Thank You, Daddy

It wasn't an event that affected my future and what has become my writing career.  It was a person.

My dad was one of the wisest and kindest people I've ever known, in spite of having only a 7th grade education.  When he was ten years old (in 1920), his father died, and he stepped up to help his mother and younger brother by working odd jobs.  Over a lifetime his work involved selling magazines door to door, as an usher at the Orpheum Theater (where he met and obtained autographs from many famous people), as a soda jerk, and other jobs.  Later on he worked at Fox-Vliet Drug Company and at Boeing Aircraft, where he was a supervisor in the purchasing department and retired after almost 25 years.  Not bad for a man who never attended high school, much less college!  And throughout working all those jobs, he read.

While on vacations that took us through 48 states, my souvenirs were always books, usually Little Golden Books.  I even have a book we bought in Havana, Cuba, when I was three.  Before I was able to make out the letters and words, my dad would read to me.  But even that wasn't always enough, and I'd read them by the light of my nightlight. It's no wonder I wore glasses by the time I was six!

National Geographic Magazine was a favorite source of reading to my dad.  He liked to keep up with what was going on in the world...and in space.  Being a part of Boeing meant being a part of building rockets to the moon, and his interest turned to the stars.  The wonderful thing was that he never pushed the knowledge reading gave him on anyone, but if asked, he always had an educated answer.  He never limited his interests or his reading to one or two things, and he continued to read and learn until his death at the age of 76 in 1987.

There's no way I could ever be able to thank my dad for the gift of reading he gave me.  If it hadn't been for all the time he spent reading to me and the quiet encouragement he always gave, I wouldn't be here sharing this today.  He was gone before I began to write seriously.  But I know that he's watching over me, smiling and proud.  Thank you, Daddy, for the gift of reading, because without it, I never would have written.

GIMME A HOTBLOG WITH MUSTARD AND RELISH by Reese Mobley

Happy June fellow readers, writers and blog-a-maniacs. This month our topic is favorite books as a child and as an adult. What the H E double hockey sticks does the blog title have to do with the topic? Let me come out of the closet and admit my love for . . . . . . cookbooks. Inside those colorful pages, I flag the good stuff and X out the recipes my family gave a thumbs down to. I have hundreds of cookbooks. And I feel zero shame in admitting I’ve used nearly all of them. These books are splattered with sauce, butter, vanilla and various other ingredients. I love to cook and bake. There, I’ve said it. And now I’ll move on.

I grew up with Nancy Drew—well, let me rephrase that. I grew up (sort of) she didn’t. Still, I wanted to be like her. She was the coolest chick I almost knew. She was smart, clean-cut, solved mysteries before the end of the book and she pined after Ned in a way that made my heart go pitter-patter. What could be better for your average tween in the 1970’s to read?

Then I outgrew Nancy and Ned. We were like best friends who moved away from each other. We promised to write, but sadly, it never happened. Sigh…………. But then it happened. Just like my mom said it would. I got a new bff. Stephen King and baby did he turn me on to a whole new world.

I didn’t read much in high school because of school, work and a very full social calendar, much to my parent’s chagrin.

In my early 20’s I discovered my love of reading again and devoured Sidney Sheldon and Sandra Brown. OMG! Between those pages, I read about things that would have made Nancy Drew blush.

Today I opt for books with more story. More heart. There are several books that I’ve read over and over because I love them so much. First Lady and Dream a Little Dream by Susan Elizabeth Phillips are two of my favorites. Morning Glory by LaVyrle Spencer. Walking After Midnight by Karen Robards. And of course, my beloved cookbooks.

Hugs,

Reese

My Other Office

Out here in Southwest Kansas (yes, I'm a long distance member of WARA, a very looong distance member), there are a lot of miles between important places. Important as in the distance between our house, located in the middle of a wheat field, to a loaf of bread. The nearest loaf for purchase is twenty-two miles away. The bank is forty-five.

Some people think, when they get here, that there is a lot of nothing out here. They're wrong, of course, but it really depends upon your view.

Really.

The View! The sky is what we look at, it is constantly changing and has the most fascinating things in it. From dirt to jets, yes, the sky has the good stuff.

However, when it comes to writing, my little two watt brain gets stuck quite frequently and can't find the word it is looking for. When it isn't concentrating on a word or two, it is trying to figure out how my characters are going to get out of the situation I've written them in to. Then is when the distances out here really shine. That forty-five minutes it takes to drive to town for an implement part or that loaf of bread is when my little brain starts firing off all kinds of ideas. I don't scream to a stop for the cell phone--no signal anyway. Nope, it's to get down on paper that word, idea, scene that just popped into my Easy-Bake Oven brain and started cookin'.

If it weren't for the price of gas, I'd do all my writing in the front seat of the car/pick-up truck. My laptop beside me instead of paper and a cooler full of ice cold coke sittin' on the passenger floorboard. Yup, that'd be the life. Driving from hither to yon. Sometimes parking under a cottonwood tree, listening to the birds, pounding away at the keyboard until the next moment I need to start driving again. (bathrooms are far between too!) Of course the wind wouldn't blow dirt in the windows and biting flies wouldn't even exist to bother me.

But whether my imaginary office ever materializes or not, the act of driving does somehow release a part of my creativity that works on the stories I write. With ideas blossoming and problems being solved during my long drives to town, writing merely adds more reasons why I love living here.

I Write. Or at Least I Try. (Rox Delaney)

I've been so busy this past week, that I haven't had time to give much thought to what I might blog about.  That is not a good thing, because I tend to go off the deep end, if not reined in.

What have I been busy doing?  Apparently I've been creating new words.  No, not a story, but really new, never before seen or heard words. They're so new, you can't find them in a dictionary.  You see, I've been working on copy edits. 

So what, you say, are copy edits?  That's when an editor or copy editor reads through the work you've so proudly produced and finds all the mistakes that you must fix.  Mistakes?  Oh, surely not!  Pshaw.  This time I completely left out a running thread that's been in each of the last five books.  However, my editor didn't notice.  I did.  Of course Vern and Esther must appear!  If not, it could be bad luck.  Then again, it's possible I'm the only person who would notice it.  But nevermind, two short paragraphs were all it took.  Vern and Esther live on...unless my editor decides they don't. :(

Then there's that special new word. Crampled.  It reminds me of one of those captcha words we have to type in to be able to comment on the blog.  Crampled?  Really?  The hero was sorry the back seat of his sports car was so crampled.  Aha!  And you thought it was just a typing mistake meaning crumpled.  Like a crumpled tissue.  No.  I'm much more artistic than that. ;)

And why had I created never-before-heard words?  Because I was stumbling through revisions at 5 a.m. and didn't notice.  Sleep is something many writers find somewhat foreign at times, such as in the throes of a deadline.  In other words, at 5 a.m., I'd been up for 22 hours.  I'm amazed I knew my own name!

Now that I look at the clock, I realize that I'm inching into that  time period known to many as LaLa Land, and it's time to get some sleep.  That alarm will be ringing again in less than 7 hours, and I've reached my quota of new words for this week.  To be honest, I've reached my quota of words, period.

Have a lovely week!

A Writer is me...

I write because I have this amazing way with words…as you can see from my title.

I write because, I have this, ingrained sense of, where to punctuate!!! Commas, in particular, being my specialty.

I write to escape everyday life sometimes.

I write about the wonders of romance and falling in love.

I write so that I can live in another time and place via my characters.

I write because there are so many “people” (and animals) inside my head demanding that I tell their stories.

I write so that I can research interesting places, events, situations, and people. And then I create a story to use some of what I’ve learned.

I am a tenderhearted writer of sweet and almost innocent romance, of hot and steamy romance between kick-ass women and their badass men, and even of oh-my-can-they-do-that? romance on occasion. Plus I write bovine romance.

Overall…I write because I have to. No, I love to write. And I’ve been writing some kind of fiction since I was ten.

The Wonder of the Creative Mind

This last Sunday I had an epic moment.

I was sitting on the toilet, staring at a towel.

Suddenly, into my head came pictures of where and exactly how to begin the novel, In the Zone: Pitin's Problem. The novel has been finished for six years. It is too fat with an over-the-horizon word count. I've been trimming on it (not adding any more than I could help) trying to get the word count down. It's had some other issues.

One: in the beginning the hero is unlovable.

Two: in the beginning the heroine is unlovable.

Three: sloth (I've not sent it out but for a few rejections)

The beginning has been rewritten four times including this one. But this one is perfect. Two short paragraphs. The hero is now lovable. The heroine too. What took six years?

Thinking.

I should have been letting my creative mind do the work. Ten years ago when I began to write, I didn't have any idea how people wrote novels. I thought they began at the beginning and wrote until it was finished. I didn't have any idea there was any other way to do it. I decided to begin the next day, but as I lay me down to sleep, a vision popped into my head. I got up out of bed and wrote that down. The next day I read it and my head added to it. I got to watch as the story unfolded as a video. I found out I get to see through all of the character's eyes what is going on. I write until I see no more and don't know what happens next.

The next time I sit down to write, I re-read a bit of what has been written. I fix it. New word choices or explanations. For example, it is really knotheaded to use the same word six times on one page--like she was overwhelmed by her overwhelming feelings as he took her in his arms and overwhelmed her protests with is overwhelmingly passionate gaze.

By the time I reached uncharted territory, my creative brain portion (I think it is supposed to be the right side) had the video warmed up and my fingers would fly taking the story forward. But it got bad, like smoke in the house as you wonder where it is coming from and what is making it. I got scarred. Was I really just crazy? Suddenly, story ideas and odd characters would appear in my head when I was doing something as mundane as vacuuming or washing my hair. Weirder than that, odd things began showing up in my head videos. I'd have the heroine pick up something, that ended up being crucial later, but I had no idea why or that it would when she picked it up. It was like an unseen portion of my brain needed unnecessary details to the story that much later ended up being absolutely necessary. When I say much later, I'm talking months. How did my creative brain know that? How did it know it was going to need something later for something I didn't know about then? Scary.

But writing was really fun! Or rather writing the story was really fun. I still hated writing anything else. I didn't fantasize on better ways for movies to end. I didn't fantasize about book endings. Visions of more stories kept showing up. When I drove to town. When I'd do the dishes. I went to a friend about my sudden mental issues. She was supportive but what did she know, she doesn't write.

I finished the novel in eight months. Then called to find a book on marketing. Penny Rader, love that she is, asked me what I was writing and steered me towards WARA. I was able to talk to other members and found out I wasn't crazy, I had a creative mind. My friend? She found a video tape of an interview with an author. Not only did I have a creative mind, but it worked like other creative minds.

But weirder territory was ahead of me. I found out that since I began to write, other things began to happen. I could draw. Not just draw better than ever before, but from different perspectives--in my head. Problem solving abilities went way up too.

Since Sunday, I've been marveling at my wonderful, odd, creative brain--and wondering why I bother to think at all.

P.S. Creative minds are as different from each other as there are different colors of horses. The creativity expresses itself in several different ways for writing. Some create stories like playing with doll-houses and dolls. They move the bits and pieces around. Some have a thing they want said and then concentrate on the best way to get that theme or idea across to their reader. It doesn't matter what kind you are, your process is yours. Use it. I'm going back to my videos--there's some folks I've left in a cabin. No telling what they've got up to while I write this.

My Name Is and I Write...

I've already posted this month about goals, so I thought I'd talk about something different. Part of knowing your goals as a writer is also "knowing" who you are as a writer. Recently I was asked by two online sites to have my interview done, to share with readers about myself as a writer and my work. It took some time thinking about and answering the many questions. But it was interesting and I had a chance to think about things that I haven't before. I'm going to share some of those questions (from both places) and hope sometime you might sit down and analyze yourself, get to know you the writer better.

Who is Starla Kaye (insert your name here) really? Are you married, have a significant other, kids? Pets? What are your hobbies and interests? What things other than writing are important to you?

If I were going to interview you in person where would we meet...describe a room of your house...or the view from your deck...or a favorite little cafe. The idea is to give the reader a sense of who you are and what you are like as a person.

When do you write? What kind of atmosphere? Do you write in the same place all the time? Do you need quiet or do you like music, noise, activity around you? Are you a night owl or a morning person? Again the idea is to give the reader a sense of who you are and what you are like as a person.

Do you take forever to write a book or do you write quickly? How many books do you write in an average year? How many have you written in your career?

What was your inspiration to begin writing?

How long have you written romance? Have you ever written or considered writing other genres? What drew you to the romance genre?

What sets your work apart from the work of other romance authors? What can a reader who picks up one of your books expect to find?

Are you a plotter or a pantser? Do you plan your stories before you write, or do you let your characters lead you through the story as you are writing it? Have any of your characters ever surprised you because you thought they would do one thing and they ended up doing something else? Think about an example from your work.

Can you relate any funny, heartwarming, touching stories about meeting readers or friends or family reading your work?

Can you tell me a bit about where you get the ideas for your stories, what elements attract you to a story?

Is there one of your books that stands out as your favorite? What do you think makes it stand out for you?

In your writing projects, do you have a favorite hero? Why him? What made him special to you and, hopefully, special to a reader?

In your writing projects, do you have a favorite heroine? Why her? What made her special to you and, hopefully, special to a reader?

Some authors seem to be everywhere--in groups--on MySpace--on Twitter--on various forums--just chatting and occasionally (or more frequently) promoting their books. Do you consider yourself one of the authors that is out there--highly social--or are you quieter--more reserved?

Along with that, are you on Twitter, Facebook, MySpace? Do you have a blog or a website?

We have talked about pieces and parts of some of these questions here on this blog. But take sometime to think about or rethink about the questions and have fun learning about you the writer. Plus, you'll be pretty set for an interview of your own at some point, adding in, of course, information about specific books you've written.

Just so you know, I'm one of those who attempts to be an author who is "out there," socially connected. But I'm really stumbling along with all of that because it is very time-consuming to keep up with everything.
Website: www.starlakayeromance.com
Helpful Blog: www.starlakayeromance.com/blog
Main Promotional Blog: http://starlakayeromance.blogspot.com
Twitter: www.twitter.com (Starla Writes)
Facebook: Starla Kay Criser
LinkedIn: Starla Criser

Feeling the Crunch...And I Don't Mean Snow

I wish I could hear the crunch of snow beneath my winter boots. I think it might put me in more of a Christmas spirit.

I've always loved the holidays and have never understood people who dread them. I would teasingly refer to them Scrooge or Grinch. This year I'm trying very hard not to put myself in that category. In looking back of 2009, it's easy to see why I might not be so elated with greeting what is supposed to be a joyous time of year. It's been a difficult year. I won't go into detail because I've dealt with a lot of the same issues most everyone else has at one time or another: divorce, sickness, death, unemployment. It all tends to suck the life out of a person, even someone like me who has rightfully earned the reputation of the optimistic, care-free, look-on-the-bright-side Pollyanna.

I've stayed away from malls and stores this Christmas. I don't have the money that I've had in previous shopping seasons. I thought it would be too depressing to be in a mall when I can't buy anything. But the other day I had to go to a certain store for a non-Christmas related purchase. You know what? I should have gone sooner. The beat of the cheerful Christmas tunes restarted a holiday rhythm in my soul. The glitter and twinkle of bells and balls made me smile. The wonder in the eyes of children searching for Santa warmed my heart.

Later that day I stopped by the grocery store. In the parking lot was a rusted out truck with a cardboard sign taped to it. It read: "Homeless vet needs work of any kind. Job in California. Just need the gas to get there." I considered that message with more compassion than I used to. I was embarrassed at what my inner reaction would have been just one year ago. But with the lesson the last year has taught me, I understood better. How many of my friends were not too far away from being in a similar situation? It's been a hard year for a lot of us.

I was asked this week what was the best Christmas gift I ever received. I thought of my favorite book on my shelf. It's a leather bound notebook filled with my father's handwritten stories and poems. A few years ago he gave identical books to my two sisters and me. He must have worked on these gifts for months. It cost him nothing but time and maybe a few bucks for the notebooks. But it truly is the best gift. He gave me a part of himself.

So how does this all tie together? Because as writers, you know we have to tie it all together, right? I think when I'm 90, I will look back on this Christmas as one of the most memorable. Not for what wasn't under the tree or stuffed in a stocking, but for what filled my home and heart. I've been given a most amazing gift. The wonderful part is that it is something I can give away, too. The gift is one of an ever-expanding heart. The hurts of this past year have increased my capacity for understanding, compassion, and love. Without the losses, I couldn't have gained so much. It's priceless.

And I have another gift, as well. It's the gift of words. Like my father gave to me, I can give a piece of myself to others. Because even though the past year has had it's hardships, there has been support and love, too. Won't those friends and family members smile when they see their gift from me: A long letter to my 90 year old grandma filled with all the stuff I meant to write all year long but didn't make the time. A thank you to my parents for their unwavering support and abundant love. A fun poem to my best friend who finalized a divorce this year, too and helped me find something laugh at almost every day. A list of really useful advice (like how to catch an escaped hamster) to my corporate-ladder sister who lives in a world SO different from mine but asks for my opinion all the time anyway. And I'm-Proud-of-You-Because letters to my children because I really am so proud of them. It will cost me nothing but time and few bucks for paper. I'm guessing these gifts will be remembered long after the others have been forgotten.

Remember your true gifts this Christmas and share them. I promise, it will put you in the Christmas spirit.

Merry Christmas,

Deborah Macias
www.roaringmoms.blogspot.com