Scribbling #5

After that writerly type class I started in April finished, I jumped into another one, offered through the NYU School of Professional Studies. Lots of great prompts in that class too. One inspired a piece (a true story!) that I reckoned would suit my little bloggy-blog to a T. The prompt: "Write about an awkward moment at school OR about a birthday party OR a romantic moment during puberty." I sorta mixed the first and third options into a weird little cocktail (you'd expect nothing less from me, no doubt).

*          *          *

My first high school, Saint Raphael’s, suffered from under-enrollment to the point that we had to merge with our brother school (this is not a euphemism). So it was in the fall semester of my sophomore year at Holy Trinity that I laid eyes upon my first serious crush, Patrick Greco*. Impossibly tall, with a shock of blonde hair framing a pale and narrow face and sapphire blue eyes, he stole my breath. If I hadn’t just lunched before my first Greco sighting, I might’ve swooned. Thinking back, I’ve no idea why he affected my heart-rate as he did, when the type I’ve come to be really into is tall, dark, and broody (as well as authoritative—yeah, I’ve got a daddy thing, so what?). But affect me he did, and I mooned around, all that fall, gushing about him to all my little girlfriends.

Unfortunately, I also told one of my new guy friends. The wrong guy friend.

Derek Jacobs, a junior, was acquainted with young Greco and offered to play matchmaker. I freaked out at the very thought. I was so incredibly innocent, so untouched, naïve. The word “sheltered” fails to convey the heartiness with which my mother preserved my virtue. I’m convinced the old gal would’ve brought back the chastity belt if she’d only known about it. I used to tell my friends that the epitaph on my tombstone would read, “Return to sender—unopened.”

I think you get the picture.

I knew nothing about dating and wasn’t supposed to. It seemed an exercise in futility for Jacobs to say anything about me to Greco, who likely didn’t even know I existed. That is, he didn’t until Jacobs went against my express wishes and let fly Cupid’s arrow at the hapless towheaded boy of sixteen.

One day soon after (I’m guessing, as I was completely unaware that Jacobs had spilled my beans) (as it were), I crouched down at my locker, fishing for whatever I needed for my next class. The corridor teemed with uniformed teens, the noise in the uncarpeted hallway deafened. I was caught completely off-guard when the door to my locker swung out of my hand. As I raised my eyes, Patrick Greco crouched down beside me. He seemed preternaturally serene, even if his dark blue eyes burned like dying stars. My heart seized at his sudden nearness. Then he said, “So. I hear you like me.”

Well, damn—I wasn’t ready for that! I don’t know that I could’ve handled anything else he might have thrown at me, but there was absolutely no way I’d been prepared to deal with such directness from a boy. A boy I liked? I said the only thing I could think of to save myself from this horrible exposure. “No!” I shook my head for emphasis, grabbed my stuff, slammed my locker shut, and ran off.

And that was the end of that. Next time Jacobs saw me he had the nerve to laugh. I wish I’d had the nerve to tell him to fuck off. Perhaps if he’d warned me in advance I might not have utterly bungled that milestone.

Because the thing is, I’m forty-bloody-four and still skittish. I’m totally tongue-tied when a guy approaches me, unless it’s someone I know and have some sort of relationship with already. I don’t know that I’d be different, or be able to behave differently at least, if I’d been able to engage fully with that very first opportunity. Maybe not. And I don’t know if Greco and I would’ve gone the distance. Probably not.

Some folks say, “If only I could go back…” I usually feel the opposite: “…thank God I never have to relive that moment.” But for Patrick, and for myself, I almost wish I could…

*Names have been changed to protect the clueless.

Scribbling #4

So I'm a writer who's not been writing and desperately needs to or she'll die (that's not hyperbole). I mentioned in a recent post I took a writerly type class*; in it, the instructor gave prompts meant to spur us into writerly type action. Which, of course, they did (mostly--at least one class saw me penning diatribes against things over which I've absolutely no control because I was emotionally distraught from an earlier event).

Anyway, I'll share with you here something I enjoyed scribbling in class. The prompt was "Write about a physical hardship/injury you've endured."

*     *     *    

"Push! Push! Push like you're going to the bathroom!" Hitler's little sister screamed at me.

"What do you think I'm doing?" I squealed back. My now ragged fingernails dug into the vinyl where I half-sat, half-lay. I felt another one break and bit back a curse.

"You're not pushing!" Hitlerita barked.

"Yes I am!" I attempted to bark back, but a contraction spiked on the monitor and then in my gut and the words slid out on an impotent groan. Bad enough I knew the pain was coming--with that damned machine I could tense up in anticipation of the next fresh wave of hell, which was super helpful, by which I mean not at all. "Please," I panted, "give me an epidural." Another violent cramp gripped me, like a hand had shot up my ass, grasped the base of my spine, and wrenched it like the arm of a slot machine.

"It's too late for that," my OB-GYN said as he fake-jogged into the room. "You're nine centimeters along, we need you to be able to feel so you can push."

"Like you're going to the bathroom!" the Nazi in the surgical mask helpfully reminded me.

On the verge of telling them that I bloody well was pushing, I felt a shift within and held my breath.

"He's coming," said the doctor.

"PUUUUUUUUUUSH!" yelled Eva Braun.

But even as my innards roiled and surged, even as every muscle poised to shoot out the little parasite, I clenched. I was suddenly afraid to see it through, afraid of that final thrust and what it might bring. Or what it might take.

*     *     *    

*If you're not local to NY but interested in writerly type classes, Gotham Writers does offer online classes. Mind you, I've never done any kind of online class, so your mileage may vary. Anyway, I'd say they're worth checking out.

The Heart Laid Bare...

One of my goals for 2014 was that I read more. Another, longer-standing, goal is that I honor the spirit of one of my fave writers, Edgar A. Poe, on his birthday every January 19. To satisfy both aims, I chose to make this January, which marks Poe's 205th year, an all-Poe reading month. First on the list was The Unknown Poe: an anthology of fugitive writings by Edgar Allan Poe, with appreciations by Charles BAUDELAIRE, Stéphane MALLARMÉ, Paul VALÉRY, J.K. HUYSMANS & André BRETON, edited by Raymond FOYE. (Bit of a mouthful, that, eh?)

The book promises snatches of Poe's writing which are hard to find elsewhere. Though it's not a comprehensive collection, from this tidy little volume I derived great pleasure as I read some of Poe's witticisms, as well as an empathetic pity for the suffering revealed in his letters to those he considered trustworthy of such revelations. And it's on the subject of revelations that I write today.

In The Unknown Poe, I came across one of his "Marginalia" (ruminations and other fragments which he slipped into the various periodicals for which he worked) which struck me profoundly and I share with you here (via text believed to be in the public domain, posted on the most excellent website of The Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore):

If any ambitious man have a fancy to revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment, the opportunity is his own — the road to immortal renown lies straight, open, and unencumbered before him. All that he has to do is to write and publish a very little book. Its title should be simple — a few plain words — ”My Heart Laid Bare.” But — this little book must be true to its title.

Now, is it not very singular that, with the rabid thirst for notoriety which distinguishes so many of mankind — so many, too, who care not a fig what is thought of them after death, there should not be found one man having sufficient hardihood to write this little book? To write, I say. There are ten thousand men who, if the book were once written, would laugh at the notion of being disturbed by its publication during their life, and who could not even conceive why they should object to its being published after their death. But to write it — there is the rub. No man dare write it. No man ever will dare write it. No man could write it, even if he dared. The paper would shrivel and blaze at every touch of the fiery pen. (Text: Edgar Allan Poe, “Marginalia [part X],” Graham’s Magazine, January 1848, pp. 23-24.)

Numerous questions flooded my mind and I closed the book to ponder these words as my commuter train rumbled its speedy way north of Manhattan. Why would the paper blaze? Why would the pen catch fire? Is it because of the flaming rage which would have to grip an author for her to be capable of laying her heart bare to the world?

I say "rage" because I see the truth of Poe's assertion in me and in my blogging. In my previous post, my first of 2014, I initially filled a good third of the page with incensed verbiage, which, once written, I swiftly deleted in favor of the tamer opening which remains. I'd laid open a dark recess of my heart, roiling with fury, but I couldn't let it be seen. In part, I daren't expose the ugliness, the pathetic impotence, within me. I'm a writer of romance who'd just placed an ad on a website popular with her target readers, one which links to her blog. Did I really want the first thing these folks saw to be all this ick?

Not only they; but who the hell else would want to read it? No one admires weakness; God knows that point's been brought home to me, again and again. And it's not due to repeated, whiny, useless bitching which, when it's not followed by decisive action to bring about the desired change, is bound to try the patience of even a saint (and, I will admit, tries my own when I'm subjected to it, and I sure as fuck ain't no saint). No, I reference the near-immediate shutdowns from those claiming to love me best when I've unburdened myself to them on a matter for the very first time. Faced with their disdain, I've resealed my heart and lips. If those nearest and dearest to me can disparage my heartache so swiftly, so brutally, how much more would the world? Or would the world, because it is so far removed from my heart, be kinder to it?

Right, so: now I've just done what I'd sworn not to do last week. Encountering Poe's words this week, words so connected to this sore spot, encouraged me to uncover this darkness. I can't say I feel it's accomplished anything, but at the very least I feel a bit more authentic for having done it. And I'm about to go one better, though the coming words are also not my own.

As noted in The Unknown Poe's title, the book contains "appreciations" of Poe and his work by several French poets and writers. Perhaps the most notorious among them, Charles Baudelaire proved a great admirer of Poe, and defender of The Artist in general. In an introduction to one of his translations of Poe's works, presented in this book (and again on the EAP Society of Baltimore's website, slightly abridged here), Baudelaire laid out a series of ideas which have haunted me for some time, whether due to the depression my meds only just manage to keep at bay, or an overly developed artistic sensibility. Even if the latter, so bloody well be it: it's a relief to know that, at least once in time, another acknowledged the injustices perpetrated by the dark forces which surround us, and railed against them:

...many...bear the word Luckless written in mysterious characters in the sinuous folds of their foreheads. The blind angel of Expiation hovers for ever around them, punishing them with rods for the edification of others. It is in vain that their lives exhibit talents, virtues or graces. Society has for them a special anathema, accusing them even of those infirmities which its own persecutions have generated...Does there, then, exist some diabolic Providence which prepares misery from the cradle; which throws, and throws with premeditation, these spiritual and angelic natures into hostile ranks, as martyrs were once hurled into the arena? Can there, then, be holy souls destined to the sacrificial altar, compelled to march to death and glory across the very ruins of their lives! Will the nightmare of gloom eternally besiege these chosen souls? Vainly they may struggle, vainly conform themselves to the world, to its foresight, to its cunning; let them grow perfect in prudence, batten up every entry, nail down every window, against the shafts of Fate; still the Demon will enter by a key-hole; some fault will arise from the very perfection of their breastplate; some superlative quality will be the germ of their damnation...(Text: C. Baudelaire [trans. H. Curwen], “Edgar Allan Poe: His Life and Works,” The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, London: John Camden Hotten, 1873, pp. 1-21)

Will the nightmare of gloom eternally besiege these chosen souls? A fine question, Charles. Perhaps you and Eddy have discovered the answer(s) lying beyond the veil. If so, some slight hint would not go amiss, whether by the encounter of some night-clad bird or slinky cat, or a flower wafting across my path. Is "surcease of sorrow" ever to be gained, in this lifetime? Or is the best which can be hoped for solely surcease of all earthly sensation?

A Two-fer: A Writerly Type Blog Hop & A Review

One of my good bloggy friends, Allyson Lindt, tagged me in a hop AND I've just finished reading her most recent contemporary romance, so for today's post I'm offering a two-fer-the-price-of-one. (Not that I'm charging y'all to read this, or anything, but you know what I mean...) So first, let's go to—

The Hop!

For this writerly-type hop, authors who've been tagged answer a buncha questions, then tag 3 of their fellow writers to do the same. (There's always a catch.) The questions are as follows:

What are you working on right now?
'Cause I'm pressed for time (and lazy), I'm gonna rip off the answer I gave in an interview I did earlier this month, with one of the gals I'm tagging for this Hop:

A mini-anthology of three short stories, as I want to show my more “modern voice.” In terms of fiction, my readers will have come to know the “Homer meets Jane Austen” voice I used in That Fatal Kiss, so I want folks to know I’m not a one-trick pony. Two of the shorts are paranormal/supernatural stories set in the present, and the third tale will follow Hades and Persephone as they settle into married life (with all the horrors that entails).

How does it differ from other works in its genre?
Well, I claim to be an author of "dark and whimsical romance." While there's plenty of paranormal stuff out there, even funny paranormal (MaryJanice Davidson & Katie MacAlister are two of my fave writers), my particular brand of whimsy has an especially sophisticated edge to it. I like to think so, anyway. (Be a lamb and don't shatter my delusions, if you disagree.) (Better still, don't disagree; it's not nice to contradict a Goth Mom.)

Why do you write what you do?
Oh, why the hell not? J/K. In her answer to this question, Allyson said she writes about what she wants to read: characters "living" in her world. I write about the world in which I'd like to live: one filled with magic. Also, I'm getting a little tired of the preponderance of nubile virgin chicks in the 21st century of romance fiction. C'mon, folks—in the 21st century??!?!!?! I want to read about middle-aged gals, like me, who've been around the block a few times, stalled, and eventually got their motors running again. (I'm hoping that last bit comes to pass for me sooner, rather than later.)

How does your writing process work?
When it's working, with lots of coffee. Formerly, with cigarettes, too, but I've been off them for a little over two months now. (Yay, me!) Uh...I like to write at night, possibly because when The Kid was little, that's the only time I had to write. I usually write a first draft long-hand, then typing it out becomes the second draft, though I've also written first drafts on my laptop (which I find both exhilarating and terrifying).

Writerly-friends, I tag YOU:

Samantha Redstreake Geary

Yolanda Renée

Priscilla Shay

And now...

THE REVIEW!

TOEING THE LINE is #2 in Allyson's Bits & Bytes series (though actually, a prequel makes this the 3rd book, technically). Here's the gist of it:

Zane’s time in the Air Force doing electronic surveillance has taught him a thing or two about keeping secrets. But when his best friend, Riley, finds out what he’s kept from her, their “friends with benefits” relationship won’t be what threatens their growing feelings for each other.

Riley tends to fall hard and fast for the guys she dates, and it never ends with the wedding bells she expects. Tired of the heartbreak and unsure if she even knows what love is, she swears off unreliable things like dating and trying to find that elusive happily-ever-after spark. Focusing on her art seems like the perfect distraction, except she’s missing the physical side of being half a couple. Fortunately, her best friend, Zane, is happy to model for her drawings and tie her up in the bedroom, with no expectations. Just fun.

Zane’s granddad raised him with the belief that people who bring joy to the world should be protected at all costs. For Zane, his best friend Riley is one of those people, and he definitely doesn’t mind when making her happy involves helping her pursue her creative dream and some sport sex with a hint of kink. They can have fun, and he can keep her from falling for the next idiot who comes along while she searches for her Prince Charming.

Regardless of her resolution, as things heat up between them Riley finds herself falling again. She needs to decide if she’s in love with the idea of being in love, or if—despite Zane’s insistence that she deserves someone better—what she feels for him is the real thing. If she can’t learn to trust her heart and convince Zane he’s exactly what she needs, it will obliterate a lifelong friendship.

The idea of "no-strings-sex" seems a recurring theme in this series. Interestingly, apart from book 1, the couples involved already know each other, they've already got a history. With history, there are, naturally enough, feelings, which tend to make "no-strings-sex" tricky to pull off. On the other hand, when the sex is as hot as Zane and Riley's, I can understand being reluctant to leave off having it. The book starts off hard and fast with some spicy remote-sex, and develops into lightly-kinky real-life sex not too far down the storyline.

In this work of fiction, Allyson explores a truth that always amazes me: how people so intimately involved with one another physically can be completely clueless about one another's emotions (and sometimes, about their own). I can truly empathize with Riley's confusion as to whether what she feels for a man is actually love, or if she's just so lonely that she projects feelings which aren't real. (I really, truly can.) Toward the end of the tale, Riley does seem to have come to a resolution on this matter, which isn't altogether clear to me—I'd have liked to have seen what brought her to the point of action which broke through the impasse her relationship with Zane'd hit. But her choice didn't surprise, as every thought of hers (and Zane's—love the name, BTW) led up to this very moment.

TOEING THE LINE is a fun, quick, steamy read set in a modern world that fans of shows like The Big Bang Theory may really get into. I look forward to more of Allyson Lindt's hip love stories...and as it happens, her newest contemporary romance novella, Unconventional Fling, is available TODAY!

Click here to read Chapter 1 for FREE!

Writerly Things ~ Revediting

*Expletives were not deleted from this post.*

A marked-up-for-editing snippet from my book, That Fatal Kiss, coming this September!
Lord willing and the police permitting, as my Portuguese forebears would say.

I've been on "stay-cation" since Tuesday, June 18. I had a bunch of revisions/editing to do (hence, "revediting"), based on the notes of the super gal* I employed to copy-edit That Fatal Kiss (TFK). Spent the first couple weeks mostly catching up with Facebook and the Twitter, futzing with my blog's font and text color (as you may already know), and watching lotsa Bones re-runs on the tee-vee. So, you know, I was super productive.

Knowing full well that I needed to get my ass in gear if I wanted to release my book on time, I pushed myself as hard as I could to get through my revediting during my last week off. Nearly every waking hour, for the past 7 days, were spent working on my manuscript.

Please understand that I'm in love with my main characters, Hades and Persephone. I adore them. I lust after them in a quasi-incestuous way. (OK, I lust after Hades, but I think Persephone's a super cool chick.) I've enjoyed tagging along on their courtship journey, immensely.

But I swear, if I have to:

• do one more damned "Find and Replace" because, somehow, I missed getting rid of a word the first hundred times I edited this book;
• pore through this manuscript, looking for quotation marks that are in a font different from the text (how the fuck did that happen???);
• "...delete one more goddamn adverb!" she typed vexedly;

just one more motherfucking time, I may have to cut my own throat.

I am so heartily tired of working on this bitch. SO. TIRED. I'm more than ready to hire someone to do a final post-revediting proofread, format this shit for e-readers, and make this fucker available for purchase online. TFK, I am DONE with you! DONE, DONE, DONE!!!!!

::sighs::

OK, I know I'm not done with you. I know we still have some matters to sort out before I can unleash you upon an unsuspecting world. And you know I heart you, baby, right? Right??? I just need a little breakie-woo. And then I'm-a polish you off, dress you up real purty-like, and put you up on them virtual bookshelves so others can fall in love with you too. XOXOX

*The super gal I hired to edit TFK is Jena O'Connor. Jena has a B.S. and M.A. in English, teaches English at the high school level and has taught writing at the college level, and has released her own romance novel, Mixing Up a Memory. She's friendly, prompt, highly skilled, and has extensive knowledge of the romance genre. Also, her rates are amazingly affordable and she does great work. If you need an editor, I highly recommend you check out her Web site, Practical Proofing.

Writerly Things ~ Making Time

Additional Disclaimer:

Plenty of earthy language follows. Just sayin'.

Dear Reader, I'm ready to bet that at least once in your life you've uttered a sentiment similar to this one: "I'd do {insert super-groovy thing you'd love to do here} if only I had the time." Now, God knows I've experienced phases in which my every day responsibilities to my full-time jobby-job, my son, my parents, even my friends, have overwhelmed me. Everybody wants a piece of me and there's precious little to spare. Yeah, life can suck like that, sometimes.

If, like me, you also battle the demon of depression, then doing that super-groovy thing you love can seem impossible. In part, you feel like when you don't have to do a thing, you just bloody well won't do it, and that's that. You're drained, exhausted. You've got nothing left in you to give, even to yourself. You just can't do it. That is even le suckier, because then you find yourself letting your spare hour/evening/weekend piddle away and guilt floods you, because now  you can do that super-groovy thing, and what the fuck are you doing with this precious gift of time, but a whole lotta nothing???

Well, funk that noise.

First, whether you do or don't suffer from depression, those feelings of guilt are an exaggerated response to that evil little rat-bastard worming his way through your soul and mind and, as such, are pretty useless. Except for making you feel worse about yourself, and who the hell needs that? Pas moi. And pas toi, for that matter. Nobody needs that.

You know what you do need?

You need to do that super-groovy thing you love.

Why do you need to? Because it's medicinal; doing something you love can make you feel better, and then you may want to do more, and feel better still. Because you feeling better will make the people who love you feel better, and then you want to perpetuate that cycle 'cause, you know, you love them. And feeling better is as much a need as food, water, shelter, and Lindt chocolates. (OK, maybe that last one's not a need, but damn; work with me, people.) And, you know, you don't worry too much about finding time to eat, drink, and seek shelter. You do that shit tout de suite because you know you need to. So forget about trying to find time for that super-groovy thing you love; you're going to make time for it.

For me, that super-groovy thing is sex, but since that's not on the table (or on any other piece of furniture, alas), I write. I adore writing. I love my main characters. When I make time to hang out with them, as I've been managing to do more and more, of late, I'm all giddy and infatuated and, frankly, I'm so engrossed in their stories that I've no sense of time passing. The pleasure I derive from writing is just as hot as sex. There, I said it. No, I'm not high. Writing is as good as sex, for me, and if you're a writer, it may be true for you as well, and who the hell doesn't want to make time for sex???

Right; my train of thought just got a wee bit derailed, there. Pardonnez-moi.

Writers, whatever your situation, you can make time for that super-groovy writing you love. Look at your weekly planner, determine how much time you can devote to your writing, and write that jazz down in pen. (Everything's more serious when you write it in pen, ever notice that?) It doesn't have to be a lot of time, but it should be as close to every day as possible. (Ladies taking The Pill: you take that thing on some kinda regular schedule or else the system fails, amiright???) And when that precious time rolls around, you make sure your space for it is set up and just get down to it. Don't turn on the TV (unless you really, truly get into the writing flow when there's background conversation), don't log in to any social media. Just write. Write by hand, if online-goofery's too tempting to resist otherwise. I crank up my favorite tuneage and get cracking. (Duran Duran's got a way of priming my pump.) (So to speak.)

And don't worry about doing it perfectly. Like sex, the pleasure of writing doesn't spring from some flawless ideal; it comes from the sweaty physical contact, the stumbling engagement with the moment, and the breathtaking twists that come along the way to shake, rattle, and roll you. (I know you know what I'm talking about.) I read this nifty piece from Writers Digest today, and the bit about "nothing is ever wasted" really resonated with me. 'Cause it ain't. It's all beautiful. And it's all good. And anyway, we don't need perfection; what we need is to strive.

A Guest Post & the Lunar Lovin' Hop!

The Guest Post

YA Romance author, Cassie Mae, put a call out for guest posters back in December, which I answered with an offer to recycle an earlier post of mine, Writerly Things. You can check out this groovy chick's blog (and my guest post) on Monday, Jan. 28 (like, today) by clicking here.

And now, the...

The full moon of January is known as the Wolf Moon. Appropriate for a Lobo like me, would ye nay say???

If you don't know what the hell I'm on about, click here for more info, and know that it ain't too late to sign up for this thang.

I was born on the moon's day (Monday, as was my son), and I'm sooo in love with la lune, if I were a dude, I'd say I have a raging hard-on for it. Hell, I'll say it regardless. I have a raging hard-on for the moon. There, I've said it. So I snapped a stupid number of pics of her on January 27, from the wee hours of the morning till just after Downton Abbey aired on PBS. You don't have to look at all of them, of course, but I hope you'll scroll down to see the (short!) list of participants in my lunacy. (Lunacy, didja get it? See what I did there? Didja?)

This was shot a little after midnight, Sunday morning, probably the best shot of the lot.

This was my first glimpse of her Sunday night. ::swoons::

Here's the saucy wench from the opposite end of my block, sorta.

Peek-a-Boo Moon I

Peek-a-Boo Moon II

Post Downton Abbey

The last shot of the night

::Sighs:: What a gorgeous gal, is the moon. Oh, to bask in her reflecting glory from my beach house's master bedroom's balcony...

...maybe someday...

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Writerly Things ~ On Formatting...

Many moons ago, when I was just beginning to make myself a slave to debt, thus necessitating gainful employment with a “day job,” I attended some corporate-type seminar that aspired to help us poor unfortunates make the most of Microsoft Office suite (whatever the hell iteration it was in at the start of this millennium). The fella who led the workshop was a reasonably attractive blond (as opposed to unreasonably attractive), probably in his late 30s/early 40s at the time, and bore the sun-wearied look of an ex-golfer. (You know the type.) (C’mon, you surely do.) (OK, I’ll stop calling you Shirley.)

His instruction style was affably informative and only once did he pierce us with a glare which positively dared us to do stuff like add up figures in Excel using an external calculator, rather than using formulas in the spreadsheet itself, and whatnot. Mostly, he outlined best practices for productivity and provided us with loads of helpful tips which I promptly forgot, excepting one: Write first, format later.

Now, this may be obvious to you, dear readers, but to me it was as though the sky had split wide open and the rays of heaven shone upon the PowerPoint projection, while the soaring harmonies of androgynous angels swelled about us. Write first, format later. By all that’s holy, what brilliance!

If you’re anything like me, you tend to futz with your stuff as you write it, tweaketty-tweak-tweaking every italic, every bit of boldness, every underline, bulleting furiously as you go and then swearing like a sailor (who's on leave at some seedy port and finds himself down to just one condom and no drugstore around for miles) when you can’t rid yourself of the bulleting without reverse formatting everything you’d bulleted before. It’s fun, in a way, to prettify your prose; hell, it’s certainly easier to do that than to create new prose, ain’t it?

And I reckon that’s the problem—we get hung up on what we’ve already written and dither over its comforting existence, rather than boldly moving forward and wrasslin’ with our psyches to wrench every bit of magic out of our heads and onto the screen (or paper; I don’t judge). (Plus, I compose most of my first drafts with pen and notebook, so I’m right there with ya.)

The instructor explained all this and repeated the phrase “Write first, format later,” several times, with such intensity and conviction that it, alone, remained within ready grasp in my memory banks. I find it frequently pops to the forefront of my mind, whether I’m sweating over day-job correspondence and reports, or during the sweeter toil of writing stories and crafting blog posts. It snaps me out of the break in generative flow and helps me to push on and write more, more, more. I’ll admit, though, that when I first implemented this strategy, it made me crazy to know I had to italicize a thing but mustn’t till the first draft was complete. Cra-zee. (OK, crazier than is my wont.) But I got over it. Eventually.

And because I’ve come to believe in this concept with the same fervor as ex-golfer dude, I, too, will repeat it: Write first, format later. You may feel all twitchy and out of sorts the first few times you try it, but keep at it for a bit and you also may be bathed by a celestial spotlight and transported by the strains of cosmic choirs. (Or you may simply dig it, which, though less lofty, is nothing to sneeze at.)

Writerly Things ~ Query Letters

For this episode of "Writerly Things," I'll touch on a subject near and dear to the hearts of those aspiring to publication—query letters (also known as the "pitch letter.") (And by "near and dear," I mean, "which causes much grinding and gnashing of teeth and, possibly, alcoholism and/or abuse of cold medications with sedating properties.")

If you're not familiar with this term, lemme 'splain. (No, there ees too mush—lemme sum up.) In the business of publishing, the query letter is similar to the cover letter you write to accompany your resume when you apply for a job. Only, the query letter isn't selling you, but your book. (OK, by extension, it's selling you as well, but mainly, it's meant to highlight your work.) In a query letter to a literary agent or editor/publisher, the writer endeavors to interest the reader in requesting a look at the work in question, with an eye to securing either representation (in the case of an agent) or publication (in the case of an editor).

Now, I'm no query letter expert. My own experiences with hooking a person's interest have been mixed. For my first book, That Fatal Kiss, I queried publishers and managed to get a nibble from one editorial assistant, bless her heart, who requested the full manuscript (or MS) but passed on the project. For my second novel, Bedeviled, I concentrated on querying agents instead and got three bites but no offers of representation. Le suck. This sad reality notwithstanding, I have had plenty of experience in formatting query letters/query packages and will share them with y'all here. (Please note: this is just how I do stuff, which isn't to say it's the best way, but it's one way, and if you've never done this before, it might prove helpful to you.) Also, I query for fiction, so the info below is for that sorta query.

How I Get Started
I identify the agents who seem to be interested in representing the kinda stuff I like to write, using resources like:

• AgentQuery
• QueryTracker

At a query workshop, one agent suggested looking up the acknowledgement pages in my favorite books to see if the authors thank their agents and perhaps query those cats (assuming they're open to unsolicited queries).

To research the more promising dudes, and make sure I really want to query them, I'll check out:

• Absolute Write Water Cooler - Bewares, Recommendations & Background Check
• Preditors & Editors

Once I've got a list of folks, I visit/bookmark their agencies' Web sites to learn their submissions requirements. If none can be found, I'll go with the guidelines on AgentQuery or QueryTracker, and/or I'll use my best judgment (such as it is).

What I Include in A Query
That'll depend on the agent or publisher's stated requirements. Sending things in excess of what they say they want is a waste of time, energy, and money. And I'm both lazy and cheap, so I like to keep things simple, if I can.

A Query May Comprise:

• The query letter
• That and a synopsis*
• These and anywhere from 1 - 50 pages of your MS
• These and an outline*
• Any combo of the above items

*I'll write more about the synopsis and outline in a future post. God willing. (I'm of Portuguese descent, which equals superstitious, which means nothing is certain till it actually happens.) ('Cause we're fatalistic like that.)

How I Format My Query Letter

1. 1" margins all around (for paper; I don't sweat margins in an e-query)
2. Font: If a paper query, something with a serif, like Times New Roman. If e-query, a sans-serif font, like Arial
3. Block style business letter (though mostly I've been querying via e-mail, but either way, it's all aligned left)
4. One page in length (check each person/place's requirements, though; sometimes 2 pages are acceptable but generally, from what I've read, less is more)

What The Hell Goes Into a Query Letter?
These folks give good advice on the matter:

• Rachelle Gardner, Literary Agent
• Ann C. Crispin, Chair, Writer Beware
• Lynn Flewelling, Writer

Once I've got the basic letter written, I get to e-mailing/posting to the individuals, being sure to check I've got the right names in the right letters and tailored each query to each agent appropriately. If mailing a query, I include a self-addressed stamped envelope for a reply. My experience is that, generally, only a negative reply will require the SASE (unless, I suppose, the person you're querying doesn't do e-mail).

OK, so, that's all I got. Fellow writers, what words of wisdom would you add to this query letter primer?

Writerly Things ~ Collage Me, If You Can!

These are a few of my writerly things...

On a recent visit to my friend Andrea Teagan's blog (The Enchanted Writer), I read with pleasure her post "How to Make a Story Inspiration Collage." The basic gist of the project is to make a visual representation of a current work in progress (or WIP) and have it readily visible for when you're writing and feel yourself getting a bit stuck. The instructions are simple and I remember thinking that just going through the process of making the collage would probably stir up all sorts of ideas for your WIP. My next thought was, "Hang on; I totally made one of these for my (as yet unpublished) novel, Bedeviled !

I dunno about y'all but, as I write, I tend to need firm mental images of real-life folks to fill in these sort of abstract characters who're clambering out of my head and onto paper (yes, paper, as I tend to write my first drafts longhand). They're actors, usually, though sometimes they're folks with whom I'm personally acquainted - which isn't to say I'm basing the characters on the folks, just that these are the visuals I've got when I'm writing the characters.

Anyway, at some point that I worked on Bedeviled, I felt myself stall and so I put together a collage which, I must admit, is not as grand as the collage Andrea posted on her site but worked the necessary writerly mojo for me. There are two panels to this collage, which I've scanned and elaborated upon, below. My character's names come first (followed by the names of the dudes I visualize as I write, in parentheses).

Clockwise from the top: Ardos (Thomas Gibson); some random beach, somewhere; Father Gianni (William Hurt); me and my Sis on a wintry Robert Moses Beach, Long Island, NY; Gavin (Gerard Butler); and Mike (Samuel West).

Clockwise from the upper left: Cadzick (John Cusack); me and my Sis on her alma mater's campus (I envision this space as belonging to the chapel in my story); Gabe (Matthew McConaughey); Rafe (my friend, singer-songwriter Tama Waipara); a snippet from some magazine which perfectly summarized the basic themes of the story; a clawed hand belonging to no one in particular...as far as I know.

I've been thinking of Bedeviled as a supernatural thriller for quite some time but, lately, have desired to take it in more of a romantic direction - which is to say, rather than starting with the Main Character's love life at its crisis point (and having very little interaction between her and her fella except for the beginning and end of the tale), I want to tell the same crazy story while also showing the developing relationship between Madeleine (my main chick) and Gavin (her main squeeze). So, yeah; I've a fair bit of revising to do (and then some - what I've got in mind is a gargantuan process which will undoubtedly take me all summer to complete). Am I daunted? Hells, yeah. Can I make it happen? Sho, 'nuff. Probably. (God willing!)