It's a cruel beast, one that strikes through the heart of even the most stalwart person. Writers must be gluttons for punishment because our profession, by nature, is fraught with rejection. I've been asking for it myself for over a year now, as I've queried agents and submitted my non-novel stuff around to everyone who'll read it. I've heard "no" more times than I can count.

And it never gets easier, not even when the no's are accompanied by apologies and compliments and offers to try again with something new. Even the form rejects hurt, making us think--what, I'm not good enough to reject personally? And how about the ones that say this is good but it doesn't fit my list/this issue/our publication? It's still a no. And it bugs us.

All these no's make it hideously easy for writers to doubt themselves. I used to wonder sometimes why I hadn't developed a complex.

I wonder today if, in fact, I have.

Like most working writers (I hope so, at least) I have an email compulsion. I need to check and re-check and re-check often, hoping for a return on a query or a submission. I even developed a sort of separation anxiety since my day job is a twelve-hour shift without internet. It had become so difficult to endure the day job-email blackout that I got a data plan on my phone. (And then I got a new phone because it was too hard to read mail on my Crackberry. Go figure.)

On my way out of work, I downloaded my mail to find new messages. Yay! I had that tiny thrill of happy-happy that momentarily satisfies my email compulsion. Even better when I saw two emails from a journal I'd submitted to back in October. Of course, doubt strangled my excitement and the first thing I thought was, Oh great. Rejections. And sure enough, the first one was a form rejection. Boo.

Why bother checking the other right now? I thought. After all, it wasn't like the other had a subject that read BUT THIS ONE WE LOVED! Being a sadist, however, I decided to read it and get it over with, so at the first stop light, I hit retrieve.

By the time the light changed, I'd noticed it was still downloading. Fantastic, I thought. So much for painlessly ripping off that Band-Aid. The connection was murderously slow. Figures. This rejection was really going to make me work for it. I canceled the download and started over as I headed over the mountain.

Fifteen minutes later, though, it was still only half downloaded. What the hell? Curiosity consumed me. I pulled over and checked the file size of the rejection. Eight MB. Ok. I checked the other one. Thirty-two hundred. Ooooo-kay. Which could mean…maybe not a rejection after all.

Here's where the whole I-think-I-have-a-complex comes in. I instantly began to doubt it could be good news. But I didn't have just any old doubt. Oh, no. This was Writer's Doubt to the nth degree.

Over the course of the next ten minutes, I went through a series of stages of doubt that ranged from maybe it's a form rejection and a copy of their newsletter to maybe it's a rejection and a copy of their submission guidelines with a warning to follow them next time. By the time I got home, I'd reached the confidence-crippling final stage of it's got to be a list of reasons why they're rejecting it accompanied by a wav. file of all the editors chanting YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK!

It took a while to get up the nerve to turn on my laptop and actually read the message. My heart was in my throat and my anxiety was so palpable the dog hid under the table and whined.

Stupid doubt. My poem "Blackened Madonna" had been accepted by Ghostlight Magazine and the email contained the contract. Whew. Talk about dodging a bullet. I chuckled and sank bonelessly onto the couch, promising myself that, next time, I won't doubt myself to the point of neurosis.

But eh, who am I kidding? I may write fiction but I can't kid myself into believing that fantasy.

I'll be attending class again in February. I had such a great experience in my last one with Catherine that there was no way I'd miss out this time. After all, a chatterbox like me can never learn too much about dialog. I strive for pro-status-talking...

What amazes me is the note I'd read about the instructor providing 'even more class time': Catherine spent so much time responding and interacting with the class in my previous course that I can only assume she'll be going non-stop this time around! =)



This February Pennwriters, Inc. online writing workshops presents...

UNDERSTANDING DIALOGUE USE: Intensive Online Writing Course

INSTRUCTOR: Catherine E. McLean
DATE: February 1 - March 5, 2010

REGISTER: http://tinyurl.com/PennwritersCourse201002
(LIMITED CLASS SIZE. Enroll now.)

COURSE DESCRIPTION:
Although dialogue is primarily considered a tool for characterization, few writers understand how dialogue can be used to enhance mood, tone, drama, and action, and how it binds the reader to a story's characters and their plight. Make a New Year’s resolution to improve your writing, and register now for this Pennwriters online workshop.

In this online course, you will discover the 13 functions of dialogue--from spoken words to internalizations--and the common usage mistakes. Learn new skills that will make it easier for you to:

* Effectively write spoken dialogue to show, not tell
* Understand the “mechanics" of punctuation, grammar, beats, tags, and stage business that make dialogue realistic
* Give each of your characters a distinct narrative voice using dialect, diction, and syntax
* Use dialogue to foreshadow, enhance your story's pace, add urgency, and intensify drama
* Know the 6 types of internalizations and their appropriate applications

NOTE:

Participants will be asked to submit short exercises or examples for various aspects of dialogue use. Feedback will be given on the exercises and examples.

BONUS:

At the end of the course, you will receive a FREE “Revising for Dialogue” cheat sheet. Plus, one name will be drawn to win a FREE analysis of the first 10 pages of their story or novel.


Pennwriters Online Courses receive high satisfaction scores and repeat customer rates—read our testimonials! Learn proven ways to write realistic dialogue that readers and editors love. LIMITED CLASS SIZE. Enroll now.

ABOUT THE INSTRUCTOR:
Catherine McLean is a published author of science fiction, paranormal, and contemporary (romance) short stories. She has had more than two dozen articles published on the craft of writing. For more than ten years she's given workshop for writers at conferences, college personal enrichment courses, and online writing courses. A more detailed bio is available at Catherine McLean's website Writer's Cheat Sheets.

The Pennwriters 2010 Conference is quickly approaching. Visit the Area 6 blog for a great series on the top ten reasons to attend.

Also, writers who are interested in preparing for a pitch session may enjoy this article written by Ayleen Stellhorn. I've posted my own pre-game warm-up here.

Lastly, dig this picture: the Pennwriters Conference logo. It's a great visual reminder that writing is all about the craft.




Ain't it pretty? =)

As usual, my best-laid plans are replaced by spur-of-the-moment impulses. This past weekend, I’d planned to hit Baltimore for some fresh seafood and a drive-by visit to see Edgar. Happy birthday, my melancholy muse…

Alas, it was not meant to be. Instead of a frozen trek through Inner Harbor and a frigid trip to the corner of Fayette and Greene, we instead celebrated a family birthday and gorged ourselves at Dunderbak’s German restaurant in Allentown. Still, technically, a birthday and a good stuffing. Just closer to home.

Of course, I can’t deny myself a day of Poe. On January 19th, before I trudge off to yet another morbid day of retail dread, I’ll curl up with a collection and read over my favorites in the comfort of my cozy parlor. (We pronounce it pahlahr.) Here’s how others are celebrating:

Poe’s 24-hour Birthday Bash, Poe Museum in Richmond Va
***The Poe Museum will officially conclude the year-long international celebration of Poe’s Bicentennial on January 16th with a 24-hour party featuring events and activities for the whole family. Doors open at 11:45pm on the 15th for the Champagne toast at Midnight.

Jeffrey Combs appears in Nevermore…An Evening With Edgar Allen Poe
***January 23rd & 24th. Hundreds of fans have seen the show and raved about Jeffrey Combs portrayal of Edgar Allan Poe. NEVERMORE, An Evening With Edgar Allan Poe recreates the public recitals that Poe presented during the last few years of his life. This is Poe in his own words. The text is taken from his letters and essays.

Catalyst Theatre presents NEVERMORE, The Imaginary Life and Mysterious Death of Edgar Allan Poe
***February 13th. The article announces the event is sold out but the picture is so awesome: like Edgar Scissorhands!



Woots! I need to listen to Emilie Autumn after seeing that picture. Call out the Bloomer Brigade!

Lastly, we can’t forget the famous “Poe Toaster” who offers solemn vigil each year in remembrance. Here is an interesting article about a man who claims to be the mysterious person who leaves roses and cognac on Edgar’s grave. You might also enjoy the other selections from The Baltimore Sun, including news of his recent honoring--a proper viewing and funeral, things denied him when he died in 1849. You’ll find a stash of videos and articles here.

And as a treat I’ll leave you with a photo from Edgar’s home in Philadelphia, the last of six to survive the ravage of time and urban renewal. This particular home on Spring Garden is thought to be the inspiration of his tale “The Black Cat.” Here’s a shot of the cellar that plays such a significant role in the story:



I wished I’d brought a stuffed animal to stick in the one hole (actually behind me where I stood to snap this picture.) I could have really messed with someone.

Too bad my cellar only inspires me to do laundry. Some people have all the luck. I suppose the closest I’ll come to experiencing such inspirational dread is to picture me trying to walk down Edgar’s steps with a full basket on my hip. Oh! The horror! So steep! And that hand rail looks none too sturdy! And I am wearing bad shoes! Oh noes!

Anyway. Be sure to remember Edgar in your own way this year. The man, the poet, the lost soul should not be forgotten.

Sounds ominous, doesn’t it? It should. My muse is evading me and I’m beginning to wonder if it has assumed an alias and a disguise and maybe even moved away. Who knows. Lucky for me, I have no compunction against stalking. It’s a skill I developed, like most females, in junior high. Most females get over it.

I, however, am more frugal and maintain that no skill is a bad skill.

I haven’t had to stalk any one for more than two decades now but I try to keep in practice. Never know when a good stalking is in order. Sadly, there are few opportunities to put it into use these days. Real stalking is technically harassment and often leads to charges being pressed. Something like that would be bad.

Unlike the rest of my family, I’d never taken up hunting (isn’t that weird? I’m an excellent shot. I’d be a natural.) Also, all my favorite rock stars are older than I and therefore old. Where’s the fun in stalking old people? No challenge, I say. (Although Geddy Lee can probably still outrun me. He’s a flighty bird, that one, and has been running from fans for years. Plus, he’s Canadian. Those folks are hearty stock. Still.) The stock market used to be fun for stalking (seriously) but day trading is too risky. I’m better off heading to the casino. And stalking auctions on Ebay lost its appeal, pretty much since I’ve bought everything I really want as well as a great many things that honestly seemed like good ideas at the time.

But I haven’t run out of ideas completely. I’ve decided to put my stalking skills to good use once more. I’ve begun focusing on a most elusive quarry: my muse.

I’ve read all sorts of blogs and articles loaded with advice on where to find inspiration. However, nobody does work for no good reason. It’s nice to find inspiration but it is essential to know why we seek it in the first place.

What drives us to look for the muse? What makes a writer sit down and write? We’ve read tales of writers who have burning voices inside them, clamoring to be heard. People who have experienced amazing things and have a burning need to share it with the world. So many inspirational and uplifting reasons. Many of us hope to relate to those admirable writers and assume their reasons for writing are similar to our own.

Not me. I’ll admit it. My driving forces are more practical and much less professional but nonetheless effective:

1) Envy. That’s right. Envy of the success of others is a wonderful source of inspiration for writers. Back when I started and I was still humbled and amazed that I could even be considered worthy of publication, I used to Google myself as a way to congratulate myself on the work I’ve done. That’s not enough anymore.

Now, I Google other writers. I compare how many more pages of Google hits they have. I see which markets have accepted them and I push myself to produce work worthy of being accepted there as well. Envy helps me to focus on getting my own work out on submission.

You can’t succeed if you don’t try. Jealousy makes you try harder.

2) Praise. Hunger for praise is another excellent driving force. I’m a mom and a pharmacist. Praise doesn’t go too far in either job. Good job on the laundry, mom. I love the way you vacuumed the living room. Or: Way to go counting those pills, miss. Thanks for billing my insurance. See how limp that is? Who can thrive on that drivel? My German Shepherd gets more praise than I do (and cookies. She gets cookies.)

I’m a writer. I need affirmation. It’s what pushes me to enter contests. I have over a dozen entries out at the moment, with at least a dozen more planned. Will I win them all? Heck, no. I’m not delusional. But those contest judges give feedback and more often than not, it’s positive. When a judge comments “lol” on my manuscript, I get shivers. They are just feeding my addiction and my need to be loved. God bless them all.

3) Bills. Boy, do I got ‘em. Mortgage, two cars, a crazy cable bill thanks to my DVR and my loyalty to HBO’s True Blood. I tried getting rid of the things that don’t seem as important but the husband says phone and sewer and electric are things we absolutely have to keep. Likewise, my children insist on food and clothing. Whatever. Since the bills don’t want to go away, I must keep writing. Someday I’ll actually earn enough to pay a bill with it. As long as there is hope, there is reason to persevere.

4) Conceit. Yep, I said it. Every writer feels it. It is what makes us sit down and write: the unwavering belief that we can tell it better than anyone else. If we set out to write under the conviction that we sucked, we wouldn’t waste our time. Our belief in ourselves drives us to go out and face new challenges and take on new quests. Writers just tend to be stuck-up about it.

5) Opportunity to vent. Self-explanatory. I’m a speculative fiction writer. This reason also includes the area of cheap therapy. Recently I had a poem accepted that I wrote about a panic attack I had the day before. Thank you, day job, for making me a nervous wreck and for giving me another Google hit. And thank you, wonderful world of retail, for inspiring me to be a better writer of horror. My customers have no idea what I day-dream about when I’m ringing out their toothpaste. Mu-hahahahaha.

The list could probably go on but, honestly, my husband will kill me if he knew my reasons for writing were so petty. He thinks I derive a deep sense of personal satisfaction by expressive my innate creativity. What a loveable goofball. I suppose as long as he doesn’t have to post bail, he’ll be okay with me stalking my muse. Worst case, I use it as a human shield when the critics come for me.

Here’s wishing every one a Happy New Year. Seek out your reasons to be inspired and may your muse go along with you willingly. Stalking can be such an extreme measure.

Lots of accomplishments recently…some new poetry online at SNM Horror, urban fantasy up at Silver Blade, a couple of flash fic acceptances and a short-list or two…but the neatest one of all (and most unexpected) is a Pushcart Prize nomination. All nice things.

“Fleet-Winged Fate,” the poem at SNM Horror, is a villanelle about dragons (the savage, non-pettable kind.) The urban fantasy is a story that wants to become a novel but I firmly put my foot down. (Too many WIPs clamoring for completion--I cannot whelp another and call myself a responsible person.) “Anamnesis” must content itself with staying a short story.

The flash fics are mainstream in nature. I needed to write something my mother will read; she fears I have too great a dark side. Of course, I console her by denying it and refrain from using my evil mu-ha laugh when she’s around. At any rate, she’ll finally have something new to read when they’re published early next year.

So, lots to chirp about. However, it’s not what I’m most excited about. Today, I’m musing upon the best contests I never won.

Contests are nice things to win. No doubt. Every writer longs for a steady diet of acceptance, praise, and appreciation and to this end we slave away and soldier on. Over the past year, I’ve had several shining moments but, unfortunately, far more dark defeats. The apologetic emails--unfortunately your manuscript did not go on to the final round--carried such disappointment that I’d spare the score sheets only a glance before putting them in a drawer. I hate dwelling on lost competitions as much as I hate dwelling on rejection slips.

But, unlike useless form rejections, the feedback is meant to be constructive. I only enter contests that offer feedback on my work--so in actuality I win something every time. This week, I bucked up and collected the stack of score sheets from over the past half year. With a firm resolve, I decided it was time to look at the comments.

Good gravy. I’ve been sitting on a treasure trove!

First, I want to say the authors, agents, and editors who take time to judge these contests are amazingly generous. Ninety percent of the packets I reviewed were loaded with impressions, feedback, suggestions, and advice that I’d expect only from close friends or trusted betas. That these judges could be so thorough and so immersed in my work continues to baffle and delight me. Thank you, thank you, thank you, judges. I should distribute bumper stickers that read HAVE YOU JUDGED AN RWA JUDGE TODAY?

When I sat down to review them, I discovered I had feedback from four contests, perhaps nine or ten judges overall. Seeing them all together made me realize I had several opportunities to improve my ms. When I’d originally read them, one at a time, the comments were isolated and somewhat disregardable. That’s only one person’s opinion, I would think before putting it away.

When grouped together, however, patterns emerged. Multiple suggestions on the same passages identified weak spots. Collaboratively, all those score sheets became a single voice and I could clearly see which feedback to heed and which to put aside for now.

Individual opinions don’t always carry weight but, when you have a desk full of voices saying the same thing, it reasons to listen. I ended up cutting, stitching, and Botoxing my first three chapters and I’m very pleased with the results. The manuscript is sleek. Shiny. Improved.

Whattaya know? Those judges were right!

If you are a contest junkie like me, I suggest you gather your last several packets of returns. Get colored sticky notes and flag the comments. Look for patterns. One person may have a brilliant insight that could make a tremendous difference; a group of readers may all point to a very necessary revision, the flaw that held you back from reaching the finalists round.

I’ll be test-driving the revisions in a few entries this month. Hopefully, we’ll see more finals than fails in the months to come.

Happy holidays, everybody, and enjoy your Winter!

"Darkness Within" appears at Everyday Weirdness today, November 14, 2009.

Hope you stop by for a looksee.

Short blog today--heading for Baltimore for a much-needed trip to the seafood buffet and the science museum. I'm attending a fiction class this month and I'm pleasantly surprised to find out how much work it actually requires. The exercises provide plenty of opportunity to dig into my WIP and I feel like the gears are finally turning on it. Hope to see some real progress soon.

Maybe a short stop by Edgar's place might be in order, too. We haven't been there in a long while. I can already hear the kids complaining...




Yesterday I heard a lot of people commenting on "Friday the thirteenth." I don't think I ever really bought into the superstition (which is odd, considering I am Catholic and prone to superstitious beliefs.) If anything, I remark more upon the day after--Saturday the fourteenth. I suppose that's my husband's fault. He is planning a movie marathon. A bad one.

So I guess I'd better make our day trip count. Hope you get your own motors going today. Don't let a rainy day rust you.

Today I published the second part of a series of articles over at the Pennwriters Area 6 blog about publishing in general and genre in particular. Last time, I wrote about some of the research I faced as an amateur writer who decided to pursue publication. As a reader, I had very little idea what went on behind the publishing scenes—and deciding to become an author changed my entire perspective.


The biggest challenge I faced was determining my book’s genre. As charming as “cross-genre” sounded, I wanted to be able to make a clear pitch in my queries and so I set off to find my best-fit. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a simple task. Eventually, I narrowed it down to two popular genres: paranormal romance and urban fantasy. My next task was to consider each one and see which would be the lucky label.


As always, new questions piled up next to old answers. You can read the article “Who Put the ‘Urban’ in Urban Fantasy?” here but here’s a little bit to get you started:


When my first book showed promise in various competitions, I became firmly entrenched in my decision to make the switch from writer to author, even if it meant I'd be forever ruined for reading for innocent enjoyment.


Oddly enough, the aspect of this business that most confounded me was genre. I couldn’t decide what niche the book fell into. At one point, I actually yelled at myself for not knowing what I wrote and for not writing a story that fit neatly into a genre.


Once again, special thanks is due to my friend, fellow Pennwriter and writing buddy Jade Blackwater of Brainripples, whose thoughts from the Pacific Northwest helped these articles take on new life. Be sure to check out the links at the end of the article for extra food-for-thought.

Finally! I’ve been holding on to some sweet, sweet news, waiting for the official announcement to be made. At last, I can squee out loud—BLEEDING HEARTS made the finals of the Chick Lit Writers “Get Your Stiletto In The Door” 2009 contest!

This has me amped up because it’s an RWA contest. Up until now, the awards it has won have all been in non-romantic speculative fiction/fantasy categories so this is a milestone for the book. My agent, Nick Croce, is promoting the book as paranormal romance so having a spot in the Stiletto finals is a bonus.

Winners will be announced in early November, so check out Chick Lit Writers to see who else is as happy as I am!

There’s more good news, too. My paranormal romance work-in-progress WORDS THAT BIND placed second in the Houston Writer’s Guild Fall contest. The judges’ comments, which came in the mail last weekend, were a pleasant mix of critique, suggestion, and compliment—just what I’d hoped to hear. What I didn’t expect was a prize, too. (Big woohoo! and a heel-click there.) The same book also made finals in the San Gabriel Writers League Writing Smarter contest. (Hmm. Maybe there’s a book worth finishing...) They will make the final announcement at the awards ceremony this weekend.

But I saved the best bit for last: my addition project is finally complete. The inspector came by and gave the almighty thumbs up and finally, my two-room add-on is all ours. I got a front porch, too--a real one, with a roof and a rail, big enough for a love seat and a wicker table and a hay bale-scarecrow-thing for the Fall holidays. Until now, I had a functional almost-porch with a small roof that barely kept the dog dry when it rained. But not anymore.

A real porch. It’s like a facelift, a radical procedure that somehow altered the entire appearance of the house. Amazing. It didn’t involve putting up a single wall and yet, it’s my favorite room of the entire addition project. Who knew a roof and a floor could make such a difference? All this time I lived in a house in the country, but it never seemed like an official country home. A cottage, really, but not an actual country home.

Until now.

Just as the porch changed the face of my house, it’s kind of the same thing with those contests and their effect on my outlook as a romance writer. I certainly didn’t start out one, and I’d been hesitant to wonder if I had the right to feel like one now that BLEEDING HEARTS is being marketed as romance. Sure, the story focuses on a woman and her relationship with a man who brings out the best in her, however strange and unbelievable that best may be. Sure, there are romantic elements. But it never seemed to fit those strict romance rules, just as I never felt like I conformed to the romance writer mold.

Those contest returns make me think it’s possible, after all.

I’ve also had a few things accepted over the last few weeks: “Finality” will be in Blood Moon Rising early 2010, “Provision” is online at Dark and Dreary magazine, and a third story has been picked up by Silver Blade for November. I’d tell you the title but we haven’t settled on one yet.

Contest finals, journal acceptances, and a front porch. Gotta admit, it’s been a pretty good month.

This week, I played Special Guest Blogger at the Pennwriters Area 6 blog. They will be featuring a two-part series about publishing in general and genre in particular. A big shout-out goes to fellow Pennwriter and writing buddy Jade Blackwater of Brainripples, who added some excellent thoughts to the articles.

Today’s article is called “From Writer to Author: How I Became a Secret Book Spy.” When I decided to turn my writing hobby into my business, I had no idea what went into getting published. Talk about a journey of discovery!

I discovered that every question answered meant a dozen more to ask. Looking back over my experiences, I found that the one question that plagued me most was: what genre do I write? I suppose most authors can answer that question in an eye-blink but I couldn’t (and I tried.) It took a lot of research, a little gut-instinct, and a literary agent to point the way.

Here’s a little teaser:

When I picked up a stack of loose leaf and a Bic gel pen a few years ago, I didn’t suspect that a complete novel would actually leak its way out. I didn’t suspect that I’d keep at it long enough to complete anything I’d be genuinely proud enough to show anyone. And I certainly didn’t suspect I’d spend the next few years actually researching the business side of writing.

Back then, I was still a reader. For me, writing and business only collided when I bought someone’s writing at someone else’s business. I never thought past the big categories of MYSTERY, ROMANCE and SCI-FI/ FANTASY when it came to genre.

Writing a book drastically changes a reader’s perspective. You stop browsing in bookstores; you become part spy, part hunter, and sometimes part stalker…

You can read the whole article here. Enjoy your week, everyone! Time for me to get some black on white.

I’m a homeschooled writer.

A pharmacist by trade, my only writing instruction came in the form of college lit courses and a stubborn allegiance to the Humanities Department. Fortunately, I found life beyond pill bottles when I decided to seriously pursue writing again.

As a member of Pennwriters, I saw this announcement for an online course on editing and thought it was time to go back to school. (I’ll do my best to avoid Rodney Dangerfield impressions.) I’ve had a few short stories published this year, but I’m greedy—I want all my stories published! ;^) Hopefully this course will help me polish up the manuscripts that have yet to find homes so that I can stop torturing the slush readers.

Here is the announcement for the course, which begins tomorrow:

HURRY! COURSE STARTS THIS THURDAY!

Pennwriters Inc. Introduces...

HOW TO BE YOUR OWN BEST FICTION EDITOR

INSTRUCTOR: Lisa D. Kastner
DATE: October 1-24, 2009 (3 weeks, 2 sessions per week)
COST: $25 ($30 non-Pennwriters members)

REGISTER: http://tinyurl.com/PennwritersCourse200910
- OR -
http://www.Pennwriters.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=161&Itemid=95

COURSE DESCRIPTION:
Have you ever written a short story or novel and wondered if it was done? Have you made revisions and thought you were finished, but then realized once you started to send the piece out that it needed work?

In this online course, Lisa Kastner will pull from her own writing experience as well as proven prescriptions of industry greats such as Noah Lukeman, Sol Stein, Tim Esaias, and Nancy Zafris. Even if you participate in the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) in November, you will discover how to make whatever novel you produce publishable. You will learn:

* New ways to look at your fiction and creative non-fiction writing with a fresh eye
* Clearly define your next revision steps to make your work sing
* Save yourself time and manuscript rejection
* Eliminate unneeded sentences and words
* Easily analyze characters and plots like a pro
* Get a clear roadmap to the revision process

As an added bonus with the course, you'll receive a FREE Editing Resource List of the best advice on improving and revising your writing!

Pennwriters Online Courses have very high satisfaction ratings—read our testimonials! Revise your story like an editor and get it published fast. ENROLL NOW.

http://tinyurl.com/PennwritersCourse200910


(Note: This is not a grammar and punctuation class. This course will look at fiction writing like an editor, not like a proof reader.)

ABOUT THE INSTRUCTOR:
Lisa D. Kastner is President of Pennwriters Inc., and founder of the popular Philadelphia and Valley Forge/King of Prussia Pennwriters Critique Groups, and the Running Wild Writers Community. She is a published fiction writer, former journalist for the Philadelphia Theatre Review and Delaware County Times, and a former features editor. In 2007, Lisa was featured among up-and-coming Philadelphia writers in Fresh Lines @ Fresh Nine, a public reading hosted by Gross McCleaf Art Gallery. She is an alumna of The Bread Loaf Writers Conference, Squaw Valley Writers Workshop, Kenyon Writers Workshop, University of Pennsylvania's Conference for Writers, and the Rittenhouse Writers Group (RWG). For more information on Lisa Kastner, visit http://www.lisadianekastner.blogspot.com

* Subscribe to our Online Courses email announcement list. And tell a friend!
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/PennwritersOnlineCourses

Last weekend, my husband and I celebrated our wedding anniversary. It was our thirteenth, and lucky, it was, indeed.

We booked a package at the Four Seasons in Philadelphia, using our usual excuse: we never took a honeymoon when we married, because of work and whatnot. (Never mind that we’ve used that excuse enough times to have accumulated several weeks of make-up honeymoon over the past thirteen years.) We get to the hotel and the man at the desk informs us they upgraded our room to a suite on the second floor. My reaction is: ugh.

Really. I ughed. I had a good reason for it—I’d booked a better room on one of the upper floors so that we’d be further away from street noise. Staying on the second floor meant closer to the street noise. Hence, ugh. However, I am a civil person. We smiled, said thank you, and went on up the whole one floor to find our room.

It turned out to be a Liberty suite. The room had a doorbell. And a dining room. And two bathrooms. Now, I judge every hotel room by the quality of the bathroom and this one had *two*, both marble and shiny and luxurious bathrobe-filled. Needless to say, I liked the room. No more ugh.

I really thought our thirteenth anniversary couldn’t get better than this divine hotel experience, but it did. We took a walk after breakfast, and on the way to Washington Square we passed a bus stop with a big, beautiful ad:


Striking, isn’t it?

Following are details from the promo.

BRAT PRODUCTIONS RE-ENVISIONS THE HAUNTED HOUSE
IN THE WORLD PREMIERE OF HAUNTED POE

Oct. 1 – Nov. 1, 2009

Theatre, literature & history meet haunted house genre for 200th birthday of Edgar Allan Poe

PHILADELPHIA – This October, Brat Productions will unleash a unique, theatrical take on a Halloween tradition – the haunted house – in the world premiere of Haunted Poe. Coinciding with the 200th anniversary year of Edgar Allan Poe’s birth, Haunted Poe offers an immersive, multisensory experience devoted to Poe’s peculiar genius.

Costumes, masks, puppets, hidden passageways, magic lanterns, optical illusions, music and video – all created by an award-winning team of theatre artists, designers and actors – serve to take Poe’s themes of madness, suspense and the supernatural to a new level.

Haunted Poe runs October 1 – November 1, 2009 at 38 Jackson Street in Philadelphia. Timed tickets, ranging from $15 – $25, are available now at www.hauntedpoe.com.

Housed in a 10,000 square foot warehouse in South Philadelphia, Haunted Poe is grounded in some of the best-known and most chilling works ever written, including “The Tell-tale Heart,” “The Raven,” “The Black Cat,” “The Masque of the Red Death,” and “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”

While the show utilizes the form of a haunted house and offers surprises and scares as audiences move from room to room and down twisting hallways, Haunted Poe is a theatrical project that differs from typical commercial haunted attractions.

“Our production focuses on narrative, rather than unconnected thrills,” says Brat’s Producing Artistic Director Michael Alltop, who conceived the work. “Yes, it will be scary. Yes, there will be blood – and ghosts and magic and murder and mayhem. But there will also be a sizeable dose of interactive storytelling inspired by America’s most famous and influential author.”



I can’t imagine a more exciting way to celebrate Poe in all his cheerfully depressed glory, and finding this ad made for a very special treat.

Thirteen doesn’t get any luckier than this.

I had such glorious plans for September.

All summer, I made promises of all the things I would do once the kids went back to school. The list was nigh endless, ranging from home improvement projects to manuscript work. The closer school got, the louder my mental mantra became. Soon. Soon. The work commences soon.

Well, we packed the first week in and, if anything, I’m further behind than where I was in August. Is that even possible?

August ended well enough—-I found out I made finals in a prestigious RWA contest, although, until they notify all finalists, I can’t make an official announcement yet. I’ve also got a new story in the September issue of Niteblade magazine, and successfully placed my favorite poem “Finality” in Blood Moon Rising.

These little victories provided a much-needed boost to drive me forward. I’d hoped to finish BLOOD RUSH this month and charge on to the fun world of the third book.

However, I stalled somewhere: I am still busy with the binder of hard copy and the red pen, bogged down in chapter four. My blogging stumbled, too—-whereas I’d been posting regularly every week, I missed two weeks with the holiday and the start of school the week before. My time-management is affected, too, since the new split school bus schedule chews up the beginning and the end of my kid-free hours.

Even more discouraging was my first rejection on BLEEDING HEARTS—-Simon and Schuster passed, saying it was a genre-fit issue. The editor said some lovely things about the ms, although after becoming well-versed in the art of deceivingly personalized form rejections, I am hesitant to believe them. (Ah well…if it’s a genre thing that means we can just target another editor. Right?)

But then yesterday came a full stop: my cousin was in a serious accident yesterday. Motorcycles and deer do not mix. He’s very lucky, supernaturally so: lots of broken bones, but no life-threatening internal, head, or spinal cord injuries from what we know so far. But he’s got a long haul ahead. The worst part is this waiting-to-find-out period of surgeries and tests.

All these stalls and stops really changed my outlook for September.

One thing that is moving forward—construction on the addition to our house. I think the kids would have mutinied if we put off the project any longer—a brother and sister sharing a room is great until the sister decides that the brother is the worst possible nuisance on the planet. Once the addition is done they’ll have their own rooms without my resorting to remodeling the basement and moving down. (Something about the term “below grade” is just so off-putting.) The addition will also give us a covered front porch, a necessity for proper country—-I mean, rural—living. The dog is most pleased.

I honestly didn’t think the project would ever take form; we’ve planned it for eight or nine years and had two different builders out, but the job never got done. This time, it’s real. The crew poured the cement yesterday. That’s permanent progress.

Every day, once the crew leaves, I take photographs of the yard and the hole that will soon be filled up with new house. It doesn’t look like much gets done from one day to the next, especially so early on. Pretty much the earth being moved, the yard getting re-organized. But today, I looked at pictures from before the whole thing started and holy cow. What a difference from last week!

Maybe there’s a worthy metaphor in all this. I’d been feeling bad about my plans for September not taking off like a gassed-up brush fire, but perhaps I shouldn’t. Progress isn’t always measured in milestones and major victories. Sometimes it’s made an inch at a time. It’s a single row of brick, an individual chapter, the first steps of rehabilitation. It's slow, but it's permanent.

September isn’t going to be the wham-bam I planned all summer. But with a little perspective and a lot of perseverance, it will one day be October and I’ll be able to look back and see progress made. I just need to do it an inch at a time.

Oh, yeah, that reminds me. I need to re-write my to-do list. *crosses out every instance of September and writes in October*

That’s good enough for now.

“Well, life on a farm is kinda laid back…
Ain’t much an old country boy like me can’t hack
It’s early to rise, early in the sack
Thank God I’m a country boy.”

Call me a country girl. A metro kind of country girl, actually. Oh hell. I’m not country. But I am rural, and for a very good reason. I hate living in town. Traffic going by at all hours, voices outside my window, street parking, sirens, the necessities of curtains and bathrobes…bah. Who needs ‘em?

My family lives on a more-or-less secluded acre of land at the end of a no-outlet street (saying ‘dead end’ sounds too desolate) surrounded on three sides by woods. The coal trucks never come down this street, and I get to experience all four seasons of the year in their proper Pennsylvanian glory. It’s nice. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful.

Except when country-like things happen. Then, it’s just like living in town.

What’s my beef this week? It’s bears. Or, I should say, it had better be bears, because anything smaller than a bear is going to end up like Leroy Brown—a jigsaw puzzle with a couple of pieces gone—when I catch the bugger responsible for ripping up the trash.

We haven’t had a bear problem for a few years, but when they move through the area, they cause more havoc than a teething two-year-old resisting a rest. Did you know that bears love to eat birdseed? You would assume that I, being a rural girl, would have had this sort of information encoded on a genome, but, no. I learned it the hard way when I decided sandboxes were bad toys, and that I should get a bin filled with birdseed for the kids to play with instead. No more sand in hair-mouth-ears-between toes-inside Pull-Ups, plus birds will handle the clean-up. Sounded smart when I executed the plan. Children proclaimed me Best Mommy Ever.

Bears loved me for it. I heard a noise on the porch one evening and lo, a six-hundred pound bear had his snout buried in the bin and he was sucking up twenty-five pounds of birdseed like a Hoover. I whacked him in the furry rump a dozen times trying to shoo him. His didn’t even grunt. Too busy chewing. Jerk. (Found out later: is bad idea to shoo six-hundred pound bear. My bad.)

Guess the bear is making rounds again. Instead of my Monday morning routine of emailing my husband at work and fooling around on the Internet before the kids get up, I was out playing clean-up. Two words: absolutely unfabulous.

It was almost enough to take my mind off my recent gripe about living in the valley. Our new neighbors put up a chicken coop and got a rooster. Who DOES that? And before you start with but-you-live-in-the-country, I want to clear something up: roosters are NOT COOL. You want chickens, fine. Clean the coops because those things stink. But a rooster annoys everyone whether or not they live downwind.

At a quarter after six this morning, I headed outside to pick up the trash. Sun was coming up, making a warm bronze glow on the trees that reminded me of warm pancake syrup (don’t know why, it just did.) Birds were waking up and making cozy-sounding cheeps from their beds in the hedges. No signs of life from any of the neighbors. Quiet. Peaceful. Serene.

Then, as I finished cleaning up the first bag of bear leavings, I heard cock-a-doodle-doo. Nails on a chalk board, just like that. All I needed was a coal truck with an air horn and a group of rowdy teenagers to horse around in front of the driveway and it would be just as irritating as living in town.

“You fill up my senses like a night in a forest,
Like the mountains in springtime,
Like a walk in the rain,
like a storm in the desert,
Like a sleepy blue ocean.
You fill up my senses, come fill me again.”

Yeah, go on. I dare you.

May, 2007…

Stands out in a big way, that month.

Let’s see…I reached peak bone density, entered a new age demographic, and watched my son perform as emcee at his Kindergarten graduation. It was also the month I finished writing my first novel.

It was a wonderful, complete feeling of accomplishment. I took a month off to play at the pool and drink fruity malt concoctions. I think I even painted my kitchen. (Started to, anyway. I hate painting. Stinky work.)

However, at the time, I was still developing as a writer. Still learning my craft, as the lingo goes. What I thought was complete wasn’t complete at all. I had volumes to learn about what makes a book “finished.”

As I entered the manuscripts into competitions, I got tons of feedback and suggestions. (Also got a lot of opinion—but part of improving as a writer is learning how to accept critique and decide what is helpful and what is not. After all, we can’t please everyone all the time.) Turned out, what I thought was done was really in for a year or two of editing and revising.

So much for thinking it was complete. (And will it ever be, I wonder? Even though it’s out on submission, sometimes I itch to rip out the seams and make alterations.)

This week, while reading through my latest manuscript, I realized how I’ve grown as a writer over the past five years. Once more, I had the pleasure of marking a draft complete. New month to remember: August 2009. (woots)

Difference is, the manuscript reflects everything I’ve learned. The nice thing about reading it is coming across a passage and remembering the process of writing it. It made for a happy reminder of why I write—not just to plug out a complete project, but to experience the simple process of writing.

Of course, it’s also nice to know I’m not in for two years of editing before I can call it complete. *wink*

Times like these are important moments. I have a broad feeling of accomplishment and a new source of encouragement. Pretty sweet. Now, to the tough part—feeding my manuscript to the critters and see if what I think is finished really is finished.

From the wires:

"Johnny Depp is bidding to take his favourite childhood TV show, vampire thriller Dark Shadows, to the big screen.

Depp and regular collaborator, director Tim Burton, hope to turn the '60s series - about a man struck down with a vampire curse - into a movie franchise.

The actor says, "I was obsessed with (lead character) Barnabas Collins. I have photographs of me holding Barnabas Collins' posters when I was five or six."

And Burton - who worked with Depp on movies Edward Scissorhands, Sleepy Hollow and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - admits work is already under way.

The director reveals, "That's the plan. There was something very weird about (Dark Shadows), it had the weirdest vibe to it. I'm sort of intrigued about that vibe. It's early days on it, but I'm excited about it.""

Now we can trade in our TEAM EDWARD hoodies for TEAM BARNABAS ones.

*smile*

The second installment to my series is nearing completion. This morning I clocked in at 76,300 words. Almost there! I have a list of passages that need writing yet, as yet as another list of loose ends that will either be tied or trimmed. (I won’t know until I get to them.)

Second books are like middle children. Of course we want them; we are so much in love with our first-borns that we are eager to spawn another creation of wonder. But, like middle children, second books have a personality of their own. They have different moods, different ideas about their destinies. They teach us quickly enough that they are not clones of their older siblings—-they are unique individuals.

My first book was born in a moment of passion: an urge to write, to create, to express. My second book, however, was planned. It was a calculated decision to continue the story and round out the protagonist’s world. Of course, I didn’t expect the story to take on a mind of its own.

It’s a pleasant surprise, actually. While writing the first book, I developed as a writer. There are so many fantastic resources out there for writers, and one day I’ll have to make a list of the library I’ve amassed; not only books, but blogs and websites, communities, and on-line workshops. But it was passion that drove the writing.

Coming up on the sequel, I had a clearer idea of plot set-up, structure, character development—in short, the technical aspects of the novel. I labored over the first chapter, the inciting incident, the three-act story arc, the first page, the first ten lines. And slowly it dawned on me—-while I was ensuring myself no major revisions would be necessary in the near future, passion wasn’t first and foremost my driving force. This book was turning into (gasp!) work.



Middle children shouldn’t be labeled as laborious. I needed to understand my novel for the individual story it is, not for the expectations I’d placed upon it. So with this in mind, I returned to my first job as a writer—-which is a reader—-and read it straight through without stopping to edit. (Difficult task indeed.)

By stepping back and looking through the eyes of a reader, I saw the story for what it truly was—-saw the themes, the messages, the journey of the characters and the conflicts that filled their lives. I reacquainted myself with those characters, remembered who they were and why I wanted to bring them to life. And during the reading, the spark of passion ignited and unfurled, reminding me how much fun it is to be a writer.

Renewed, now.

I ran the draft through a bit of a test this morning—-pulled out the Writer’s Digest Yearbook edition of Novel Writing and “workshopped” a few of the articles, making notes and comparisons. Working to improve technical aspects paid off, after all—-the manuscript is in great shape for a first draft. Coupled with my rediscovered passion, I am ready to jump back in and finish the story with the same eagerness that I felt while writing the first. Of course, it doesn’t hurt to have a little incentive—-finishing the second so that I can finally, guiltlessly, write the third.

Let’s just take life one WIP at a time.

Less than a month left before school starts up again. I’ve survived another summer with my children. Even better, they have survived another summer with me.

I can’t say I’m as eager for the summer to end this year. See, the kids are going to a new school. They’re looking forward to it. Probably because it’s the local public school. They can dress down every single day. That’s one big unending reward for them. My daughter has developed a hat thing and she is looking forward to flipping her lid every day. (I’m sure I can blame Joe Jonas for it. *shakes fist*)

My son, who does not care to dress like a Jonas brother, can’t wait to go to school with his cousins again.

Not me. I’m terrified. A new school? Gack.

I put my twelve years into Catholic school. The crowd rarely changed. The bus ride rarely changed (although there was that one year we lived a mile outside the normal school district and our residential district hired a taxi to take me and my siblings to the bus stop. What a diva, ain’t?) I’m a comfort zone person—I don’t operate well outside it.

Now, after six years of sending the kids to the small Catholic school in town, it’s time for public. The decision to send them to the Area school was a voluntary one, but now since the Diocese subsequently closed the school there is no pulling them. I loved that Church school. I was one of the PTO harem and I spent a lot of time there with the teachers and the other moms. I could walk in and say “hey-y” anytime I wanted.

Can’t do that anymore.

The new school is a campus. A CAMPUS. There is more than one building. I have no clue about any of them. Lots of stress knowing my kids are going into a big unknown place. It’s worse than when my GPS loses satellite communication and puts my car into the middle of a big green blank. Recalculate, dammit! I need you!

Deep breaths…

Last night I dreamed the young lad went to a school taught by a biker gang. My husband says I must be stressed out about it. Maybe he’s right?

Couldn’t have his dreams, could I? He woke up yesterday and proclaimed he had the coolest dream ever, but all he could remember was that it would make a good movie plot. He forgot everything else.

Not me. I get the tense dreams I can’t forget. Biker teachers. No more Monday morning hanging out with school secretaries. Stress.

Sigh.

Summer’s going way too fast.

Worse yet, I can’t wait until it does, for writerly reasons. Funny, the link between writing and agony.

Last night I realized I had entries in at least five novel-writing contests, some of which I entered in the paranormal romance category. Remember, I’m more chick-lit than romance, but since that’s how my agent is promoting the book, I figured it was time for a litmus test. Three contests, I think, will announce as soon as two weeks from now. Bonus: made the third round of Dawn Halliday’s TTT contest. So far, the new title is earning its keep.

Fingers crossed. (May even sacrifice a chicken, now that my lovely new neighbors have roosters. Roosters. In a residential neighborhood. Really.)

Lots to look forward to, lots to dread. Life is balanced. That, I suppose, is the important thing.

Spent the last week on vacation. Saturday felt like the first day after nuclear fallout—the house looked like bomb waste, the fridge was empty, and the entire family suffered from pathological malaise. All except my husband, I must amend; he was his characteristic get-stuff-done self. Makes me crazy at times like those. I wanted a mug of hot Darjeeling and some cozy time with my netbook. Couldn’t the laundry wait?

Lots of writerly stuff happened over the last week or two, such as the Signing of the Contract and the receipt of access to my agent’s spreadsheet of my work. He keeps a list of editors that looks very similar to the records I kept while querying, thanks to QueryTracker.net—it’s comfort-food wonderful!

I scanned the list—about eleven houses, maybe fifteen editors—and thought: whoa. Needed a moment to remind myself I really did make it this far. When I read a draft of his cover letter for my proposal package, I wanted to run down the street waving it at my neighbors. Instead, I went to bed with a big grin.

Entered an informal contest with the follow-up to the book we’re currently shopping—and made a happy change. A title change, to be precise. The titles for this series haven’t changed since I started writing them, and since I’d been most involved with the first one over the past year, I hadn’t given the other titles much thought.

Now that the first is on submission (and I would very much like a three-book deal) I needed to think about the younger sisters at home. I’ll never get them married off if they have less-than-supernaturally-perfect names.

Book 3 had the worst title, in my husband’s not-so-humble opinion. I called it “Fur and Feathers” because of the shape-shifting element that is central to the theme. Being a Type O Negative fan, the name stuck after listening to “My Girlfriend’s Girlfriend.” Okay, so not a family-friendly song. (I would even stick my neck out and say, probably not a family-friendly band, but don’t disparage me; I lack good judgment sometimes.) Anyways. Not the best title ever, but it’s all good now because it is now being called “Wolf’s Bane.” This, too, fits the story and the husband says it is much more palatable.

Poor middle child Book 2. Does anyone see you in the shadow of your older sister, BLEEDING HEARTS? I guess not—not with a name like BLOODIED HOPES. I like the title. So does my husband. I just can’t see anyone else liking it, not without her older sister standing next to it. So once more, I embarked on a title search. A lackluster one. Wasn’t really interested in re-naming my baby, and didn’t want to do it unless I had to.

Then I learned I advanced to the next round of a contest over at dawnhalliday.com. Submit the tagline; if you advance to the next round, you submit title/genre/word count. Book 2 made the second round with its tagline:

Sophie isn’t looking for “happily ever after.” These days, she’d settle for “alive until sunrise.”

Now title really counts because at long last, someone other than my family is going to see it. (Note: another reason why I love contests—they get you moving on good changes you’ve been putting off.)

This morning, the search is over. May I introduce Book 2 in the Sincerely, Sophie Saga (yet another title that will undoubtedly be changed) without much further ado…

BLOOD RUSH.

I love it. It captures several aspects of the book. Plus, my husband said: you just wanted to use the word “Rush” in it. True, that. Best band ever. Geddy Lee would make a freaking awesome vampire.
But that, my friends, is a tangent for another story.

So, my titles: BLEEDING HEARTS, BLOOD RUSH, and WOLF’S BANE. Shaping up to be quite a lovely trio. Just what a three-book-deal needs.

I have been officially made a Published Member of Pennwriters, Pennsylvania's writers association.

I've realized an important goal in my journey to becoming an author. A few years ago, I was filling notebooks with stories for my own benefit, without thought of having it go any further than my friends and family. As the stories developed into novels, I entered competitions to judge my talent and the books' marketability--and got wonderful and encouraging feedback.

Although I never intended to become a poet, I began writing poetry as companion pieces to my novels (having a rock star main character encouraged it) and soon branched off into writing poetry for poetry's sake. I submitted to journals for the same reason I submitted BLEEDING HEARTS to all those contests--feedback. I got published, too. It's what led me to my glorious new status as a Published Pennwriter.

And the novel? Well, those contests paid off, too. In addition to the cash prizes, those contests gained a lot of attention by literary agents. I'm pleased to say I have an offer on the table from an enthusiastic agent. We have a phone meet next week, and I am feeling very optimistic about it.

Today I call myself many wonderful things (besides Domestic Goddess.) I'm a poet, a novelist (award-winning novelist, actually *wink*,) and a published Pennwriter. Soon, I'll be calling myself a represented author.

I have come a long way from hobby writer to author, and I finally feel like I'm taking my journey to the Interstate after a long time of back roads and scenic routes. Wish me luck and great mileage...