Silk & Shadows

I’m cheating a bit. The topic this week is romantic ads, but the video I’ve embedded here isn’t an ad, it’s a short film. It’s 9 minutes long, but well worth the investment of your time. At least, I think so. But then again, I’m a sap.

To me this is one of the wonders of YouTube–talented people post incredible stuff like this for free. I hope the film makers go on to huge commercial success.

And there’s another lovely, romantic short film on YouTube Called Signs. It’s 12 minutes long, but full of magic. If you haven’t already seen it, I recommend it.

Tell me what you think!

I’m sad to say I can’t recall the very first romance I read. I do know it was a Harlequin romance—my mother was a monthly subscriber to the Presents line. I can remember reading dozens of books by Violet Winspear, Penny Jordan, Anne Mather, and Charlotte Lamb. I devoured a ton of delicious stories about wealthy alpha heroes, princes, and sheiks.

The first book I actually remember reading was Sweet Savage Love by Rosemary Rogers. Probably not the best book to form the foundation of my love affair with romance novels, but definitely a memorable one.

The book that truly hooked me and made me a lifelong reader of romance was Kathleen Woodiwiss’s The Wolf and the Dove. I loved it then, and I love it now. The bastard son of nobleman trying to make good, the feisty heroine standing up for her people, even the hint of something paranormal in the appearance of the wolf. Loved it all. My original copy has long since fallen apart, but I still have a copy on my keeper shelf, and every ten years or so, I read it again. No surprise that my first forays into writing were medieval romances. I heart stories of knights and maidens and castles.

I’ve been a fan of Teresa Medeiros for years—she was my first glom. I read Touch of Enchantment and promptly ran out and bought every book of hers I could find. My next crush was on Karen Marie Moning. Her time travel romances with heroines falling into the lap of handsome highland heroes sent my imagination soaring.

I’m still discovering new authors—some have been around for ages and I’m just cluing in. Some are new debuts. There’s a treasure trove of great authors out there, thank goodness. I’ll never run out of excellent stories to read.

Currently working on: Judging RITA books, the Romance Writers of America award of excellence in romance fiction
Mood: Awed by some great talent

There’s a lot going on in a writer’s head, I swear, even though a lot of time it looks like I’m staring off into space.  While I’m staring, I’m plotting, testing out lines of dialogue, thinking about whom to kill.

And more often than I’d wish, I’m just afraid to start.

See, while the stories in my head are endlessly entertaining to me (hence the long periods of blank-eyed staring) getting what’s in my head onto the page can be a maddening proposition.  In fact, I often feel like my writing sessions are a bit like the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, where too many conflicting (and crazy) voices have been invited to the table.

The White Rabbit of Overwhelm
He’s the one always chanting “I’m late, I’m late” in my head (because, really, aren’t we always late for something?) which doesn’t much get things off to a convivial start.  Trust me, if you go chasing rabbits, you know you’re going to fall.

The Mad Hatter Muse
Yes, even when not played by Johnny “I’m too sexy to <fill in the blank>” Depp, everybody swoons for the Muse, so he must be invited to the party even though he’s — you know — psychotic, encouraging everyone to run amok and constantly asking silly questions like “How is a raven like a writing desk?” when everybody knows we needn’t answer that question until Chapter 23.

The March Hare Moment
He’s best friends with the Mad Muse… and equally crackers.  He comes around holding out inspiration like a big cup of tea… Only to jerk it away at the last moment.  Emphasis on jerk.  At best, I’ll be left with a little spill of inspiration that I try to mop up and ring out over my pages.

The Queen of (Broken) Hearts Internal Editor
Everybody has to tip toe around her for fear of coming under her gimlet eye.  She’s always deflating the mood with her muttered “Off with her adverbs!”  Heads and hearts are constantly at risk around her, and yet she has a chair of her own because somebody has to be in charge of cutting words and killing our darlings.

The dormouse
He’s already asleep, curled up at the keyboard with his head on ZZZZZZZZ, even though we still have a thousand words to go.

And there, at the far end of the table — she’s lucky she even got a seat — is poor Alice, who just wants a story that makes sense.

Well, forget it, Alice.

It’s impossible to get all those voices to speak one at a time, much less use their napkins instead of their sleeves.  So I’ll take what they spew out and try to capture it for you in all its mad glory.

Maybe a raven is like a writing desk because, with the wind under their wings, they can both take flight.

Anybody else looking forward to Tim Burton’s vision of Alice In Wonderland?  He’s one of my heroes, because if he doesn’t get everything that’s on his head down on paper, I can’t even imagine what else is in there!

Currently working on: Destroying Book 3
Mood: Godzilla-y

As W-2s begin appearing in mailboxes around the country in preparation for tax season, this seems like a good time to dream about making my first million.

…

Okay, back to work.

I wanted to be a writer because I wanted to be rich and famous.  I know, I know, in retrospect, that was crazy.  But I write fiction, after all.  Unfortunately, not fantasy, so I can’t sustain the fame and fortune dream.  Sigh.

And I have such plans for that non-existent million.  A back deck where I can write in the summer…  A breakfast nook with a sliding glass door to that back deck where I can write in the fall, winter and spring and those parts of summer where it is too rainy to write on the back deck…  (I live in the Pacific NW where we must be realistic about our outdoor opportunities.  And water-resistant.)

The rest of the million would be eaten up in colored Post-Its and buckets of cookie dough.  My needs are fairly simple.

It would take several million to make my real writer dream come true.  I’ve long had a fantasy of an artist commune, a place where writers, musicians, painters, and dancers could come and live for free while they pursued their art, even for just a week.  I found this diary entry from January 2000 where the fantasy began:

I wish I had a true office where all I did was write.  An office with bookshelves and a big comfy desk with a big comfy chair that could recline so I could pull the keyboard over my lap and type in perfect style.  There would be a TV with awesome reception that would automatically record my shows and not turn on until my chapter was done.  Yes, my choices must be taken away from me.  Maybe I will start a writers’ colony where all choices are taken away from the writer.  They must churn out the requisite number of pages before they are fed, for example.  That would get the muse juices flowing, no doubt. 

Okay, so maybe it’s less a commune and more a prison.  At least I have an office now.  Still no chair, although now I have a pretty purple exercise ball to sit on, which is fun.  And the TV is almost dead, no great loss since they cancelled the only show I was watching.  (I’ll miss you, Dollhouse!  Joss, stop working with Fox!)  I still have hopes for the artist colony.  Someday…

Okay, so I can’t control the million dollars, but I am closing in on my other first million.  My first million words.

A million words is one of those numbers that gets bandied about among writerly types.  They say “Every writer has a million bad words in her, and she needs to get them out before she gets to the worthwhile words.”  I don’t know about that; I’m pretty sure I got way more than a million bad words in me.  I think it’s just because they’re writerly types and so they like the big, easy number.  I know I like it.  I recently added up my final draft words on the ten novels I’ve completed: 844,000.  If I throw in the three false starts, I’m at 924,000.  I’m not counting the really false starts where I only have a few chapters or just the working outline.  And I’m not counting how many times I had to rewrite those words to arrive at the final drafts.

By the end of this year, my word odometer will roll over.  It’ll be interesting to see what’s in me then.  Lots of cookie dough, no doubt.  Unless that crazy warden from the writers’ colony makes me do my words first.

So what does a million mean to you?

Do-or-the-whole-world-dies scenarios hold tremendous appeal for me–which might explain why I write paranormal romance. In both PNR and urban fantasy novels, the continued existence of humanity is often at risk, and the heroes have their work cut out to save he day. Apocalypse is a mainstay of the genre.

No surprise then, that I’m also attracted to disaster flicks. I love the danger and the over-the-top action—the bombs exploding, the volcano erupting in the middle of downtown, the giant spaceship blasting a few cities off the map. But the true appeal of disaster flicks, for me, boils down to my deep-seated belief that no matter how bad things get, there will always be honor and courage and good people. I’m not so Pollyanna as to believe everyone will resist the pull of evil—I just need to believe some segment of the population will. That a few good men and women will never let go of their principles.

It was that belief that drew me to the trailer for The Road. I’m not usually a fan of stories that end on a dismal note, and I tend to avoid stories that I know will make me cry. I write romance for a reason—I love my Happily Ever After. But I went to see The Road anyway.

Yes, part of the attraction was Viggo Mortensen. Love that man. But the real draw was the intriguing concept of a father-and-son pair trying to survive while remaining the last hold outs of true humanity. I found myself curious about the courage it would take to face such a bleak existence and wondering if the movie would touch on that.

I wasn’t disappointed—it’s a post-apocalypse movie, and the heart of the story is the father-son relationship. And although it doesn’t end on a cheery note, I left the theater reaffirmed in my hope for mankind. Always the sign of a satisfying apocalypse story. I haven’t read the book by Cormac McCarthy, but I’ve borrowed a copy from a friend, and I intend to.

If you enjoy watching or reading apocalypse stories, why do you think they appeal to you?

Currently working on: The race to The End
Mood: High on naturally induced painkillers

Last week, I talked about how at the end of the year, I like to look back and see what I learned (if anything).  So of course the start of the new year is a time to look forward.

Because I’m looking forward and see mostly a monstrous looming deadline, I was gonna totally cheat and review last year’s resolutions… maybe cut’n'paste since I never keep my New Year’s Resolutions anyway…  Imagine my horror when I scrolled back and realized I totally cheated last year and didn’t actually write down any resolutions at all!

Who’s in charge of these things?

So, okay, fine, this year, I resolved to make real resolutions.  But I decided resolutions aren’t enough, since we all hear stories (I think I might have just mentioned one) about how nobody keeps their New Year’s Resolutions.  This year, each resolution (a “how”) is backed up by a goal (a “what”) and a dream (a “why”).  That way, whenever I’m tempted to not keep my resolution, I’ll be able to see what I was trying to accomplish and — more importantly — why.

Physical
Resolution: Add 10 minutes to my daily workout.  (Since my daily workout is currently zero if I don’t count the dog walks, this should be achievable, even for a slug like me.)
Goal: Stave off the cookie-induced metabolic collapse I’m told is in my near future.
Dream: Touch my toes with my head on my knees — Literally, I’ve had this dream, like, a half dozen times in the last two years, and I’ve never been able to bend completely in half like that.

First attempt: I’m typing this while sitting on an exercise ball.  My 1950s office chair (complete with cigarette burns!) is the antithesis of ergonomic, and I can’t splurge on a real chair right now.  I read that people stuck for long hours on computers can benefit from rolling around on a ball.  It’s definitely more fun than a chair. 

Career
Resolution: Increase my writing pace by 500 words every night by June; increase by another 500 words by this time nex year.
Goal: Write faster.  (This is my eternal goal; I should just say that now.)
Dream: Sneak a new book into my writing schedule.

First attempt: In the rush to The End of Book 3, I have to actually meet my old resolution on word count.  I figure that’s a place to start before stretching forward.

Emotional
Resolution: Say once nice thing about my achievements aloud every day week.
Goal: Transition my Eeyore mindset to a more Piglet philosophy.
Dream: Learn to assess my fears and wishes in alignment with the truth of the challenges that face me.

First attempt: I haven’t fallen off my balance ball.  Yet. 

I’m off to a great start!  Update coming next year!

As we usher out the old year and prepare to greet the new, it’s a natural time to reflect. Were our goals fulfilled? Our dreams met? Did we prosper as we’d hoped, or merely survive? Did we stay true to ourselves? Did we live our roles as citizens, children, parents, siblings, friends, colleagues, and bosses in a way that makes us proud?

I believe in the power of goals and dreams—and I believe that without them, I would not have accomplished half the things I have.

But our expectations of ourselves seem to grow larger every year, and it’s all too easy to assess our performance and come up short. Perhaps the sting of our failures lasts longer than the pride in our accomplishments, but it’s often easier to remember the New Year’s Resolutions we didn’t keep than the successes we logged. Or to berate ourselves for the mistakes we made, rather than tally the all the smart decisions we made along the way.

I journal, and at this time of year, I’m especially grateful that I do. Because many of my successes are small—tiny steps taken toward a larger goal—and when I look back using only my memory, I don’t see them. So, I spend a few moments every December re-reading my journal entries for the past year, refreshing my memory about the small things.

Yes, I published my first book this year, and I’m very, very proud of that. (I haven’t stopped smiling). But I also attended all of my daughter’s band concerts. I helped an old man who’d fallen on the ice and couldn’t get back up. I successfully wrapped up my father’s estate. I designed my own online ads for Drawn into Darkness. I turned in Bound by Darkness on time. I stuck to my budget. I gave generously to the Salvation Army. I baked gingerbread men for the first time in years.

Little things, but important things. Things that shouldn’t be forgotten.

What “little” things are you proud of accomplishing this year?

Currently working on: Digging out from under the holidays
Mood: Eager for daylight

I have a friend who’s experienced more than her fair share of life’s hard knocks.   (I’m not sure how much a fair share would be, exactly, but I’m pretty sure she got hosed.)  One of her favorite sayings is “The universe gives you the chance to make the same mistake over and over.  Until you don’t.”

Mean universe.

Oh, I could look at it as tough love, I suppose, one of those “learning moments.”  But sometimes it’s hard to tell what the lesson is.  So at the end of every year, I like to look back, give the universe a long, hard stare, and try to figure out what it was thinking (and what it was trying to make me think about) while it stares back at me.

Because I dabble in the Tarot, I like to use my cards to give some narrative to the year that has passed.  I have a deck based on Greek mythology, because those were some of my favorite stories when I was a kid.  I draw a three-card spread, which is often used in understanding influences at play before taking any particular path, which seems to me useful in looking back at paths chosen.

So what exactly was the universe trying to teach me?  Did I get it?  Can I move on from this lesson to the next?

I pulled Temperance, The Chariot and the Knight of Swords:

Temperance (Iris, goddess of the rainbow): Iris was a kind and merciful goddess who represents the fluid adjustment of feeling and emotion with the ultimate goal of harmony. She was also a message bearer of the gods.

The Chariot (Ares, god of war): With his two horses pulling in opposite directions, Ares represents aggressive instincts guided by the will of consciousness, and suggests conflict and struggle can result in a stronger personality when faced with strength and containment.

Knight of Swords (the Warrior Twins, Castor and Polydeuces, one mortal and one divine): An augury of sudden change and mercurial energy which breaks apart the ordinary patterns of life, often with callous disregard for common sense or kindness.

Oh, I love it when my cards tell me what I already know.  It was a crazy year for me.  (Duh.)  I saw my dream of publication come true when I finally got to hold a printed copy of SEDUCED BY SHADOWS.  At the same time, I suffered through the flailing death throes of my day job.  (Luckily I’m good at imagining the living dead, so I’ve managed to keep my job lumbering along — minus some body parts — in a gruesome caricature of employment.)  I’ve stretched my personal boundaries from painfully introverted bookworm to painfully social bookworm-becoming-butterfly.  I started — and failed at — a weight-lifting regimen.  (Yeah, yeah, I actually started it again tonight; stupid New Years resolutions.) 

Clearly, it’s been a year of more uproar than balance, which is obvious if you weigh the three warrior boys and their three wild horses against the pretty Iris.  Still, I think I did a reasonable job of adjusting on the fly and keeping my feet under me.  So I’ll keep the reminder of steady Iris going forward (kindness, mercy, balance) since I bet when I pull my full Celtic Cross spread for the new year, I think I’ll be seeing more of those conflict cards.

Besides, in the pitcher she carried, Iris also held the waters that filled storm clouds.  She could dump a bucket of cold water on those hot-headed boys at any time — if she decided to stop playing nice.  That’s a good reminder too.

How about you?  Did you come away with a lesson from 2009 you’d like to share?  If you want a three-card draw from my Greek mythology deck, just ask and we’ll see what the cards have to say to you.

Currently working on: Word wrestling
Mood: WWF Smackdown

I love when cheesy rock anthems — the kind that demand a lighter held high overhead — seem to speak directly to me.  One that came at a particularly needful time of my life was Creed’s 1999 angsty tune “Higher.”  The part I liked to sing along with — very angstily and with marginal tunefulness — went a little something like this:

When dreaming I’m guided through another world
Time and time again
At sunrise I fight to stay asleep
…’Cause there’s a hunger, a longing to escape
From the life I live when I’m awake
…But, my friend, I’d sacrifice all those nights
If I could make the Earth and my dreams the same…

I thought I’d sacrifice anything to make my dream come true.  My dream, essentially forever, was to be a published author.  I’d been writing for a long time, and I felt like I was stuck in one of those running dreams, going nowhere.  I admit, my authoring dream may have been slightly misinformed early on by a particular heroine of mine:

As a kid, I’d read an article about Dame Barbara Cartland that talked about how she wrote a $#!+load of books while reclining on a pink divan, reciting the stories in her head to a secretary, whilst caressing her dogs.  For some reason, in my memory, the article said the dogs were pink too, although this picture I found doesn’t corroborate.

Regardless, based on that article, my dream went a little something like this:

Be rich
Be famous
Have a dog
Write all day long…

So, turns out, the third one is doable and the last part is a must.  Here are a few lessons I learned in between dreaming of being a published author and waking up as one:

1.  Dreams take work.
And not the kind of work I normally do in dreams.  In a high percentage of my night-time dreams, I’m some sort of super-spy skulking around.  Which is cool.  Unlike my second most common dream occupation which is hiding from monsters.  Actually, now that I think about it, my night-time dreams are sort of decent practice for my day dreams.  But really, the work of dreams requires more sweat and less flying than the dream of dreams.

2. Dreams can be as surreal in real life as they are in dreams.
The funny thing about dreams is — Creed’s wishes aside — they don’t always look the same in real life.  The Earth and my dreams will never be the same — for which my black labrador is very grateful, since making her Cartland pink would actually be a nightmare.

3. Dreams need more dreams.
At my writers’ group holiday party this weekend, one of the other writers, who I hadn’t seen in awhile, said to me, “You did it!”  As if “it” was ever done.  The dream doesn’t end when you wake up.  The dream-come-true is very much like the endless rooms dream, where every door leads someplace new.

Speaking of doors, sometimes The Doors got a little trippy, but I always liked this line from “Awake”:

Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day…

If you were going to choose the next step toward making your dream a reality, where would the path take you?

As the end of 2009 draws near, it’s a natural time to reflect. The old year is settling back on its heels, and the new year is bright and shiny and just visible around the corner. Sometimes it’s hard to see that brightness, especially when things have been particularly dark, but the light is always there if you look for it.

I’m grateful for many things this year…

1. The roof over my head and the food on my table. So many people, especially now, are going without. I’m lucky, and I know it.

2. My health and the health of my loved ones. Having been hit hard by cancer, my family is particularly conscious of how short life can be. We’ve learned to make every minute last.

3. My family. The product of a military life of the move, my family has always been tightly knit, but amazingly, as the years pass, we seem to grow even closer.

4. My dreams. Two years ago, my dream of becoming a published author was just that, a dream. This year, it’s reality. If I had never dared to dream, if I had never pursued that dream with passion, my reality would be very different.

5. The people who inspire me. The world news delivered to our door each day can be harsh and cruel and dispiriting. But time and time again, I’ve been blessed to see and hear stories of courage and selflessness that make me proud to be human. Sometimes those stories come from people I don’t know, sometimes from my friends and neighbors. Sometimes they’re about little things, sometimes large and wondrous things. Many times the inspiration comes from unexpected sources, including honest and heartfelt comments on blogs like this one.

6. My readers. This one is new, and absolutely amazing. I’ve received wonderful letters from readers who’ve connected with my characters. That they’ve taken time out of their busy lives to write me and tell me so has repeatedly put a huge smile on my face.

I hope all of you have a terrific Thanksgiving holiday. Stay safe, eat well, and be loved.