Excited about Macie

Macie Carter's novella came out yesterday? The day before? I've had a strange few days so my time sense is nutty.

Macie is a pen-name for the not-so-innocent author. She's a member of Greater Lehigh Valley Writer's Group and Pocono-Lehigh Romance Writers. And I admire her.

Every time one of my writer friends has a book published, I consider buying it. Many times I don't because the excerpts offered by the publisher commit one of the writing habits that annoy me. Macie's excerpt truly enticed me.

So, I bought it. At $2.50 even unemployed me could indulge. I am so eager to read it, perhaps after I finish my paper for school, or even after my job interview today... before the GLVWG conference.

What attracted me to the excerpt? (Pun intended.) Real life situations. No passive voice. Feelings that I could identify with.

And I'm a harsh critique. So congratulations, Macie! (I almost typed your real name... )

TAMING THE MUSE, available through WILD ROSE PRESS:
http://www.thewildrosepress.com/wilderroses/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=765

The Write Stuff

I'm getting ready for the GLVWG conference The Write Stuff this weekend. I was doing a lot of writing, two chapters over the weekend. And I felt like I was on fire.

Then yesterday I had a falling out with my boss. She made a list of criteria for me to keep my job and I didn't feel I could make it so I left.

Now I'm unemployed.

That's a scary feeling. But it's not worth the constant stress of the job, the job that only paid about $700 a month take-home. I was actually disciplined for being insubordinate on my day off, even though I did everything I was asked to do AND it was my day off.

I mention it because it happened before the conference. I was scheduled to work everyday this week so now I'll have more time. Hopefully I can practice my pitch.

Someone recently said, marketing your writing has always been a crapshoot. You still have the same terrible chances when it comes to the odds of making it, but she felt the uncertain economy had agents looking for the next great thing, instead of the predictable old thing, and maybe give us all a boost.

I don't know.

Stress

As a writer, my craft becomes a release from stress. When I can't cry, I can make them cry. When I can't beat someone up, my bad guys can beat someone up.

I have certain characters that I toy with as a way to relieve stress, some of it ends up as good scenes. Some gets trashed.

Work is really bad right now, the whole situation has me on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Never actually have had a nervous breakdown but in the last few years a certain activity in my life has introduced me to the next level of stress: the panic attack. What's hard about panic attacks, even my mild ones, are the physical reactions that seem to shut your body down.

One of my characters struggles with these. Wonder where he gets it from.

Last night I sat down to do some stress writing. I couldn't decide if I wanted to continue in the current chapter, skip ahead to a happy scene, or write something mean and awful.

None worked out.

Time has not worked out.

So without my writing, I end up popping Ativans and hoping for the best.

My writing lets me expunge my emotions. What does your writing (or reading) do for you?

I made an outline!

Okay, so I've successfully managed to increase the pace of my second novel, Courting Apparitions. I had outlined the entire manuscript earlier, to make sure I didn't miss anything in my revisions as I cut drastically the goings-on.

I have reached Chapter 10, and I don't want to miss any of the details and there's a lot to make sure stays in place.

So, I outline the proposed new manuscript, which chapters were moving where. I started at where I am, outlined three chapters out. Then I started at the end and worked my way back. I continued in this manner until I had two chapters in the middle where nothing happens.

"Luckily," I had forgotten the chapter where the pregnant lady has the baby, which is important since the baby is the focus of action starting with the third-to-last chapter.

But the rearranging is always an interesting exercise. It shows you how on track you are and also allows some creativity in saying "Oh, that deleted scene can go here..."

Troublesome Chapter Nine

I think I finished troublesome chapter nine. It took me a month. Part of that could be blamed on life, since school, work and volunteering have been hectic.

Ironically, yesterday was PLRW and I made my monthly goal to finish chapter nine. That's what made me go back and read it last night and discover that I had written more and better than I thought. That's always a nice feeling.

My next immediate task should be to work on my pitch for the GLVWG conference (The Write Stuff) which is less than 2 weeks away...

I need to freshen my approach and rebuild my enthusiasm. No matter what we're doing-- whether writing or something else-- we all reach that point where we need to freshen and rebuild.

So, let's see...

I write sexy paranormal chick lit where the bad guys make are bad and so are the good girls.

In the first book of my series, supermodel Adelaide Pitney has to protect her feminine power-- the same power that made her a superstar--from a 400-year-old witch who wants to use her latent elemental magick and blood rituals to bend the universe to his will.

Okay... next draft:
Angel Ackerman writes sexy paranormal chick lit set in the high fashion industry. Her bad guys stay bad, her heroines wear high heels. in her first book, supermodel Adelaide Pitney has to protect her feminine power-- the same power that made her a superstar--from a 400-year-old witch who wants to use her latent elemental magick and blood rituals to bend the universe to his will.

Wondering if I fixed it

Here is the next draft of the problem scene from yesterday:

Helen Pitney, in her plaid nightgown, walked along the bar, her hand trailing the surface. Her moccasin slippers shuffled against the slate. Her scratchy footfalls were the only interruption to the awkward silence. Gerald hunched nearby, his hand grasping the wine bottle. Zélie adjusted her robe. Helen commenced another lap. Jules’ eyes sought direction from Étienne, but Étienne wasn’t sure whether he should dismiss the chef or tell him to do something.
“This is the first time you’ve served ice wine,” Gerald Pitney said.
“Your daughter bought it,” Étienne replied.
“Adelaide?” Gerald said.
“Oui,” Étienne confirmed.
“When did she learn about wines?” Gerald asked.
“You don’t spent a decade with Étienne d’Amille and not learn about wines,” Zélie said.
Étienne approached the bar, reaching for the bottle from Gerald so he could have a second glass. Gerald passed it and his breathing, heavy with emotional uncertainty, filled the kitchen. Étienne poured the wine, only partially aware of the alcohol filling the cup. He focused instead on Gerald’s detached stare. Étienne righted the wine bottle, returning it to the bar. He lifted his glass, talking a half-step toward his wife, when he paused and rested his hand on Gerald’s shoulder. Gerald’s eyes met Étienne’s and while they said nothing, the sadness in the air made the fruity notes smell sickeningly sweet. He deserted the wine on the counter. Jules swept across the room and dumped the contents of the glass in the sink.
“My pumpkin and the wine,” Gerald said. “I like eiswein. Other countries flash-freeze the grapes. In Germany, nature does it. Did you know that?”
“Mais oui. This bottle is from the Saturday harvest,” Étienne replied.
Zélie braced her arms against the overstuffed chair and pushed herself to standing.
“Oh, for the love of heaven. What’s going on?” she asked. “Are we here to have a wine tasting or did we hear something in that bathroom?”

Those 2D secondary characters

So I presented a chapter to my critique group. It was a revised version of a chapter they had already seen and they, in a round-about fashion, pointed out that a very important character was flat.

Some people said he lacked emotion and implied that there was a lack of transition between parts of the scene.

But the real problem was that he was a two-dimensional character.

Gerald. He's middle-aged and portly. In the first book, he has two mentions: 1. Étienne remembers running into Gerald and his two daughters in the airport in 1989. Literally, it's one sentence. And 2. Gerald calls his daughter on a Sunday morning to see how she's doing.

This is the conversation:

Then, [Adelaide] heard it: muffled electronic music from her dry cleaning pile. When she got closer to the dirty clothes, she recognized "Jack and Diane." She dug toward yesterday’s slacks and retrieved the ringing cellular.
"Hello," she said, wondering if it were her mom or her dad.
"Hey, Pumpkin," her dad replied. "How’s my girl? You didn’t answer your phone [in your New York apartment]. You get away for the weekend?"
"Yeah," Adelaide replied. "I had a date."
"Oh, no, Pumpkin. Who is it this time?"
"He’s a photographer, Dad."
"Not another fruit…"
"Daddy!"
"I don’t want to hear anymore. Whatever happened to Thad?"
"Tom, Dad."
"I liked him. He played rugby, didn’t he?"
"Yeah, Dad. That was Tom."
"Never saw a rugby game. But he seemed..." her father’s voice trailed.
"Manly, Dad?" she suggested. "Have you heard from Jay?"
"She likes it in Germany. She likes the school."
Of course Janine likes the school, she’s the bookish one, Adelaide thought. Her sister, the Fulbright Scholar. Everyone referred to Adelaide as the pretty one long before Étienne.
"Okay, Helen… Your mother wants to talk to you," Dad said.

So, now I'm in the next book in the series. Adelaide has committed suicide and Gerald has just heard her voice in the bathroom. Étienne, Zélie and Adelaide's mother have also heard the voice.

This is how the conversation in the kitchen, about ten minutes after hearing the voice, started:

Helen Pitney [Adelaide's mom], in her plaid flannel nightgown, walked beside the breakfast bar, her hand trailing the surface as her moccasin slippers shuffled against the slate. Gerald sat on the other side, hunched over his wine. Étienne emptied his glass as Gerald reached for the bottle. Zélie adjusted her robe. Helen commenced another lap. Jules’ eyes sought direction from Étienne, but Étienne wasn’t sure whether he should dismiss the chef or tell him to do something.
“This is the first time you’ve served ice wine,” Gerald Pitney said, raising the glass.
“Your daughter bought it,” Étienne replied. “Since we are thinking of her...”
“I like eiswein,” Gerald said. “Other countries flash-freeze the grapes. That’s not the same. Germany does not flash-freeze. Nature does it.”
“This bottle is from the Saturday harvest,” Étienne replied.
Zélie rose from the overstuffed chair.
“What’s going on?” she asked.

Can you see how even in such small scenes, Gerald has a personality in the first one but he's nothing in the second? This is Gerald's last scene. In my mind, I made him disposable and never bothered making him real because I know he'll be out of the book within the next ten pages...

So I tried again...

“This is the first time you’ve served ice wine,” Gerald Pitney said.
“Your daughter bought it,” Étienne replied.
“Adelaide? Bought such a fine eiswein?” Gerald said.
“Oui,” Étienne confirmed.
“You don’t spent a decade with Étienne d’Amille and not learn a thing or two about wines,” Zélie said.
“I would not have guessed, about my Adelaide and the wine,” Gerald said, lifting his glass as if studying the color of its contents. “I like eiswein. Other countries flash-freeze the grapes. In Germany, nature does it. Did you know that?”
“Mais oui. This bottle is from the Saturday harvest,” Étienne replied.
Zélie braced her arms against the overstuffed chair and pushed herself to standing.
“Oh, for the love of heaven. What’s going on?” she asked. “Are we here to have a wine tasting or did we hear something in that bathroom?”

It still lacks any emotion. This man's daughter just committed suicide. Even though it's Étienne's POV, Étienne would notice this man's state. I haven't fixed it yet, but this is my progress:

Helen Pitney, in her plaid nightgown, walked along the bar, her hand trailing the surface. Her moccasin slippers shuffled against the slate. Her scratchy footfalls were the only interruption to the awkward silence. Gerald hunched nearby, his hand grasping the wine bottle. Zélie adjusted her robe. Helen commenced another lap. Jules’ eyes sought direction from Étienne, but Étienne wasn’t sure whether he should dismiss the chef or tell him to do something.
“This is the first time you’ve served ice wine,” Gerald Pitney said.
“Your daughter bought it,” Étienne replied.
“Adelaide?” Gerald said.
“Oui,” Étienne confirmed.
“When did she learn about wines?” Gerald asked.
“You don’t spent a decade with Étienne d’Amille and not learn about wines,” Zélie said.
Étienne approached the bar, reaching for the bottle from Gerald so he could have a second glass. Gerald passed it, and as he did, his breathing filled the kitchen with the heavy sound of a man struggling with his composure. Étienne poured the wine, only partially aware of the alcohol filling the cup. He focused instead on Gerald’s detached stare.
“My pumpkin and the wine,” Gerald said. “I like eiswein. Other countries flash-freeze the grapes. In Germany, nature does it. Did you know that?”
“Mais oui. This bottle is from the Saturday harvest,” Étienne replied.
Zélie braced her arms against the overstuffed chair and pushed herself to standing.
“Oh, for the love of heaven. What’s going on?” she asked. “Are we here to have a wine tasting or did we hear something in that bathroom?”

Hopefully, I'll feel more inspired another day.