Fill in the Blank(s)

Yes, that's a blank sheet of paper, which is pretty much where I was on ideas for characters, plot, conflict...  You name it.

Usually, as I'm finishing the last half of one book, the next idea starts bugging me.  For the first time I can remember, that didn't happen.  I turned in the last Desperation book almost a month ago.  So where are all the ideas that bounce around, already taking space in my head?  Where's the heart of the next story idea?  The characters for the next story?

The answer to that has been "nowhere."

I have a basis:  A Texas ghost town.  I have the names of three heroes and three heroines.  Oh, and babies.  There must be babies.  But I don't know who these characters are, much less hunting for photos of what "stars" might represent them in my head.  Smack!  This doesn't happen.  I was at a loss.  I was in a panic.

One evening, Patricia Davids and I were doing some brainstorming on her WIP.  (Go, Pat!)  When we finished with that, I threw out my basic idea for the ghost town series.  She asked me questions I had no answers for.  None.  Nada.  Zilch.  It took a few weeks, but I finally came up with some answers, although they weren't very solid.  A week ago, with Pat and Theresa and Melissa, things began to come together.  Four heads are definitely better than one!  (May blessings rain upon you, P, T, & M!)

But one of the elements I chose needed some research, so last night I decided to do a little of that.  One thing led to another, and...  Do you have any idea how many real ghost towns there are in Texas?  Oh, my stars and garters!  And the stories behind those towns--the history of them--are sometimes fascinating.

Now that I've found the answer to that element I needed and even more, plus a suitcase full of photos of Texas Hill Country, the story is beginning to form.  Ideas for a scene or two are slowly starting to sneak and twist through my mind.  Short snippets of conversations between characters, along with a little introspection (character thoughts) are whispering.  Those characters are starting to take shape and will hopefully come to life soon on the written page.

Is it what I'd imagined originally?  Not quite, but what's replaced those first pitiful ideas are much better and finally taking form.  At least I hope so, especially on the 'better' part of it.

So that blank page above?  It's full of scribbles and notes now.  It's starting to come together.  It won't be long before I'm hunting for photos, not of ghost towns and underground caves, but hunky cowboys and their feminine equals.

Wish me luck!

Me, me, me, me, me!

Pat Davids here?

The question of the month is what affects my writing? That’s a loaded question this year. I could name a number of things that have affected me recently, but the biggest thing that affects how I write is...ME.

I’m the one who plays spider solitaire for hours when my deadline is looming. I’m the one who decides the kitchen floor needs scrubbing again tonight or that the closets have to be organized this very day and I must go shopping for baskets and shelves at once. I guess it’s a good thing I have deadlines or my house would never get cleaned. I’d like to blame my poor writing on something else, but I’m the one putting too few or poorly chosen words on paper.

However, the same goes for my good writing. I’m the one responsible for painting vivid scenes and happily-ever-after endings. It’s my talent, it’s my drive, it’s my dream.

My life is well suited to writing at this time. I only work at the hospital when I want to. I don’t have kids who have to be driven to ballet lessons or soccer practice, or both in one night. I’m in a good place as the writing life goes, but I honestly got more done when my writing had to be squeezed in between work and family.

Years ago, when my dreamed seemed almost within reach, when I could almost taste it, I worked harder. I wanted it so badly. Then, like a large plum falling into my lap, I got that first sale. My drive has slowly gone downhill since that time. But that’s just me. I guess I need a new plum to go after, to work for, to struggle for. I’ve always worked better under pressure.

What about you? Do you work better or less effectively under pressure? Is writing pressure or a pleasure?

2012

Pat Davids here wishing everyone a Happy New Year. I've never been so glad to put any year behind me as I was to 2011.

So, are you making New Year resolution? I'm not. I've decided not to do that anymore. I used to be an avid list maker. I'd plan the steps I needed to accomplish my goals. Some I did manage to make. Others, like regular exercise, went by the wayside before the first week was over.

So this year I've decided I'm not making resolutions. If I eat better, great. If I exercise more, terrific. If I write lots of words, paragraphs and pages, I'll finish a few more books. I will not resolve to do, I will just do.

That's my secret to writing three books a year.

What one event in your childhood had the greatest affect on your writing career

Pat Davids here.

This is the topic for December. First and foremost, I had a great childhood. I lived on a farm. I was the only girl with four brothers. Okay, that part wasn't so great but I learned not to throw a softball like girl. We had chickens, as you can see, but best of all, I had my own horses. Three of them, Tammy, Trixie and Shawnee. I had great friends in school and I learned that books could take me anywhere.

I think the single event that had the most influence in all of my life, not just my writing, had nothing to do with books. It had to do with horses. My father had agreed to bring the neighbor's stud to our farm to breed to my first mare, Trixie. Since we didn't have a horse trailer and it was only a few miles away, we just drove over. I had learned to ride without a saddle and by that time I thought I was skilled at staying on the back of any horse. My big failure was being unable to stand on the back of a galloping horse. I was twelve and it was heartbreaking.

When we arrived at our neighbors to collect the stallion, I stood beside my dad holding a bridle while he did the talking. The neighbor frowned as he looked down at me. He asked my dad, "Who is going to ride this horse to your place?"

Dad pointed at me. "She is."

The man leaned close. "Clarence, I wouldn't let a little girl like her on this stallion. He's wild and he has a bad temper."

My dad's eyebrows shot up. "If she can't ride him, I'm sure as hell not going to get on him!"

Oh, I was so proud. My father thought I could handle a horse that he couldn't. From that moment on, I knew that I could accomplish anything I set my mind to because Dad believed in me. (Okay, I never learned to ride standing up, but it wasn't for lack of trying.)

Our neighbor didn't have the same confidence in me. His eighteen-year-old son rode the horse to our place while we followed him. As soon as we got home, Dad looked at me and said, "You are not to ride this horse. He is dangerous."

Yeah, right. I could do anything I set my mind to, remember? No way was I going to pass up the chance to ride a flashy stallion like him. The first time my parents left together, I caught the big pinto, climbed on his back and discovered that some horses have a terrible and uncomfortable gait. Riding him was like sitting on a jackhammer, plus, he seemed intent on biting me. No fun at all. I never rode him again. His colt, however, was an adorable brown and white pinto filly who grew up to have a much smoother gait than her papa.

So, that is the event that shaped my writing life. I learned to believe I could do anything I set my mind to accomplish. And, I learned that sometimes, what I thought I wanted wasn't the best, after all. That made me flexible. If it doesn't work, don't beat a dead horse, just find another horse to ride.

Riding stories anyone? What is your favorite or least favorite horse story, real or fiction?

By the way, I want to wish my grandson a happy 18th birthday.

procrastination

Hello, Pat Davids here. This month on our WARA blog we are going to be talking about writing problems we have and how to solve them.
Oh, if only there was a way to solve my writing problem.

My problem is procrastination. Not a small amount of procrastination. I am talking about procrastination the size of Mount Everest. An enormous, five-mile high, thin-altitude, ice-covered hunk of a mountain’s worth of procrastination that I may never be able to climb over.

What!! You all exclaim. Pat, you've written 15 books! How can you claim you suffer from procrastination? I don't just claim it, I can prove it. Right now, it is ten fifty-five p.m. on August 1st and my blog is due to be posted after midnight. See, I procrastinate. When did I look up what I was to blog about? A single minute prior to starting this post. When I think of how much preparation time Penny puts into her posts I'm almost ashamed to admit mine are off-the-cuff.

Earlier today I was expecting a call from my agent. Because I was unable to meet her at the RWA conference, we didn't have a chance to discuss my writing plan for the year, what projects I wanted to work on, who I might want to target with new work or where I wanted to take my career. I was DREADING her call. Why? Because I had next to nothing planned and no idea what direction I wanted to take my career.

In true queen-like style, I have been telling people my new goal is to become famous. To make the New York Times bestseller list. How am I going to achieve such a lofty goal? I don’t have a clue, but it sounds good.

My actual goal is to meet the looming deadlines of the books I have under contract. How much have I written? Fifteen pages. First book is due Oct 1st. In a bout of gloomy soul-searching just ten minuets before her call (notice once again my glaring procrastination) I discovered a disturbing underlying cause of my affliction. I'm not afraid of failure. I'm not afraid of success. I'm not afraid of bad reviews. I'm not even afraid of being thought unreliable by my publishers. I mean, what the heck, I'm still a good nurse. That job is not going away.

No, I realized that I'm afraid I don't have anything meaningful to say.

That's it. That's the fear that holds me back.

People can tell me my work is meaningful, my work is funny, or my work is endearing, or even that it sucks. If I don't believe it in my heart, then what someone else says doesn't matter.

Perhaps the recent sad events in my life have skewed my perspective. I don't know. I do know I have always loved to tell stories and I always will.

In the end, I have to believe I will conquer this fear now that I recognize it. Why? Because I hate roadblocks. I hate letting something else keep me from getting where I want to go. If I want to hit the New York Times bestseller list I really have to write more books. I really have to write better books, books with something meaningful in them.

And do you know what I just realized? What is more meaningful than LOVE? Wow! Why didn't I think of that before?

So, do you suffer from procrastination? How do you fight it? I'd love to hear.