"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...

I was worried that “School’s Out” would mean “Bye-Bye Productivity” for me. My kids, now eight and ten, are, in a compound word, “time-consuming.” No complaints there, though. I like them. They’re pretty neat, and they seem to have large brains so it only seems fair to keep them busy.

Usually summer means lots of trips to museums and day trips to our favorite cities (food being the number one reason to travel; there are simply too few good restaurants around here.) In between, we spend a lot of time at various parks—Pee Yay is good for nature and outside goodness.

Because of that, writing really slags off over the summer. However, I’ve been fighting the slag and, hopefully, will prevail.

I’ve had a few recent acceptances. “The Agony of Self-Defeat” is now online at Literary Magic. Also, “What’s For Dinner?” will appear in Niteblade while “To Die While Flying” has been accepted by joyful! for October. These two poems have now earned me enough credits to apply for Published Status by Pennwriters, my writers association.

Earning published status is high on my list of goals for 2009. It makes my other goals seem even more reachable.

In other works, I finished a great one-page synopsis of my WIP paranormal romance WORDS THAT BIND, as well as its query letter. Now all I need is to finish writing the book. (Darn summer slag-off!)

It’s funny. I used to really hate writing synopses. I mean, *really really* hate it. Something has changed—I mean, I’m actually waking up and saying, I think I’ll write a synopsis for that WIP that is fifth or sixth on my list for attention. Who does that? I’m thisclose to finishing Book Two of the Sincerely, Sophie saga. I have vague designs of rewriting the opening of Book One. I have to sit on my hands from working on Book Three.

Plus, there’s TAKIN’ IT BACK, my YA fantasy WIP that already won a fantastic award and is most worthy of completion. (The query for this project also won an agent’s critique in a Query Tracker contest, which takes me another leap forward in getting the ms onto the right agent’s desk.) If anything, this project should be my priority right now, as most would be quick to point out “one should not write the sequel until the first book sells.”

So why embark on a synopsis for something I don’t have time for right now?

Truth is, I like the change of scenery. I like my stories, which are varied in voice and genre and style. Bouncing between them helps refresh me. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve every suffered from writer’s block because of this crazy habit. Choosing to work on the synopsis is, I admit, a little sadistic, but it’s a short project with a definite completion point. It makes me work for short, tight, powerful, precise. I improve my craft, I end up with a wonderful guide for the rest of the story, and I get the tedious chunk of pain out of the way in the beginning.

Who ever thought I’d consider synopsis writing a fun, productive distraction? Not me, but then again, it wasn’t too long ago I had trouble viewing myself as an “author,” and that certainly isn’t the case anymore.

Why this is so cool:

1) It’s the Crimson King. That’s why.

2) Michael Whelan painted it. And I’ll read ANY book that Michael Whelan paints.

3) Skullies! Comfy chair skulllies!

4) Stephen King sure knows how to write a good bad guy. *sighs happily*

5) Demons and Wizards made a killer album with “Touched by the Crimson King.” (Does that count as rock opera?)

Not from me, of course. I tried building my own site. My Serif program is still laying on my desk where I dropped it after giving up on it. I think I had vague designs about waiting until the summer, but that makes no sense. Me get things done while the children are home? Me, concentrate? Right. Sure. Not.

My one year anniversary of querying is approaching. How discouraging. I'd originally had dreams of landing my perfect agent in six months flat. I guess the real world has different plans for me, number one plan being WAITING. And waiting. And getting old as I wait.

The only thing that makes it a happy anniversary is the fact that I spent it on Query Tracker. I consider myself far ahead of the querying game since I began using that little gem of a website--I've improved myself in countless ways when it comes to marketing my work, plus I've met some great people. (Lots of good karma there.)

And I'm not the only one having a happy: Query Tracker is turning two years old. (Glad I'm not the oldest one in the room.) To celebrate, they are giving away a free custom-built website. Snag yours here and see why Query Tracker is quickly becoming one of the best tools for writers.



Spread the word and win extra entries by passing this along! Read the blog for details.

And someone get cake. We can't do any of this without happy cake.

My kids attend a parochial school and every year they head down to Lancaster, PA to see a play at a theater devoted to Christian productions. I love this playhouse--besides being absolutely HUGE (it's epic in proportion; the stage continues up the sides of the auditorium for a 180 degree view) they also use a menagerie of live animals in the shows. Over the years we saw one on Adam and Eve and another about the Nativity, both great shows for kids. Lots of flying angels with massive wings. Lots of sparkly costumes.

However, this year they watched something that was probably a little too elevated for elementary school kids. I scanned the program and saw that as far as fun Bible stories go, most weren't so much funny. I mean, the suicide of Judas? I don't even let my kids watch violent cartoons.

The young lad is in second grade and he said all he remembers is an angel shooting fire at the Roman Soldiers.

The urban fantasist in me perked right up. "Really? Angels shooting fire? That's neat."

"No, Mommy. It was scary," he said.

"Don't listen to him, Mom," my fourth grade daughter said. "It was a lot of fire. Really cool."

"What else happened?" I figured if I was going to get a good re-telling, I wanted to hear from the kid who like the pyrotechnics.

"Well, it wasn't as good as last year. They called it 'Behold The Lamb' and know what?" She made a pinchy mouth and wagged her head. "There weren't any lambs in it."

"That's because Jesus was the Lamb."

"Last year had tons of lambs in it. The title of the play totally lied."

Sigh. I sensed a critic of titles in the making. "What else?"

"Know what I said to Karlee? I said, 'Wanna know what would make this thing better? Ninjas.'"

OMG. She is so my kid. I admit I'm a little strange but at that moment I was so proud of her. I got a little flashback of a fantastic query letter I read on Query Tracker a while back, one that was full of ninjas. And Abe Lincoln. Good times.

"What did Karlee say?" I asked once I regained the power of speech.

"She said 'And vampires.' And then I said 'And zombies.' How funny is that?"

I hugged her hard enough to make her squeal. My sweet girl.

Of course, I can't imagine a play called "Behold the Lamb and Ninjas and Vampires and Zombies" but if there was one, then hey. We'd go see it.

I'm pretty sure it won't make the short list for the school's field trips but that's okay.

Theater isn't for everyone.

When I was ten, my mom remarried and we relocated to the country. Up until then, I was a city kid. Well, okay, a suburbs kid. I had no idea what to do in a town without sidewalks.

Our new house was an old farmhouse on the side of the main road slicing through the countryside. We didn’t even have our own post office—we had a rural route address that used the zip code from a city eight miles away. UPS hated us because how the hell do you find a box number when you have to knock on someone’s door? I don’t know, but the folks at UPS must be geniuses. I own stock in them now. Go Brown.

Since the street was designed to maintain a constant supply of roadkill, my siblings and I resorted to exploring the land behind the house. Trees. Pastures. Stone fences. Cows. And more trees.

Nice trees. Lots of maples with low branches, thick trunks, and countless staircases up them. It didn’t take long for us to become champion tree climbers.

My favorite was one that stood between our house and the neighbor’s. It had a perfect low limb for a boost up that was as easy as climbing up a front porch. The trunk stayed thick well above the top of the house and there were at least three different seats that were perfect for hiding, reading a book, or lobbing chestnuts at one’s sister. When I fell asleep at night, I could see it outside my bedroom window, the streetlight making leafy halos of jagged light through its leaves.

There were other trees we conquered, but none was as beloved as this one.

Another grew in the field behind our property. It was older, taller, and took effort to scale. The lowest branch was arm’s reach over our heads, and the trunk split into two massive veins, each with its own challenges. The branches were never in the right place for an easy climb, and forced us do a lot of trunk-hugging and to make gutsy reaches that thrilled us with our own bravery. This was the type of tree that made us pause between each higher branch, made us doubt our resolve to climb higher, made us worry we wouldn’t be able to get back down.

Once my sister and I set out (once more) to tackle the heights, and she climbed much higher than I. She had a rock in her pocket, and out of sight she scratched a design into the bark. She refused to tell me what she wrote and flat-out teased me that I’d never know what it said.

Years later, she divulged part of her secret, a teaser. She’d written an I-heart-somebody note. Years later, I still wanted to know who so I could tease her as mercilessly as she’d teased me for being a chicken that day.

My life as a country girl is marked by scars from scratches that never faded, memories of leafy canopies, and brag-worthy stories of death-and-gravity defying feats. How I cherished those trees.


I left for college when I was eighteen, a move that officially ended my tree-climbing days. College was in Philadelphia and I became a city gal once more. In name, at least. I don’t think I ever really left the country.

Luckily for me I met another country boy while living in the belly of the beast, and we moved back to the countryside of Pennsylvania, eventually settling on a nice secluded acre, surrounded by woods, in a town without sidewalks. Our property has countless climbing trees that I’ve never conquered, mainly because I’ve grown too old and creaky to climb trees. Besides, I’ve conquered other challenges, ranging from a successful career in medicine to maintaining my sanity with my nine- and seven-year-olds. All noteworthy challenges.

Last weekend I went home to my mom’s house. She’d recently had a hip replacement and I went up to visit, to cook, to make sure she didn’t break the other hip maneuvering herself onto the toilet. The kids were playing outside and my daughter came running in, shouting that we must come and watch her climb a tree.

Her tree was a pine, one that I never climbed myself because I’d planted it from a sapling I brought home from school one National Arbor Day. Besides, pine trees are sappy and bumpy, two yucky qualities for a climbing tree. Nonetheless, she scampered up that tree like the monkey she is, and we were both proud.

I decided it was my duty as a mom to show her a good tree.

My favorite on the side of the house was my first choice, but when I examined it, I saw that the lowest limb, the front porch of the tree, had been sawed off. The lowest branch was now fifteen feet up. I couldn’t climb it.

My hopes of showing off faded, but I remembered a second tree, and led her to the back yard.

This tree had also grown since I last stood beneath it, and I spent a moment contemplating my attack before jumping to grab the seven-foot high limb, and walking up the trunk until I could hook a leg over the branch. Not an easy feat; I wore motorcycle boots with no tread, and I’d had two knee surgeries over the last year. I wondered briefly if I were being foolish.

My daughter yelled, “Whoa! Cool!” and caused a well-spring of courage to bubble up.

I pushed up to straddle the branch, hugging the trunk and balancing like a drunk cat, twisting to make a gutsy reach for a second branch. Hanging briefly over a tall space of free-fall, I leaned and pulled. In moments, I was standing. My daughter was dumbfounded.

I climbed high enough, searching the bark of the trunk until I found what I wanted: a thin scar of a message scratched long, long ago. I almost fell out of the tree because I laughed so hard. It would have been an easier descent, anyway. No wonder cats get stuck.

I untangled myself from the tree and ran back into the house, feeling twelve years old again, only to come back out and repeat the performance. My husband wanted to watch (partly in astonishment and partly in concern for my neck), and my mom wanted proof. I satisfied everyone, including myself. I even earned two respectable splinters, which I admired for quite some time before digging out with a stickpin.

It was only a simple tree-climbing, but I found so many metaphors of accomplishment in that simple act. The easy road, my favorite tree, was closed off to me now, but I found I still have the courage and flexibility to conquer a challenge. I defied both death and gravity, impressed my husband, and totally knocked the socks of my kid, who already thought I was pretty cool. I reclaimed a tiny part of my youth and chased away the threat of age and old and creaky for a while. I feel alive.

Best of all, I have something to hold over my sister’s head. I can’t wait to tell her I was up in the tree where she wrote her little I-heart-someone note. She’s older and is much more sensitive to being teased. This ought to be good. I can probably blackmail her for some free Avon.

Everyone needs a small break from being a grown-up. Here’s hoping you each find at least one tree to conquer this week. Make it a tall one.

After years of simmering in the Honorable Mentions list at the Houston Writers Guild, I finally broke through. As in KAPOW.

"Bleeding Hearts" made the HM list two years running, for 2007 and 2008. This is one of my favorite contests because, as a writers guild, the purpose of entering is to get feedback. I've gotten tremendously helpful comments over the last few years and that alone made entering worth the price of entry. Because of the HWG contests, I've become a better writer. Just check out my pronoun agreement. I'm obsessed with it. Anyways.

This year, "Bleeding Hearts" ranked third in spec fiction. See? All those constructive comments made a difference. But what really blew my mind was my other entry, my work-in-progress. It's a YA fantasy called "Takin' It Back." And it won first place.

I still do a swivelly-head dance when I write about it. Thank goodness this isn't a video log 'cause you all would have seen it and I'd never live it down.

I've never been a double-finalist before. That sounds so cool. Too bad I have to wait until I write another book before I can enter HWG again. The next contest has a HUGE prize, too.

Oh, well. It's on my to-do list.