Congratulations to Sharon Ashwood for her 2011 RWA RITA: UNCHAINED, the third book in her Dark Forgotten series, won for Best Paranormal Romance. Yay, Sharon!
Currently working on: Listening to the thunder of an approaching storm (literally and figuratively) Mood: Antsy
I recently read an article about the regrets of the dying. The article was in response to a blog post by a palliative care worker who compiled a top five regrets list from her conversations with the dying. Both articles — and several more I found on the web after a search; the topic apparently captured the blogosphere’s imagination — were interesting and thoughtful. And all seemed to miss a crucial point:
Everybody will have some regrets.
It’s inevitable, I think. Even for someone with all the opportunities in the world, there isn’t enough time to explore every option. And for every option chosen, another option is left behind. Anyone with even a little curiosity is going to wonder about the roads not taken, and at least occasionally that wondering will be tinged with regret.
The top regret listed was not having “the courage to live a life true to myself” and not “honour[ing] even a half of their dreams.”
Sounds so easy to follow your dreams. Like the only reason those dying people hadn’t followed their dreams was because nobody had showed them a top five list of things they were going to kick themselves for later if only they had the strength and flexibility.
Maybe it will be that easy for some. Maybe they’ll read that list and say, I won’t let that happen to me. But dreams don’t come cheap.
Which is kind of funny when you consider that dreams are free every night when you sleep.
Dreams (at least the kind that cause deathbed maunderings of regret) are demanding. They take time — and, as mentioned earlier, there is never enough of that. They take resources, focus, effort. They take from other dreams. And they may or may not reward all that time and effort. The potential of the dream may be the only reward for the pursuit. And the pursuit of one dream — by its nature — will likely negate the possibility of pursuing something else.
I am so glad I’ve had the chance to pursue my dreams. I’ve even captured a few of them. But they came at a price, and I think rather than hoping for a life with no regrets at all, I will just find regrets I can live with. And die with.
Thanks to random.org, our winner for Laurie London’s guest post last week — receiving a signed copy of Laurie’s debut novel BONDED BY BLOOD — is Janna! Congratulations, Janna!
Currently working on: Juggling
Mood: Cue circus music
This week at Silk And Shadows, we’re leaving our cozy writing lofts and exploring that other holy mecca of the working writer — the place from whence all snacks spring: the kitchen.
I live with a professional cook. Before you decide to hate me, consider these repercussions of living with a professional cook:
Professional cooks believe they are followed sometime shortly after closing by a professional cleaning crew
Professional cooks use a lot of spoons — I mean a LOT of spoons, an insane number of spoons, a ludicrous and baffling number of spoons, more spoons than you will ever, ever own
Professionals are not to be questioned on their home surf’n'turf (even if you don’t like, have never liked, and WILL never like peas)
Professional cooks believe that amateurs shouldn’t play with knives (this despite the fact that if my cook ever develops alien hand syndrome and is murdered in his sleep by his left hand — he wields his knife right-handed — his left hand will walk on a self-defense/PTSD plea; yes, it has that many scars)
Despite these occasionally troubling aspects of living with a professional cook, I will STFU already because without him, I would starve.
My mother is a wonderful cook and fed me through high school. (Thanks, Mom!) I don’t remember eating anything after I left my college dorm. No wait, I think I had a hot dog once. My semester in Moscow, after my imported peanut butter ran out, I survived on bread and honey alternating with Georgian cheese bread. By the time I got to my first apartment by myself, I filled one cabinet with nacho chips and the other with brownie mix: for, you know, dinner and dessert.
So to say my live-in professional cook’s kitchen craft confounds me is to speak with severe underemphasis. He can make all three stove burners, the oven AND the toaster oven yield up completed — and completely heated — dishes at the exact same time. Crazy, yo.
My minimalist impression of cooking is to melt the chocolate chips before pouring them over the brownies. When I’m feeling wild, I melt the choco chips with butter. I call that my French method.
Despite my incompetence in the kitchen, I do have a favorite kitchen implement:
The spatula.
You can tell spatulas are my favorite because the one on the left is still dirty from my last batch of brownies. (The remains of the French method chocolate is in the skillet on the stove.) Well, maybe you can’t tell it’s dirty because I licked it clean. But trust me, spatulas are my favorite.
Not only is “spatula” a hilarious word to say repeatedly, the spatula is also often the only kitchen implement available to you when a professional cook has stolen all the spoons and forbidden you from using the knives.
(Warning: Extreme tangent and whine. My cook broke the tip off his best cleaver in a futile attempt to assassinate a mole that was uprooting our garden. But I’m the one not allowed to use the kitchen knives. Does this seem fair to you?)
Not only are spatulas the one reasonable way to lift a giant chunk of frosted brownie from the pan to your mouth (okay, fine, a plate) but a spatula can also be used as a spoon (should all your other spoons be mysteriously missing). The edge of a spatula even makes a passable knife (should you be hollered at whenever you touch real knives). Spatulas are frequently slotted (middle and right spatulas pictured above) and can be used to drain mac’n'chez or ramen noodles for those meals that aren’t coated in melted chocolate.
Spatulas are undeniably the best.
[Updated: I've been informed that the spatula pictured on the right isn't actually a cute mini spatula but one half of a salad tosser. Who knew?]
So do you consider yourself a kitchen klutz or a kitchen craftsman? If you’re not sure, the answer may be related to the number of times you’ve bloodied your knuckles on the cheese grater. Or do you think the immersion blender is more dangerous?
Currently working on: Revising Book 4
Mood: Breathless
It’s been said that the Top 3 impolite topics of conversation with strangers are sex, religion and politics. But I write about demon-possessed alpha male warriors, so…
I guess I can try to leave politics out of it.
I poke around a lot in the world’s religions, looking for intriguing factoids on demons, monsters and evil in general. (For the new villain in Book 4, I’m reading about the demons of various North American Indian tribes. There’s even a wilderness area that I’m thinking might deserve a camping trip since it was allegedly home to a Nez Perce demon.) As for sex, well, that’s everywhere. From the talkshow host forced to apologize for the religious slur to the inappropriately dressed starlet, it’s always fascinating to see what makes people angry. And what passes our internal censors without a twitch.
The end of last month was the American Library Association’s Banned Book Week. Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series made the list for objections to its religious viewpoint and sexual explicitness. Yay, sex and religion! I guess her politics were okay. I just finished reading Suzanne Collins’ THE HUNGER GAMES (yes, I know I’m still in the foothills of my To Be Read mountain) and my next thought after ”Great book!” was “Ooh, politics!”
I think most writers don’t go out of their way to get banned. (Although I’m sure the publicity is nice.) Offensiveness, like beauty, is in the eye — and mind — of the beholder. But I have to admit, I’m thrilled people believe enough in the power of stories that the author’s take on sex, religion, politics, and all the rest might drive someone to — oh, I don’t know — think or even act.
Here are my favorite impolite inspirations:
South Park While it’s true I adore South Park mostly for its cursing children (Team Cartman!) I also like that they willingly skewer… everything. Sex, religion, politics. No topic is sacred.
That harsh light is rarely flattering but it can be strangely illuminating. One of my favorite episodes is “Tsst,” where the Dog Whisperer Cesar Millan comes to South Park to rehabilitate Cartman. It was stupidly funny, it was wrong… and at the end — spoiler alert! — when Cartman’s mom undoes Cesar’s good training and Cartman reverts to type, we get an “ohh” moment of actual insight, not only about Cartman’s character but about how we act in our own relationships.
Not bad for a show that prominently features fart jokes.
Jackass Speaking of stupidly funny… Jackass 3D is out! This is going to be my Finish Book 4 or Get Whalloped By A Giant Hand inspiration. I’m gonna go see it when I’m done writing.
Jackass is definitely wrong. It inspires stupid kids to do stupider stunts. And yet…
I honestly think the reason some people hate Jackass is because they can’t believe other people can just be stupid and have fun and… and that’s it.
But if you live with a dog, you know that this is not necessarily a bad life plan. In fact, I find it very inspiring. Although I’d like to find a way to live more simply (not simplemindedly) with my spine intact.
Also, Johnny Knoxville is weirdly compelling to me.
Okay, the last two examples of impolite inspiration make me seem like a cretin. So I’ll return to writing.
The Onion
Yes, The Onion is probably the written lovechild of the illicit romance between South Park and Jackass, but at least it requires literacy.
As a reader, I love The Onion for their scalpel-like humor: small and sharp. As a writer and former newspaper reporter, I appreciate anyone who can riff for 15 column inches on “Congress Sets Sail In Search Of Fabled Sword Of Bipartisanship.”
Oops, politics again.
Life is full of hard topics. Harder in the case of Jackass when you miss the landing mattress. But I don’t think a writer can always live by the adage “If you can’t say something nice….”
Do you have topics you determinedly try to avoid at holiday family gatherings? Or do you like to throw conversational grenades for the sake of spirited debate?
Book signings can be quite the ordeal for a multi-published (you know, two books) author like me. First off, they never send a big enough limo:
Sure, it’s sort of Old World classy, but it should at least be black since I write urban fantasy romance. Maybe with violet running lights. And how am I supposed to fit my entourage in there? Not even room enough for their rippling abs…
So lately, I’ve had to tell them to send a drop plane so I can fit me, all my signing gear and my ego into one crate:
Dropping in under cover of darkness to avoid the screaming hordes of relentless fans can be tricky. And most bookstores don’t open until 10 a.m. anyway. So sometimes I have to resort to disguises. Or at least a big pair of Hollywood sunglasses. Cuz that’s how I roll.
Once I get to the bookstore, I have to make sure the green room is tricked out to the specifications of my rider. You know, the champagne, the massage therapist, the signing pens in every color of the rainbow PLUS sparkly, (the drugs were all done by the Beat poets long before we arrived so we’ll have to make do), and the dessert trays.
Yeah, no dessert tray is undoubtedly a diva moment; who would blame me? And all of that work before the signing even starts!
(Good thing my ghostwriter did all that actual pesky writing stuff or I’d be too exhausted to eat more than one dessert.)
Once my entourage clears the hacks off the stage — Frank Herbert (DUNE), Mao (LITTLE RED BOOK), Stephenie Meyer (can’t remember the name of her book) and their ilk — I can finally take the spotlight due my brilliance.
I say a few words, accept the night’s award (there’s always an award of some sort; I keep a special cardboard box for them in my mansion), and then it’s time for the hardest part:
Currently working on: Revising Book 4
Mood: Grumbly
This week’s topic here at Silk And Shadows is writing proposals. It’s a skill committed writers (and by committed, I mean headed for the asylum) need to learn and… And… And I just can’t talk about it because I’m currently working on revising Book 4 and I can’t think of ANYTHING except how to make the words that are on the page RIGHT NOW more closely align with the story that’s IN MY HEAD.
Grumble.
So I’m hijacking the topic to whine about me. Anybody else who wants to whine about me can do so here too. I attended the Emerald City Romance Book Fair this weekend –
– where I spent most of the time grumbling under my breath to myself about Book 4 and rearranging scenes in my head and wondering if it would be completely unacceptable to murder the hero in Chapter 4 just to make most of my problems go away.
(If I murdered the heroine in Chapter 5, the rest of the problems would go away. My villain could run amok and that would definitely more closely align with my grumbly mood.)
Which does sort of speak to the actual topic this week, in that a writer needs to be able to do many things at once: Write the current story; think of the next story; worry about the last story; eat cookie dough…
Recent studies have said that multi-tasking doesn’t work. The studies purport to show that doing more than one thing at a time takes longer, ultimately reduces productivity, and raises stress. I think those studies were probably done by men, who everybody knows CAN’T multi-task. So probably they are just jealous. But fine, instead of calling it multi-tasking, we’ll call it juggling.
Juggling all the pieces of writing is like juggling the following:
A Japanese glass float and an over-ripe heirloom tomato
A lighted charcoal grill (with a locking lid; we wouldn’t want this to be impossible)
An X-wing fighter with R2-D2 in the backseat (Hey, Sharon, started the Star Trek references last week)
You could easily juggle the float and tomato at the same time. (Assuming you know how to juggle.) They are similar sizes and weights, and similarly delicate. All you need to pull this off is a drop cloth.
Add the grill — even with the locking lid – and it gets a little trickier. For one thing, lighted grills get hot and the legs sticking out are awkward. And they are inevitably rusty. But if people can juggle chainsaws, certainly a grill is not out of the realm of possibility.
By the time you add the X-wing, really, the only thing that will save you is magic. I imagine R2 will be screaming. I certainly would be.
So maybe those anti-multi-tasking studies are right; why should I think of the NEXT book when I may not survive THIS book? Of course, there is this secondary character who would make a very sexy hero….
What are you juggling these days? A bowling ball? A set of Ginsu knives? Any hints for surviving?
Currently working on: Memorizing the lyrics to R.E.M.’s “It’s the End of the World as We Know It”
Mood: “And I feel fiiiiine…”
The temperatures are definitely shifting and the sun is setting sooner every day. I’m busy writing Book 4 of the Marked Souls. With the end of summer and deadlines looming, I feel a little bit like I’m going back to school.
This may surprise no one, but I was always a bit of a nerd and a bookworm. (Well, maybe the “a bit” part would surprise you.) I was not hot, which was our topic here at Silk And Shadows last week, and I was not cool, as is this week’s topic. Either one — hot or cool — would have been nice, but instead I settled for a rich fantasy life and a facility with words.
Which brings me to some cool people I want to share with you. These are some of the cool people I would’ve liked to hang with back in the day; luckily, now there’s the internet, so they can share their coolness with all of us. (Disclaimer: My definition of cool may have been irrepairably damaged by my bookwormy nerdiness.)
Not only is she hysterically funny with words, she draws too. When I feel bad, I like to look at her “Better Pain Scale” strip. By the end I’m feeling better. Or maybe I feel like #11 on her better pain scale, but at least she’s given me a way to relate to my feelings.
Then I read various other posts and LMAO and all is well.
If you kinda wish you were going back to school, just because it’s been awhile since you stretched your mind, check him out. Sometimes, he makes my head hurt. In a good way. (#3 on Allie’s pain scale, maybe.) If you ever wonder “What is the world coming to?” you can read the ongoing blog spun off his book HERE COMES EVERYBODY. It’s not always good news, but always fascinating.
Okay, not really a person, but a bunch of clever, cool people. And I’ll admit up front that I am vastly amused by South Park because I find cursing children hilarious; swearing by Brits is similarly amusing. Modern Toss’s Periodic Table of Swearing is funny AND wrong, so of course it’s cool. I daren’t include a snippet since it might offend someone but I’ll just say this… Prat.
Right. Looking at this list now, I realize there was no way I could ever have been cool. Oh well. Were you a cool kid? What was it like? If you weren’t a cool kid, which group did you belong to?
Currently working on: Finishing my #RomCon free read
Mood: Scattered
First of all, congrats to fellow Silk And Shadows author Sharon Ashwood on the release of her third Dark Forgotten book, UNCHAINED! To celebrate, this week we’re discussing what we’d like to be unchained from.
If I could sever one chain that holds me back I think I’d follow the advice of the George Clinton song:
Free your mind, and your ass will follow.
My mind is a freakishly squirrelly place. Lots of running around. Lots of chirping. Lots of nuts. (Lots of roadkill too.) It’d be lovely to be free of it. Not all the time, you understand, just every once and awhile.
Sometimes right before bed or right when I get up, there’s so much going through my mind that I can feel my pulse speed up, trying to keep up. I’m going to stroke out one of these days from the excitement that’s only in my head. I do a simple meditative exercise where I think of a candle… Flickering… flickering… And then burning down everything so all that’s left is a clean, simple, clear flow of nada. Ahhh…
Of course, that only works for a few minutes (sometimes long enough to fall asleep) and then the squirrel is back on the hunt — digging, leaping from tree to tree, chattering and scolding, running out into traffic…
All the racing and chirping looks like activity, but that isn’t the same thing as getting work done. I would like to harness the power of my mind for good. But have you ever seen a squirrel in a harness? No. So if I can’t harness the squirrel, at least I’d like to not be slave to the squirrel. (That sounds like a paranormal erotica: Slave to the Were-Squirrel.)
How about you? Are you every carried away by your own mind? (Hmm, I suppose a manly were-squirrel would be good for spiriting you away to his tree house.) How do you rein in your out-of-control squirreliness?
Currently working on: A free-read short story from the Marked Souls
Mood: Murderous (in the storyworld, not real life!)
Writers write.
It’s one of those sayings that frustrated writers lob at each other like a water balloon full of lemon juice and razor blades.
But sometimes it isn’t always that easy. (Kind of like that metaphor.)
Writers write.
Writers try to write.
Writers at least sit at their computers.
Writers at least sit at their computers with their fingers on the keyboard.
Okay, writers at least blog.
The hardest part of writing, for me, is focus. When I write, distractions are like… like the ants that are currently marching around my office window in search of… I really can’t tell. Hold on while I go look…
Apparently the ants want Monster Girl’s mostly-chewed cow thigh bone. This bone has been in my office for nigh onto two years now, along with enough other pieces of cow to reanimate most of a bovine, given enough electricity and mad cackling. Although if I count correctly, this particular cow would have five legs. Whatever. (I do remove the bones when we have houseguests, because nobody likes to sleep on an inflatable twin mattress in an abattoir.) Why the ants would want this bone now… Probably they are distracting me from something else they really want. Like my bucket of cookie dough.
Speaking of distractions, see how easy it was to get distracted from this post on the hardest part of writing?
(In case you were curious, the ants are odorous house ants. (Tapinoma sessile. Subfamily: Dolichodorinae. I Googled it just for you.) They earned this name from the scent of rotton coconuts they emit when crushed by a wildly wielded cow thigh bone. Or, obviously, any other blunt object. This infestation does not indicate that I’m a failure at housekeeping (although I am). All of Portland is built on a giant anthill.)
Aside from the ants, one of my most common distractions is, not surprisingly, books. I have a lot of books around me. A lot of good books. It’s a hazard of the job. A lot of good books within arm’s reach. Which is a hazard of a small office.
Why, look, this good book just fell into my hand. It’s a signed copy of the first book in Ava Gray’s Skin series, SKIN GAME. The second book, SKIN TIGHT, came out this month, and you do NOT want to be left behind.
SKIN GAME starts like this:
Kyra held the guy’s balls in the palm of her hand. Literally.
Just for a second as she brushed by him, but it was enough. His eyes widened, and she knew he took the touch as a sign he’d get lucky after he won her last hundred bucks. The crumpled bill lay underneath his, weighted by a cube of pool chalk.
Poor, stupid mark.
See, THAT is why I was distracted. Leave a comment about what distracts you most often and you’ll have a chance to win the signed copy of SKIN GAME.
Now what was I… Right, distractions.
I first learned about writing in flow (a focused — emphasis is mine –timeless state where creativity comes “easily”) from reading Susan K. Perry’s WRITING IN FLOW. Perry writes a creativity blog for Psychology Today online. I sometimes go read that when I’m feeling distracted.
The book reads like a fairy tale to me, a tale of princesses whose words fall from their fingertips like rose petals and diamonds. I even love the word “flow,” the way it sounds and the way it looks. Flow… Flooowww.
I’m easily distracted.
Back to the ants. These are actually scout ants. So they do a lot of backtracking and wandering in circles and… Seem familiar? Yeah, to me too. Can’t quite place it though…
You know who would like my ants? Mark Moffett, called the Indiana Jones of entomology by the National Geographic Society. Who wouldn’t want Indy to come steal all the ants in her office? I heard Moffett interviewed on NPR (he’s pimping a new book ADVENTURES AMONG ANTS) and his ants are way cooler (also meaner, bigger and did I mention meaner) than my ants, and also more focused. They can skeletonize large dead things, like cows, which would no doubt impress Monster Girl.
Sadly, I don’t have a signed copy of Moffett’s ant book to give away, but remember to leave a comment for SKIN GAME.
So anyway, it’s not that I’m always distracted, it’s just that
Currently working on: Last week of revisions
Mood: Vaguely National Lampoon-esque
Love is blissful. Love is beautiful. Love is butterflies and bluebells.
And oh boy is that boring.
I write about blissful, beautiful, true-blue love… but not until the very last pages. Because love — once it has reached the ever-after stage — is, well, not very compelling. Sure, it’s great to be committed in real life. But in the portrayal of love, the struggle, the learning of lessons, the discovery of strengths, the freshness, the denial, and the compromise is where the fun lies, I think.
Which is why my favorite commercials with romance tend to be less about the end-stage “He got me a big fat diamond — cue French horns and tears” and more about the silly or sweet or sarcastic sides of love.
I like this one for capturing that perfect moment of “love at first sight” along with a few of the really awkward moments that inevitably follow:
This commercial is using love to sell electronics. I’ve seen commercials use love to sell cat food, toothpaste, gum, and cars. What do you think; is there ANY product that can’t be sold with love?
Currently working on: Unearthing the revised Book 3 from the rotting corpse of Book 3 — phoenix, arise!
Mood: Frankenstein-esque
It’s Valentine’s week. If you haven’t signed up for the Silk And Shadows newsletter (look to the left side of the page) today’s the day. Our next newsletter goes out soon and there are Valentine’s giveaways to be won.
And speaking of Valentine’s… Will I be drummed out of the romance lovers’ league if I say aloud that I think Valentine’s Day is a crock? In college, some women in my dorm donned black armbands on Valentine’s Day, and I wore one in solidarity. One of my roommates (who, yes, had a boyfriend with whom she had a lovely relationship judging from the late-night noises coming from the bunk across the very tiny room) accused me of being bitter and jealous nerd. I said, Duh.
But it seems to me that many of the traditions of Valentine’s don’t feel like any romance I’d want to have. Roses wither in a disturbingly short period of time. The milk chocolate bon-bons pushed on us are a poor, cheap substitute for the real deal. At least there’re sparkly diamonds… Except now we’re told diamonds are just the blood-soaked refuse of terrible Third World conflict.
What’s a girl to do?
Besides read a romance novel, I mean.
What I learned from romance novels that Valentine’s Day got wrong:
1. Love is not a one-day affair. Indeed not. Love is at least a week-long affair with a Sicilian billionaire. Or maybe an eternity with a vampire prince. But definitely not a mere 24 hours in February.
2. Love means having to say… lots.
Words are the measure of the man. Backed up with action, of course. Lots and lots of hot action. But I want more words than fit on 5×7 cardstock even if it has a glittered butterfly and embossed heart. Somewhere between 200-400 pages of words should just about do it.
3. Love is sacrifice. This one Valentine’s Day got right. According to the story, Valentine was a saint who martyred himself for lovers. Romance novels are all about the sacrifice the lovers make to be together. They give up their loneliness, their distrust, their prejudices, even though sometimes giving up their lives would’ve felt easier. And at the end, they don’t always get flowers and chocolate and sparkly jewelry, the love is a given.
Do you have a Valentine’s tradition that you adore? Feel free to create one. We write our own stories here.
Other Posts by Jessa Slade 
The spatula.
South Park
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