to know…are there Mayflower Mages characters who you'd like to see get their own story? Comment below or find me on Facebook or Twitter. 

Fill in the blank

This was the first week of school in my town. I have two high schoolers, a sophomore and a senior. All of the sand in my motherhood hourglass has nearly been spent. The nest always empties, and mine will do just that sooner rather than later.  I’m trying to think of this as a second start in life and that the “now what?” that I’m facing is a grand opportunity.

The problem is that we don’t think of 40’s and 50’s as being a fresh start. It’s a “you’re almost done” age. You’re a cake who’s been baked, mostly devoured, and you’re starting to get stale. (I feel like my icing sliding down and drooping. You?)  I’ve started collecting stories of women who make something new of themselves after 50, 60, 70 years old. Judith Krantz, for one. According to her obituary (yikes! I’m taking inspiration from obituaries. Is that an old person thing?), she didn’t publish her first book until she was 50. “I was the world’s latest bloomer!” she said. 

Still, youth has more than a few advantages. For one, the career world awaits them expectantly. Not so much for old moms. And youth comes packaged with a certainty of how the world works. Yes, it might be an ill-informed certainty. But that naiveté is a booster chair lifting us higher to our dreams. Also in youth, bodies work closer to optimal. Climb that mountain? Yes! Ford that stream? Bring it! There are no wrinkles to stare at endlessly in the mirror, there is no lifting the skin on your chest and wondering if your boobs were ever really that high. (They were never that high. Trust me. It’s simply not possible that they’ve fallen that far. They were always round about there. Give or take.)

It makes me want to write a romance about a middle-aged single mom…a paranormal romance, of course. (Do you think there’s a market for that?) Her house is empty of her kids because they’re all off to college and she walks to her mailbox to find a tuition bill. (Do tuition bills come in the mail? Maybe getting the bill in an email on her phone would be better…which she’s checking while she’s walking to her snail mailbox and finds the Sundance catalog in there, her favorite, full of stuff she can’t afford.) And then a moving van pulls up and it’s full of hot and hunky men, with slight shades of silver in their hair. They help move their friend, Most Smoldering Vampire of All, into the house across the street. And it turns out that the single mom, who’s still got it if you like soft hips, cratered thighs, and a well-honed will to endure, has latent magic powers. And Most Smoldering Vampire, who long ago identified her abilities, has just been waiting for her kids to move out and go to college so he can have wild, consensual sex with her, pleasure her madly, and activate her powers. 

I firmly believe it’s never too late for a sexy ever after. And along that line, if you’re a diehard romance reader, I think you have to believe that it’s never too late for a “now what?” moment that leads to an ending as happy as the day your newborn was put in your arms.** 

So today’s exercise is a fill in the blank question: 

Now what? she thought. And she became a ______________. She was amazing at it! And to this day, she lives happily ever after in a nest perfectly feathered for herself. 

FOOTNOTES:

**Was that day happy or just utterly exhausting and 110% bewildering? Maybe all three? One more than the others? But that’s a question for another day.

Ilona Andrews!

Tonight I’m going to a bookstore to see Ilona Andrews. They (husband/wife team) are my favorite author(s). For years I’ve scoured the names of the authors at writing conferences or book festivals that I’ve attended searching for their name. No luck.

Until now.

I stumbled upon their upcoming appearance when I had to take my very sick, very sad dog to a special vet for an MRI. (When something good happens because of something bad, it’s like Life giving you a hug.) 

I’ve never gone to a bookstore with the sole purpose of seeing an author. As type this, I’m wondering how that can possibly be? And then I think, as I type some more, well, you’re an introvert and you don’t go many places in general with the sole purpose of seeing anyone. And then I have the answer to that question.

I’m nervous.

Here are the nervous things:

• What do I say?
• Specifically, what do I say so that the moment is perfect forever and ever amen?
• Will there be a line?
• Will I be able to find a parking spot?
• Will I be late? (Getting out of Atlanta on a Friday night? Oh. No. Getting out of Atlanta on the Friday night of Labor Day weekend? Disaster Potential.) (I hate being late.)
• Will my hair look acceptable in the picture that I think they’ll agree to take with me? (Their website said they’ll take pictures with people.)
• Why oh why did I not lose those 10 (ahem…15) pounds before today?
• Will I have the energy to go if I don’t take a nap?
• If I try to take a nap, will I be able to sleep?
• Why don’t I just have a cup of coffee instead?

Fortunately, I have all day to ponder these questions and more. And when this day is over, nothing will ever be the same.

Ok, that’s unlikely to be true.

When this day is over, I’ll go back to my introvert cave with a really awesome book signed by a really awesome person-people. (Do they both sign it? Does one sign the first name and the other the last name?) And someday, I’ll come back out again for something else really awesome!

Aimless Little Minutes and the No Phun Phone

I turned in my third book on October 6th. I still haven’t heard whether the publishing company wants it or not.  

Let me be clear. I am not complaining about this. In fact, I’m lucky to be in this situation. I’m grateful for it. Here’s why:

First, I have a publishing company, and they published two of my books. I waited (and worked) for a long time to be able to say that.

Second, my publisher was interested in reading my third (and proposal for the fourth) book. 

Third, I FINISHED THE DAMN BOOK, and I learned a lot about writing and myself in the process. (The latter, in my opinion, is the point of why we’re alive…to figure out who you are and to learn how to be.) 

In the process of waiting for four months to hear if the company wants it, I’ve checked my email so many times that my phone should have a divot where my Gmail app lives…or rather lived. 

This week, I deleted it. 

A few weeks ago, I also deleted Facebook and all game apps from my phone. But that was to minimize distractions and force myself to work. 

My phone is absolutely no fun. 

That’s right. 

I have a no phun phone. 

I find myself standing around in the kitchen holding it, thumbs at the ready and they have nowhere to go…no app buttons to hit. No emails to click open. Nothing to like. No one to follow.

Nothing to do in those little minutes of waiting while life packages up the next micro-segment of action for delivery.

What does one do while waiting for the skillet to heat up enough to scramble one’s eggs? Or for the water to heat up at the faucet? Or for the Nespresso machine to brew a cup of coffee? I think maybe this is when people might have wiped down their kitchen counters. Or organized their silverware drawers. Cleaned their coffee pots?

(And what has my phone done to me that I even have to ask these questions?!?)

It’s not enough time to fold a basket of underwear. So laundry is out.

It is enough time to write a haiku. Maybe I should try that…because I don’t need to accomplish something on my to do list in those little minutes. I just want to experience them in something other than a state of bewildered boredom. The problem is that I am in the habit of being entertained during those little minutes. Without my apps, I’m like an addict who’s been cut off from her dealer.  

I’m relearning how to be in the little minutes of nothing. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten in the first place. Ten years ago, who knew that a super phone was a possibility? Now my thumbs are bereft without it. Aren’t thumbs part of what shot us to the top of the food chain? Bad news, folks, they’ve conspired with a 6x2 inch screen to take over our existence.  

So I’ve started my own little resistance movement.

If you want to join, email me, tweet, post send me a letter. Please. I’ll read it in the kitchen. I really need something to do while I wait for my Nespresso.  

What exactly is important here?

Saturday I could have gone to a march.

Sunday I could have gone to a race that I paid big bucks to run. 

I did neither, both for moderately good reasons, but both activities would have pushed me out of my comfort zone. Sunday morning, as I sat around the house sitting with what I had not done, I felt like I’d caged my potential, like I’d let fear roll over me with a gigantic frowny face emoji that had popped all over me and drenched me in the yellow goo of regret. 

The experience reminded me—apparently I needed a reminder—that I’m happiest with who I am when I step out of my squishy, well-padded, perfectly-molded-to-me box…and when I do so on a regular basis. 

That box has high walls. It takes a lot of guts to scale it and a lot of energy. 

I spent Sunday battling disappointment in myself but not really for good reasons. 

Saturday I went to a writers’ meeting and heard a great speaker and got to catch up with some of my writing friends. Sunday I finished a first draft.

Did you hear that? I finished a first draft! 

That’s a HUGE check on my to-do list. It’s something that should inspire pride, not disappointment. 

Also, I did laundry and cleaned a few (very few) parts of the house, all of which needed to be completed, for the sake of my sanity and so my children could go to school in clean clothes. 

My kids can go to school in clean clothes!

Also, huge!

Huge. Huge?

Oh dear.

I can’t use that word anymore. I think we’re going to have to drain the dictionary of that word.

How about…super? Great? Monumental?

I need to forgive myself for the weekend-that-wasn’t, move on, and plan better. 

Next time, I’m going to knit up my Pussy Hat and go…even if I can’t think up a catchy phrase to put on a sign.

Next time, I’m not going to sign up for that race. This is the second race in a row that I’ve decided against (the first one I didn’t register for.) Maybe I need to accept that racing isn’t important to me anymore, that, for now, running with my daughter on the afternoons that she’s interested in doing so are the running highs that racing used to give me. 

I’m okay with that. Because running with her is WAY better than racing.

Maybe this weekend was me figuring out what’s important and what’s not. Maybe I’m riding the wave of figuring that out along with the rest of the county. Maybe the entire United States is figuring out what to hold tight to, what to fight for, and what to let go of.

Family time = important

March and action = important

Writing = important

The rest can slough away like drippy yellow goo and in the process, lighten me up and let me climb out of that box and brave the important stuff a little easier. 

And that’s super!

Re-read of the Week: Magic Dreams

Kate Daniels. 

You know who she is, right? The star character of the urban fantasy series by Ilona Andrews? (If you do not know this, off you go to Amazon. Start with Magic Bites.) I am delightfully making my way through the series for the umpteenth time.

I love Kate Daniels. 

I love her so much.

I want to be her. 

Am I allowed to say that? Wait. What did you say? You want to be Kate Daniels, too? It just so happens that the county park in my area offers really cheap sword fighting classes. No joke! Like $35 for six weeks! And the class is an hour and half or something really loooong like that. 

Can you say, “bargain?”

B-A-R-G-A-I-N. 

If we were besties and you lived nearby, would you be up for it?

You don’t even have to bring your own sword. They have them there.

I picked up the flyer for the class when I went to vote for president…back in October. Remember that? Autumn 2016. Back when the world was teetering toward an unfathomable future? Before we fell into the swirling black hole of unpredictability? It feels so long ago. 

I can’t bring myself to throw away the flyer because it could very well be my first step toward getting my own Slayer even if I don’t take the class this time around. (Slayer is the name of Kate’s sword. Again, if you’re not in the know, hie thee to Amazon forthwith!)

In the series, Kate has a couple of friends and one ward who eventually get their own books or novellas, too. Since I’m making my way through the series WAY too quickly, I decided to divert and pick up one of Kate’s friends. 

Magic Dreams is a novella starring Dali, a magic white tiger, who wears thick glasses, isn’t much of a fighter, and races cars for fun, even though it’s against the orders of her alpha, Jim, the man Dali loves from afar. 

Dali doesn’t have a sword. She has a pen and paper that she uses to write spells and curses on. 

I’m much more like Dali than I am Kate, even though I don’t turn into a magic white tiger or race cars against my alpha’s wishes. 

I have do a pen and paper though, and most of the time I’m not afraid to use them.

In the story, the pair goes on a mission to find the cause of Jim’s strange sickness, a case that takes Dali’s special magic to cure. 

The book is delicious. But short. As novellas are supposed to be.

If you’re exhausted before bedtime but choose to read anyway, I estimate it will take you two to three nights to finish it. If you’re up for putting in a couple of hours of reading, you’ll have it done in one night. 

And the next night you can pick up the next novella in Jim and Dali’s saga, Magic Steals.

(To ensure that you’re fully informed, Magic Dreams originally appeared in the anthology, Hexed. Magic Steals originally appeared in the anthology Night Shift. Both novellas are now available separately.)

Have you read Dali’s stories? Plan to? Do you like the spin-off novels and novellas in Kate’s world? Let me know what you think!

Glitter, Sparkle, Shine

Every now and then something so super cool enters the average human's life that it inspires her to get out of bed in the morning. And yes! Such a thing has happened to me. I am so thrilled about my new 2017 Ink+Volt planner that I rush through my morning routine so I can get to my desk and open it. 

Fourteen days into the calendar year and I am organized and productive. 

You'll probably want one for yourself. Click. Quick. Because by the time you get yours, we'll be 3+ weeks into the new year. But that's okay. Start recording all the marvelous things you've accomplished so far this year, and then write them in their appropriate spots in the planner when it arrives. If you're one of those people who add things to your to-do list just so you can check them off, I know you understand what I'm talking about. One can't have the first month of the year stay blank! What kind of start is that? 

I spend a lovely fifteen minutes everyday going over my goals...weekly, monthly, and yearly. Ink+Volt has a place for all of those, and that is the key to what propels me forward, consistently seeing my ultimate destination. (Okay, consistently for two weeks.) 

The Ink+Volt planner also has a special section for your year's theme--a word or short phrase that encapsulates what you want to achieve for the year. This requires some thought. Although there is a place to brainstorm about the theme, I didn't want to risk messing up my new planner with the wrong thoughts, so I brainstormed elsewhere. 

(I'm not usually so anal. It's just that I have a thing for notebooks, and this one is so smooth and soft and important. I didn't want to mess it up right from the get go.)

As I was brainstorming, at first all I came up with were words like:

PRODUCE

FOCUS

DISCIPLINE

Geesh. 

2017 sure was looking to be a fun year.

:-/

I needed to pretty it up a little bit, add some sparkle, make it shine, glitter it with goodness and joy.

And presto!

BLOSSOM!

My writing career blossoms. 

Ta da! My theme in four words.

The day after I'd decided on my theme--I hadn't told anyone yet--Mr. Rae and I were texting about what I might be doing that day. I responded. Something like, "I have to get this synopsis done and sent off to my editor ASAP for a book proposal." (I'd been working hard on it for a couple of days...as in shut away behind a tiny door, deep in the bowels of our house, and no one had seen me in forever.) See for yourself how the rest of the text conversation went.

Also, see for yourself that he's the sweetest guy ever!

Blossom!

Did you see that?

He said blossom! And I hadn't even told him! (And he would never snoop, in case your sneaky little mind was wondering.) It was a sign from the universe. I'm on the right path.

And books ARE coming. For those you waiting for a Mayflower Mages book, the third book is with the publishing gods who live in New York, waiting to hear its destined fate...

...may they be benevolent and kind in all their wisdom. Amen.

In the meantime, I'm working through draft after draft of the fourth book. 

One way or another, I will have release dates soon for both books.

After all, it is written in my planner that they. Will. Be. Published.

It is written; therefore, it is so.

Because I read about it everyday.

See for yourself. (It's square bullet points #1 and #4.)

(Colorful pens and doodles. The keys to success.)

I have a lot to accomplish in 2017, but that's what blossoming is all about...brimming forth with creative potential that flowers into actuality.

Life is busy. Writing is happening. Books are coming.

And now I have to go put a checkmark in my planner next to "Write blog post."

Mr. Rae steals my heart again

I was editing in the back seat of my minivan last night at soccer practice. It's what I do Monday through Thursday. Last night I finished a draft...one that turned the story into something delicious.

Finally.

FINALLY.

I almost cried when I reached The End.

I still have another draft to go--SIX DAYS TO DEADLINE!--but I texted my husband that I'd finished this one.

He said we should celebrate.

I said with cake and champagne.

Alas, that's not on our diet.

Look what was waiting for me when I came home. 

Dear Microsoft Word for Mac,

You most likely know that you are very important piece of software to Mac users everywhere. Without you, we would struggle to conduct business communications with PC users. I appreciate your help in that endeavor. 

I would like to ask you for a little bit more help. Just a smidge. Less than a pinch really.

I'm a novelist. And I write big books and I cannot lie. No other brother can deny--

Oh. Sorry.  It's just such a catchy song, you know. (My children would be mortified.) Back to my issue...

Why do you stop showing the word count of the document once there are more than 100,000 words? Do you think that once there are that many words a writer no longer needs to see the count? Is it too hard to count any higher in a timely fashion? Is it because there isn't enough room in the little word count bar at the bottom of the page?

I would like to encourage you to show that you can easily count higher than 100,000. I know you can! You're Microsoft. You mighty beast, you! 

Please help a little old writer like me. Help me know when I've finally cut my draft down to under 100,000. Don't keep it a surprise as I slowly shrink the book. I like to see my progress without having to click. 

If this is absolutely not an option for you, I understand.

Some things are hard.

In which case, I have another suggestion. How about creating a shortcut so that I can bring up the word count box without lifting my fingers from the keyboard? 

Also, while you're making shortcuts, could you please make one for the strikethrough feature? Italics, bold, and underline all have their own shortcuts. Why not one for strikethrough, too? If you need some help in that, I suggest you call Scrivener. They have a lovely shortcut for it. 

I'm certain you believe in equality for all font styles, just like I'm certain you believe in equality for all sizes of word count--tiny, small, medium, and Venti. I look forward to a long, shortcut-filled relationship with you.

Thank you,

Anise Rae

At the page

I'm scrambling to put the finishing touches on book three. Finishing touches ought not to include re-writing fifty pages of the ending or rethinking the bad guys and their accomplices...and is there a conspiracy in this story? Yes? But I don't have time to write that!

Evidently I need to redefine my definition of "finishing touches" because I'm pretty sure this happens to me every time I get to final stages of editing a book...before it goes to my editor, that it. 

Today's writing has gone like this: think, think, think. Come on. You can figure this out. Brainstorm. Mindmap. Replot on index cards. Repost index cards on wall. This is never going to work. Starry vibes, I've got a ton of work ahead of me. This is never going to work. Okay, I'll start on the easy part. That's done. Now the hard part. How am I ever going to get this done? Pen and notebook paper. Handwriting a scene. I should switch to typing. Okay, so this isn't terrible writing. Oh, I like these characters. There is hope. But man. So much work ahead. 

I've got one hour and fifteen minutes of good writing time left. For today that is.

Later!

Hey, a writer's got to get her inspiration from somewhere

Here's a little tidbit about the inspiration behind one character in Syphon's Song. 

Claude Hines is named in honor of Duncan Hines. 

Because I like cake. A lot.

And there's nothing that looks better to me than the picture of cake on the Devil's Food cake mix box. 

Ok, except Alexander Skarsgard in Tarzan. He looks better. 

Yum. Just yum.

The importance of creating lots and lots and lots

It's been a long time, but I'm finally on a roll with writing. Life has settled down, become steady, and even when it's not, my new philosophy, as of the past six months, is "teach yourself to work in uncertainty."

Teach yourself to work in uncertainty. ~Bernard Malamud

I've assigned myself another motto as well: 

Work hard and publish, publish, publish. ~Anise Rae

Among a few of my writer friends, I'm known for being wordy when it comes to first and second drafts. Really wordy...as in novels that are too long to submit. That makes it a challenge to publish, publish, publish because it takes a long time to get all those words down. It takes more time to trim the excess.

But lately I've been experimenting.

Experiment! ~Anise Rae

Just that word stirs up excitement in the glitter and goodness of my creative soul. (Creativity needs to be stirred frequently. Like a cauldron brimming with iridescent swirls and rainbows, creativity bubbles best when there's a big spoon moving through it.) 

At its heart, creating something new is an experiment. Always. But it takes skill and willpower to keep that fresh, determined feeling alive through the long process of creating the first draft of a novel. 

I realized this after I decided to write a short novella. I wasn't sure I could do it. Wordy girls don't mix well with abbreviated tales. 

But I figured I had little lose. It shouldn't take me that long write, I told myself, not when compared to a novel-length work. I planned to work on it for one hour a day. As I started the process, I even re-wrote the beginning a few times to make sure I had the story starting the way I wanted it to. That was an easy step to justify. If each scene took me an hour to draft, then I was only losing a couple of hours of work in that mini-experiment. 

Also, I didn't plot. I didn't plan. This is soul-shaking stuff for a person who likes rules and structure.

After working on it for at least one hour a day on it, mostly sprinting with the lovely and talented Kiersten Fay, I put it away. For the rest of my work day, I edited a novel that has taken me over a year to develop.

It took me thirteen days to create the first draft of the novella.

I should have celebrated with cake and confetti.

Alas, I'm on a diet and the house is already messy enough.

Now I'm working on my second novella. This one is in a slightly different sub-genre than usual for me which adds to the experiment. I'm sprinting for one hour a day, while still editing the novel during the rest of the day. 

It's freeing. And fun.

And that's the way creating should be.

Will this last? Who knows? But that's okay. Experimenting with different creative paths is a way of life for every creator, including novelists. You'd think that once a writer gets some books under her belt then she should have her process down, but I've had to give up that idea. Every book is an adventure...even for the writer. 

Embrace the adventure. ~Anise Rae 

Temptation Striking

I wrote 3,000 words yesterday. For a weekend, that’s not bad at all. In fact, compared to the last year of writing, 3,000 words is so beyond excellent there ought to be continuous fireworks blossoming above my house and a field full of yellow, happy dandelions bobbing with joy and delight in my front yard. 

But when yesterday evening rolled around, my brain was wrung out. Happens. No biggie. By morning, it's ready to go again. The problem is staying focused on my goal during those evening hours. When my brain is tired, it wants to leave my writing realm and go someplace else…preferably via a book. It wants to travel into someone else’s sci fi or fantasy world where the promise of romance lurks, as well as some really hot sex. Alas, reading a deliciously, yummy romance while I’m writing my own book pulls me out of my story world, which is where I really need to stay without distraction for weeks and weeks in order to get my book finished. This requires some serious discipline. 

Discipline always requires a plan. 

I once read an FB post from author Denise Grover Swank. She was getting ready to write a new book and needed to have her entertainment lined up for when she was done with writing for the day, which meant watching TV shows and not reading books. 

Even though I’m not a big screen fan, I’m all for the TV Plan for Writing Focus. 

My plan consists of The Good Wife. It’s on Amazon Prime and has so many seasons that I should be done with my book before I get to the end. (I love Alicia! Although I really get nervous for her when she’s about to make a bad decision. I don’t enjoy that.) I watch the show through the Amazon app on my antique Wii. However, in the last two days, our Internet has changed. (Hubby’s domain, and I’m not even going to try to remember the details.) My poor, old Wii can no longer connect to the Internet. 

I can’t watch The Good Wife! My TV Plan for Writing Focus is kaput! 

Naturally I had a weak moment. 

I tried to resist. 

Really. 

I tried reading writing blogs. I tried knitting. I tried looking for other shows through OnDemand. But without Alicia, it just wasn’t the same. 

I weakened. I downloaded a sample of a fantasy novel that had no element of romance. (These pose little threat to my focus because what’s a story without romance? Boring, that’s what.) My wrung-out brain wasn’t buying it though. 

I teetered farther toward the edge of the wagon. I googled new paranormal romance novels. Just to see. You understand? Right? After all, it’s my field of expertise. I need to stay on top of things. I ended up on FreshFiction.com. One thing led to another, and I ended up downloading a sample (a sample, mind you) of Rebecca Zanetti’s Mercury Striking. It was delicious. And then the sample ended. Ended! I would have to buy. 

But no!

Must resist!

Sigh. 

Resist I did.

Instead I went back and reread the sample and studied her writing style. I turned my weak moment into an improving experience. 

I have no idea what happens in this book, but I’m certain it’s delicious. 

Now it’s a carrot dangling on the end of a very, very long stick. Very dangerous. One tiny, little jump off the wagon and it’s mine. All mine!

Moral of the story: If you want to remain disciplined, always have a plan B. Also, a plan C. 

I still have neither. 

Wishing you strength and the wisdom to have a backup plan,

Anise

P.S. Please, someone go buy Mercury Striking and read it in my stead.  Then leave a comment below and tell me how awesome it is. (But don’t tell me what happens because I am SO going to read it…as soon as my book is written. Riiiiigght.)

 P.P.S. If you do read it and you live in the US and you’re the first person to comment as doing so on my blog, I’ll send you a prize. ;) If you don’t live in the US, please do still comment. I’ll send you bundles of gratitude and hugs and kisses and good thoughts and wishes for a winning lottery ticket. I’ll blow all that in your direction. Which sounds like it’s nowhere near as good as a real prize, but when you win the lottery, I’m certain you’ll feel differently.