The Art-Ache of Revision

By Laura Spinella

Since I am currently bleeding revision, it seems like an appropriate topic for my GBC post. So hang on a sec while I clamp off an artery, pump in some plasma, and we’ll write a blog. I’m at the halfway point on a lengthy, cumbersome revision to book three—but whose revision isn’t lengthy and cumbersome? Part of my plight is that I’m a miserable multitasker. Revision, in particular, leaves me so knotted and burrowed that brushing my teeth seems like one challenge too many. Point of fact, I’ve barely had time for friends and family, while PERFECT TIMING promotion has gone the way of shoulda, coulda, woulda. And damn, I’ve hardly had a chance to marvel over my Facebook scrapbook, compliments of Mr. Zuckerberg.

            When I turned in this manuscript, it was met with singular enthusiasm. From there, briefly, I had this obtuse and vain notion that my book was ready to fly—following a civil and forthcoming edit, naturally.  Ha! Yeah, the bruises are still healing from that fall off the turnip truck. Realistically, I knew better. Enthusiasm also came with a three-page footnote, suggestions for my “wonderful and promising” novel. Say what?  But that’s the way it goes, right? And if you’re fortunate to play a part in traditional book publishing, it’s wise to view that glass as half full. I believe the opposite reaction would have resulted in a blog about the short-lived life of book three. (Well, book seven if you light up my flashdrives, but who's counting) This brings me to what I might contribute here, in the midst of my all-consuming, often maddening revision. It’s a universal experience that leaves writers’ wishing they wrote pop-up books or, better still, obscure pamphlets on improving dry soil regions.  

Here is what I have learned.

Come Prepared:

Before I began, I stepped away. I spent a couple weeks not looking at any of it, then a few more weeks studying the suggested revisions. I argued some in my head and saw the “how dumb am I…?" sense in others. I considered what existed versus what could be. When I was finally ready to sit, I cleaned up my office space and even Windexed my computer screen. I figured I was in for the long haul.

Pace Yourself:

The amount of time it takes my washing machine to cycle through a large load setting. That was my dream schedule. Realistically, by the time I finish this rewrite washing machines may be obsolete, replaced by Rosie the Robot. In truth, no good writing comes out of rushing. I can’t speak for anyone else’s process, but I’m a do-it-in-sections kind of girl. I won’t move forward until it feels right. If that means revising Chapter Twelve until the significant difference between using “She” versus “Aubrey” to begin paragraph four is something more than atom splitting, so be it.

Speaking of feeling:

Go with your gut. I’ve embraced the bulk of my proposed revisions. Why not? Someone more successful than me put them on paper. It did take downtime to digest the scope of the undertaking, but I get it. I really do. However, there was one POV note that had me banging my head and wringing my hands. I wrote and rewrote to the suggested tune, but things only got worse. The story was bad, the rhythm was off.  Try as I might, I could not see a certain portion of this novel from a certain character’s POV. When I decided to go with my gut, I had no regret about passing on this particular revision. End of story.

Ignore your audience:

While we all seek an audience for our work, this is a long rehearsal.  It’s not show time. Conversely, this work in progress is not a draft, the kind of writing that would otherwise benefit from a roundtable discussion.  Said editor or agent has presented a specific vision for the finished product. If someone offers input, make sure that person can view the work from that same ten-thousand foot view. It’s too easy to be steered off course by the well-meaning. On the other hand, if you’re lucky enough to have somebody who knows you, your book, and your revisions… Well, thoughts of holding that person hostage in a linen closet (just until it’s over) have crossed my mind.

Ignore other writers:

Ah, this one’s hard to maintain, kind of like healthy eating or a single glass of wine. In the regular realm of writing there’s always someone who’s got it better. They’re selling more books, drowning in terrific reviews, and flabbergasted into sharing humble Facebook posts about their unexpected success. Yeah, well, we all did something great at least once, whether it’s in our mother’s eyes or our publisher. If you’re spending time monitoring the competition you may lack the energy, and often manufactured eagerness, required to tackle 410 pages of your own brilliant mess.  

And the best revision advice:

That doesn’t come from me. It comes from the one and only Elmore Leonard, who offered enough writing pearls of wisdom to strand a double set.  While all are to be heeded, there are two snippets I keep at the forefront of this revision: Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip. Blunt works for me and this is a gem that resonates.  Am I bored?  Are the characters bored? Will the reader be bored?  Will anyone really give a flying fig about the poetic prose used to describe the color of the sky? If the answer is yes… or no, then out it goes. This leaves my other cherished Elmore idiom: rewrite the parts that sound like writing… Equally clear and vague, I think you really have to know your own story to answer that one. I also see it as the map for the vicious circle that is revision, because once you can recognize the parts that sounds like writing, you’re more than halfway home.   

Laura Spinella is the award winning author of BEAUTIFUL DISASTER, a RITA finalist, and the newly released PERFECT TIMING. Visit her at lauraspinella.net. 

The Diabolical Plotting of a December Date

By Laura Spinella

Don’t you love it when your name turns up on the GBC December calendar? For as much as we ALL love the GBC, I bet you cringed a little if you saw your name on this month’s weekly reminders. Are they kidding? I’ve barely started my shopping.  There are 47 various school and social functions to attend, not to mention kids coming home from college. Holiday cards are compounded by holiday food, and don’t even start with the house that needs to be scoured before Aunt Clarabel visits. And, sweet Jesus, DO NOT let me forget to put the cushy toilet paper in the guest bathroom. Did it sound something like that in your head?

Me too.  And I send out the GBC reminders.

I could have easily rigged the calendar with a replacement name. I confess; I thought about it. I could have slipped Maria Geraci’s name in instead. Maria’s so helpful and smart. But then I remembered that in addition to being a fabulous author, she also works fulltime as a labor and delivery nurse. And suddenly it seemed, well… unfair. Barbara Claypole White crossed my mind too. Barbara’s handy with a sticky widget. Is that British? Because Barbara is… British. She once told me I could use an ARC of hers to “balance a wonky table leg.” I still laugh at that.Then I realized Barbara is 11 days out from the pub date of her stunning new novel, THE IN-BETWEEN HOUR. I know this is a fact because I was privy to an early read. Privy.  Privy’s an English word, right?   Anyway, I figured Barbara has enough on her mind between her pub date and trying to get rural North Carolina to buy into Boxing Day, December 26th. According to Barbara, most Americans think Boxing Day is England’s homage to fisticuffs via a boxing ring. Made sense to me. But she assures me this is not the case. It’s the traditional day that house servants received “boxed” gifts from their, uh… masters?  Heaven knows, with the success of Downton Abbey, all North Carolinians may catch onto Boxing Day by the end of season four. 

Desperate and short on clever, I considered a hot-potato pass to Karin Gillespie. Karin is probably one of the nicest people I know and I’m, well… not. Surely, she would have graciously picked up my slack.  Then, yesterday, I read Karin’s brilliant GBC post and realized I was in twice as much trouble as I previously thought. I couldn’t be that insightful if I was sentenced to six months in solitary with nothing but a copy of THE GOLDFINCH, legal pad, and an entire Rosetta Stone series on How to Be a Better Writer.

 I even considered getting sneaky and inviting Susan McBride over to guest blog. Of course you all remember Susan, a card-carrying GBC member for a long time. With the birth of her sweet Emily and busy days, Susan moved on from the GBC, though we’d all love to hear from her. (See us waving from the GBC, Susan!) Then I remembered what it was like to have an 18-month old around during the holidays. Okay, so I don’t exactly remember, but there is video from that era that involves me and a spirited New Year’s Eve celebration. On occasion, my kids still threaten to hand it over to child welfare.

So here you are, stuck with me.

Originally, I had an elaborate post worked out in my mind. It had something to do with envisioning yourself as a writer in another time period. Do you see yourself as a Jane Austen imprint, Harriet Beecher Stowe wannabe, Flannery O’Connor, S.E. Hinton, Alice Walker, or Sylvia Plath? Well, maybe not Sylvia Plath. We all know how that ended.  But instead of an inspired piece about authors from other generations, I succumbed. I fell victim to the calendar and Christmas cookies and one of those college kids who turned up just in time to make my upstairs look like a ratings-sweeps episode of Hoarders.

In the end, I almost opted for the default blog. I do have a new book out. It’s a credible platform from which I could drone on about PERFECT TIMING and the incredible PERFECT TIMING giveaways going on right now. But since this is a season of merriment and giving, I’ll only direct you to my Events page and the above discreetly mentioned giveaways. So from here in New England, this is my December 20^th blog. I wish you all a joyous holiday season and a Happy Christmas! Happy Christmas… That’s British, right?

  

  Laura Spinella is the award-winning author of BEAUTIUFL DISASTER and the author of PERFECT TIMING, a love story about friendship, honor and a rock star. Visit her at lauraspinella.net. 

     

Rock Stars & Readers

GIVEAWAY ALERT!!

By Laura Spinella

Today is November 5, 2013. And just for today, I’m going to be a rock star.

Today only, it’s going to be all good. I’m greeting fans and signing autographs. I’m going to be that person who runs on the power of positive thinking.  That's me, sewing an S to my chest. Alicia Keys is the house, belting out a chorus of “This Girl is on Fire.” For these few hours, a single rotation of sun and moon, I refuse to put worry in the driver’s seat, much less let him get in the car. (Yes, I believe worry is a man.  A small sinister man with gnarly teeth and a twisted spine) The mood today, my pub day, is jubilation, and I’m here to tell you how grand that is!

Let me start by sharing a little about PERFECT TIMING—a book with a stunning cover and a heartfelt acknowledgement page. (I think ack pages should be read as carefully as the first chapter of every book) It’s the author’s opportunity to publically say, "Hey! My book would be nothing without you!" It is true for me, and I hope you’ll read mine. This book is my sophomore effort. It’s also a trunk novel, resurrected and reinvented because I believed in its characters that much. I wrote two books in between PERFECT TIMING and BEAUTIFUL DISASTER, but I always had an inkling that Aidan and Isabel’s story would find its way to publication. Its message is as positive as the attitude I’m wearing today. At a glance, PERFECT TIMING could be taken for a romance, the kind with a damaged yet sexy rock star at its epicenter. And if this is all you come away with, I’m okay with that. I suspect the reader will have enjoyed the moment, and often that’s all we need to ask from a book. Personally, however, I see more. It’s true that Aidan Roycroft’s occupation falls into the realm of musical prodigy with a genetic predisposition for universal good looks. So much the better, if you ask me.  That’s a risk—and not the literary kind that comes with taking on serious social subjects. In his element, I believe Aidan earns his ovation. But that’s not what this story is about. It’s about the rhythm of lasting friendship, and the beat of a love story subject to incredible odds. It’s about family and figuring out what makes you happy, then being brave enough to embrace it. PERFECT TIMING is relationship fiction set to the sometimes extraordinary and always precarious tempo of life.

I’ve been a fan of this novel’s heroine, Isabel Lang, since she turned up in my sunroom, itching for a part in a book. She’s sassy with a serious streak. At the same time, I hope I invented a relatable girl, one who seeks the same things we all do. She’s the perfect, while not always obvious, complement to Aidan and his more unbridled persona. I’m equally excited about this book’s subplot, which does take a turn at social subjects—and I am that much richer for having spent time with Eric and Patrick. I’m proud to have put them on the pages of my book.

They finally arrived!

Last week my birthday came and went. It was lost in the shuffle, knowing that the bigger date was around the corner. I spent that day designing bookmarks and scrambling for a reputable printer. I was knee-deep in paring down a wordy press release and chatting with the local paper. I spent time chasing down my author copies, which hadn’t arrived at the time of this writing.  In between, I’ve taken brave peeks over at Goodreads, where PERFECT TIMING is testing the waters. So far, so good… But I’m not going there today. Nope, no way. This is about accomplishment and celebration. This day is the unlikely result of a simple vision about two friends who grew up to discover that perfection, for them, was all about timing. Of course, it’s my hope you’ll go straight from here to Amazon. But, if not, that’s fine too. You can just hang here and enjoy the celebration! I’m giving away two copies of PERFECT TIMING! Just leave a positive comment and you’ll be in the running! And keep the comments coming! I'll pick winners on Friday! Have a terrific November 5^th!

     

Laura Spinella is the author of the newly released PERFECT TIMING and award winning novel BEAUTIFUL DISASTER. Visit her website at lauraspinella.net. 

My Notes Are Attached

By Laura Spinella

In the past six months, every so often, Karin Gillespie—the founder of this very blog—has said to me, “Laura, you have toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your shoe.” Now, it’s worth noting that Karin and I have never physically met. We live a thousand miles apart. Yet, I have come to count on her honesty, a willingness to point out my missteps before I plunge willy-nilly into a situation that, with a bit of care, I might otherwise avoid. While I’m sure Karin would also rush to my aid to warn of liquor on my breath or spinach in my teeth, what I’m really referring to here is the laborious, ego-encrusted task of writing.    
 Let me back the truck up so you can better follow my point. Our new GBC topic is about critiquing. Depending on your source, it can be a writer’s best friend or the equivalent of taking a Dremel 4000 to your teeth. Who you choose to partner with can be as important as what you decide to write. And like any writer, I don’t relish the thought, but I do embrace the fact that I’ve never learned a damn thing from a five-star review or someone gushing the words “I loved your book!” Great for the ego, the muse will ask for a raise, but the writer in you will not improve one iota. With that understood, though never really discussed, Karin and I waded into the ocean of critique--you know how those first steps go. You wonder if there will be something firm underfoot or will saltwater rush up your nose as you tumble off into the weightless abyss. Well, only time and few chapters would tell... 

       I’ll admit that I liked Karin before we began to peck at one another’s work. She writes some of the best blogs this site has ever seen and her easy-going nature transcends the written word. For the most part, I require easy-going people—probably because I am not one of them. On the whole, we all get along at the Club, but have you ever wondered how the sub-friendships might divide? If we were all at a cocktail party, in what smaller circle would you find yourself? I bet you know the answer—it’s part of what makes this blog work so well and, I think, only human nature. So in deference to full disclosure, Karin and I had exchanged emails prior to our new writing relationship. To be honest, it was more like I’d bitch to her about some writing/publishing thing that had me perplexed, upset, or looking for the correct next step. (In fairness, several GBC writer pals have also been generous with their time and advice, and I would be remiss not to acknowledge that here) But last spring, at the tail end of an email, I offhandedly said to Karin, “Hey, if you ever want to trade chapters, give me shout.”      

I really didn’t expect a reply.
Let’s remember, Karin comes with an MFA and creative writing teaching credentials while I come with an unfiltered mouth and blunt reactions. But, perhaps, Karin was the type who responded to unfettered feedback. Who was I to judge? Besides, the greedy girl in me was tickled at the prospect of someone with real writing chops reading my WIP. We even had a serendipitous starting point. Karin and I were in the draft stages of new novels. It’s not my place to discuss her work, but I don’t think she’d mind if I tell you that it’s a captivating coming of age story, laced with a page-turning touch of romance. Karin’s transplanted gift for Southern gab and ritual gives the Minnesota-born author an uncommon take on a way of life that lesser authors would need to be raised on in order to write so succinctly and true. In turn, I handed over, chapter by chapter, the draft of my new novel, which is less about coming of age and more about coming to grips with an unexpected life. And when I say draft, I was literally eight chapters in when we signed on for our experiment in literary bartering.
Here are the highlights of what I learned : 
1. When sharing with a savvy author, the motivation to polish your work rises to an unprecedented level—even in a draft stage. 
2. Shrewder word choices and the desire to fine tune mediocre sentence structure is also wildly enhanced. 
3. I cut mercilessly passages and pretty needless phrases I might otherwise have let slide for months. 
4. I thought harder about why my characters did the things they did.  I made them answer to me before they were questioned by Karin. 
5. And when we got to a plot point that instinct said was a wrong turn, Karin echoed the same sentiment. I went back to the drawing board, doubtless that a surgical rewrite was the only remedy. 
In the end, I concluded that the experiment was a success. With the assistance of velvet-gloved but precise margin notes, I completed my new manuscript. From there I turned it over to my agent with a confidence that doesn’t come naturally to me. Is it perfect?  Don’t be absurd.  Is there room for improvement?  Without a doubt.  Still, I hit Send with the advantage of a trusted outsider’s point of view.
Of course, the question remains: “What, exactly, did Karin get out of the deal?” Story-wise, she’ll have to answer—though, if nothing else, I bet she hasn’t experienced such an amiable penpal courtship since the 8^th grade. It’s only been a few weeks, but at a lonely writer’s desk I already miss our back and forth banter—somebody who, for a time, was as invested in Aubrey and her ghosts as I was in Amy and her prolific journey. With the right writer on board, there’s way more than a better story to be gained from a sharp eye and friendly advice.       

And now, a P.S. in the name of shameless publicity:

Karin didn’t critique PERFECT TIMING, but she did offer a lovely blurb for my November 5^th release! Pop over to my website where you can read all the book blurbs (including sweet words from other GBC members) and the first chapter! Lauraspinella.net   

Cheez Whiz, Anyone?

By Laura Spinella

My Cheez Whiz colored ARCs

A few weeks ago, we entertained some out of town guests. Eventually, probably because the Fed-Ex guy dropped off my PERFECT TIMING ARCs during before dinner drinks, the conversation turned to my work as a published author. Notice I didn’t say job. While outsiders define writer in any number of ways, including hobby, passion, excuse to drink in excess, and that thing I do with pretend people, referring to writing as work does not cross their minds. But they did think to remark, not so subtly, that I should be raking in the dough with book two on the way.

            At this point in our exchange, I did what all uber-successful authors do.  I told them to hang on for a minute--I plumb forgot!  I was supposed to call my accountant that afternoon, so we could rework my portfolio of assets based on my previous book earnings. The accountant line was worth the look on their faces as I left them there, slack-jawed, drinks turning watery. I escaped to the kitchen. If I really did need to call my accountant, the question would have gone more like this: Did I want the nickels to go directly in the piggy bank this time, and just roll the dimes into those little paper cylinders? Once safely in the kitchen, I stuck my head in the oven and screamed. It’s fine. This is the same group of people who couldn’t understand why I didn’t pass out signed copies of BEAUTIFUL DISASTER as Christmas gifts. No matter what basic economic analogy I employed, they couldn’t grasp that aside from a few promotional copies, I had to buy my own books. And, frankly, I wasn’t giving a single copy to any one of them.

         We all know that novel writing, for most of us, is not about the money. It’s about the thing that compels us to write. And I think we’d all agree that said compulsion is another blog entirely. For some authors, their day-job is as far away from the process of novel writing as one can get. Although, does the inner process of writing ever really stop?  We’re always absorbing bits and pieces of other peoples’ mannerisms, features, wardrobe, conversations, and life events, with the subliminal idea that they may resurface as part of a character, plot, or passing quirk in a novel to be named later. In that regard, I have to

be careful with my day job, which is the result of happenstance. I work for a web designer, whose area of expertise happens to be authors’ websites. While the job comes with plenty of perks, including people who really do make a living—and a damn good one—writing, it can be counterintuitive.  It can make you feel like your glass is half empty. But I’ve also learned that even the upper echelon of writers feels this way at one point or another. If we’re talking about money, the satisfaction of being monetarily rewarded for what you do never loses its luster. It’s only where you land on the food chain that differs. It’s merely circumstance that determines whether you’re dining at the Ritz or just squirting Cheez Whiz on yours. So yes, there are days when that glass feels bone dry. But eventually the fledgling novelist wanders in and pours you a drink. This is someone who views a traditionally published author as a success story.  Things like money, multiple printings, or ARCs on a dining room table don’t make a difference to them. In their eyes, you’ve succeeded.  It’s most likely a fact that a “real job” will always earn me the greater paycheck. There are only so many lottery ticket books and careers to go around. And at the end of the book, or the day, that’s okay, because it’s never occurred to me to write a book with the goal of cashing in.         

Laura Spinella is the author of the award-winning Beautiful Disaster and upcoming novel, Perfect Timing. Come visit her at lauraspinella.net.   

The Alphabet Soup of Perfect Timing

By Laura Spinella

The right words. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately—113,724 of them to be exact. I’ve looked at them microscopically and fussed over each one like the bow on a baby’s hat. We are past the collective stage, the part where you consider words as a whole and the story they tell. Edits have come and gone and so has the window in which one can easily shift ideas, reroute action, or change a character’s motivation. The next time I see Perfect Timing it will be typeset with a giant note on it about how now is not the time to make extensive revisions. I’m down to wringing my hands over lone words—a curious irony of the trade.

            Perfect Timing is a book I wrote in stages. It was my in-between novel.  Something I worked on while Beautiful Disaster simmered and Valley Views from Abbotsford, PA, made its way in and out of my head, finally making its way to a permanent address in my desk drawer.  We’re talking years here, and during that time I never thought about Perfect Timing in terms of publication. Actually, I never thought of it as Perfect Timing.  Back then it went by a different title, the words adding up to a rather different story. This was my feel-good composition, my comfort food while struggling to find the right words in other books and fielding the real rejection attached to this dreamy endeavor. Nowadays it’s all email, but back then I read so many snail-mail rejections I developed envelopaphobia—a fear of mailboxes. I loved to tinker with that book, the same way Leo, who lives down the street, has tinkered with his’67 Corvair since we moved here.

            A bunch of years ago—I don’t remember how many, I found some courage, or maybe it was just a whim (courage is more dramatic, don’t you think?), and shipped that comfort manuscript off to one of the biggest agents in the business. Not long after, the agent called to say she’d been reading my words since she opened them that morning. I had this crisp vision of Laura Spinella alphabet soup spilling over her desk. Would she get my words as a collective whole? Well, she got about half of them. She loved the back portion of the storyline, gushing in fact. Unfortunately, (see how one word indicates this won’t turn out well) she merely dripped over the present-day portion. Still, she was lovely and encouraging, suggesting I rewrite and resubmit the book to her.

            Here’s the thing. I didn’t do it.

            There’s a left hand drawer in my desk and I put the book in there, not considering it again. Maybe because the timing wasn’t perfect. I also think it had something to do with preserving the book’s ability to be my go-to comfort writing. But I did tuck it away, satisfied with partial big-time validation and the inkling that its words had potential. Fast forward a couple of years. On another whim, I gave the same book to my current agent. She read it and replied with the bold notion that the time was perfect to expand upon and rewire those words. So I did.  It took the better part of a year. During those seasons of revisions, on occasion, I’d walk past Leo’s house.  He’d be there, in the throes of rebuilding his beloved Corvair. Car parts were strewn across his yard like dead soldiers, Leo standing hunched over his engine, up to his elbows in grease. That’s a fair picture for the mental work that went into the reinvention of this book—a relatable process, I’m sure, for every GBC member.

                So here I am with words—a bunch of them that are scheduled for a print run, slated for a spine, pretty cover, and a copyright. Below are a few of my favorite words from PERFECT TIMING.  They’re original words that survived the practice years and the storage years. Like my kids, I know them at glance, they are that attached to me, reminding me that old and new, all the words in this book are mine.   

“It wasn’t what people assumed.  Not that people assumed anything about Aidan and Isabel. Their relationship flew under the radar of Catswallow gossip, but it wasn’t the fare or affair the secluded setting of a dilapidated farmhouse might suggest.”—Chapter Two

“Aidan inched away, their faces but a breath apart. He’d never used this moment to convey anything so honest. In truth, he’d never used this moment to convey much of anything at all.”—Chapter Sixteen

“Her father returned to the sofa as Patrick sat in a chair where his frame pulled tight, his bearded face doubtful.  “Eric, did you not hear the part where the town’s most popular heterosexual boy, its very own Conrad Birdie, is being railroaded for the crime?”—Chapter Seventeen (maybe you have to read it in context, but those words still make me laugh)

“Seriously, Isabel, whatever’s happened between us, did you think that if you ever called I wouldn’t come?”  

  Her lips pursed tight, eyes welling.  “In a million years,” she said, arms wrapped in a straightjacket grip, “I never thought I’d call.” –Chapter Twenty-Six

Laura Spinella is the author of the award-winning novel, Beautiful Disaster and the upcoming novel, Perfect Timing. Visit her at lauraspinella.net

Pretty Okay

By Laura Spinella


Remember the old Virginia Slims tagline: You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby! I’m not advocating smoking, but the cliché is appropriate. I wrote my first GBC post in 2010. Back then I was a nervous debut author, unfamiliar with the perks and perils of publication. When I recall the lengthy explanations my seasoned literary agent took time to offer, I am humbled as I cringe. To say it was a steep learning curve is an understatement. I’m still not sure I’m anywhere near the downside of that hill. But I do know a hell of a lot more than I did three years ago. At the end of the day, the debut novel did pretty okay—awkward phrasing to match my awkward published author garb. It’s hardly a custom fit, and it still feels a lot like dress-up.

Did I make the New York Times Bestseller list? No. Is BEAUTIFUL DISASTER in its tenth printing? No. Did Oprah call? Afraid not. On the upside, and there is one, the achievement of traditional publication did come with some nifty highlights. Like Cinderella’s trip to the ball, I went to RWA’s RITA awards last summer. They gave me a flashy green finalist ribbon that, amazingly, did make me feel as though I’d truly accomplished something. During the awards, I sat chair-leg-to-chair-leg with Nora Roberts—how cool is that? Funny, somehow she didn’t seem quite as excited as me. Book clubs turned out to be the hidden treasure on the hamster wheel of show and tell publicity. I’ve met some really nice people along the way and drank an awful lot of their wine. My icing-on-the-cake, however, came up front, on the heels of BD’s debut. The novel’s setting is my alma mater—the University of Georgia, a place that is my eighth layer of skin.

Southern hospitality is always in good form, and the university was kind enough to throw me a tailgate-worthy, kick-off bash. But that’s not the icing part. At the time, my daughter was an incoming freshman at Georgia. I wonder, to this day, what are the odds? A kid chooses a college, 1200 miles from home, as her mother’s novel debuts, literally and fictitiously, in the exact same spot. Along with an airline ticket, I probably should have invested in a lottery ticket.

Interestingly, the same daughter will be a senior when PERFECT TIMING hits store shelves in November. It’s a jarring reminder that time does move on, more quickly than you think. This book boasts an Alabama/Las Vegas/Boston setting, so I’m already panicked that I have no alumni affiliation to back me up. But since there is no crying or whining or resting on your laurels in books, I suppose I’ll suck it up and just hustle a little harder. Admittedly, there was enough about being a published author that made me not want to dive back in. It is my addiction to storytelling that compelled me to go again. It also insists I embrace everything that comes with promoting a bound book. So here’s to publication and PERFECT TIMING! Consider this newest Girlfriends Book Club blog the drop of the green flag. To celebrate, I’ve included the musical tribute below. It’s a nod to my rock star protagonist, Aidan Royce, and the whirlwind of book publicity to come! Oh, if you have a sec, please come by a "like" my new FB page, Laura Spinella Books, cuz where we go again...

Laura Spinella is the author of the award-winning novel, Beautiful Disaster and the upcoming novel, Perfect Timing. Visit her a lauraspinella.net

Housekeeping with Clarabel

By Laura Spinella

I come from the before-moms-went-to-work generation, so keeping house is what my mother did.  She was damn good at it, still is at 84. At my house, on any given day, you could eat a meal off the floor of your choosing. During the deep cleaning rituals of spring and fall, this perpetual state of spotlessness reached a new threshold. They are scrubbed clean slivers of time that I remember well. It’s also something I couldn’t imitate if you threatened to dunk my head in a bucket of bleach. On those two days of the year, we’d come through the front door to a nose full of Windex, every Electrolux attachment on duty, and Mother poised on a step ladder. She wasn’t wearing pearls, but she surely wouldn’t have stood in front of an open window without makeup on or her hair done. By the time we got home, she’d worked her way to the changing of the curtains—kind of like the changing of the guard, only more formal. Years removed, the memory of that gold-tweed fabric evokes the crisp scent of fall, the same way a blooming cherry tree makes me think of bright white sheers. We had beautiful curtains (Mother sewed them all) along with Sunday roast beef dinners and a no-nonsense, “Drink some orange juice, go to school, you’ll feel better,” approach to life. It wasn’t the touchy-feely, my kids are the center of universe, attitude we often see today, but it did manage to get my sisters and me to here.

Bayport, New York, circa 1965. Cherry tree, pre-blossom.

Mother and I are not kindred spirits, which is not a problem, just the way it is. We get along fine, but it isn’t the relationship I have with my daughters. Although, on the right day, my daughters would probably tell you that we don’t see eye-to-eye on everything either. Bill O’Reilly, Nicholas Sparks novels, tiny china teacups and pantyhose are just a few of the things that I can’t get my mind around. Mother, on the other hand, takes exception to my lackadaisical politics, supersize glasses of wine, and often crass sense of humor.  Here, however, is where we sync perfectly: when I think of the way Mother kept house, I think of the way I write. Cleaning was just a broad term for every minute task that went into the maintenance of her home. She would purge and polish, refresh and review with a relentless eye. Dinner was an event, complete with an ironed tablecloth, dessert included, served precisely at 5:30 p.m. on weeknights. On summer Tuesdays the wash hung outside and on Thursdays bathrooms were scrubbed clean—period. Mother did everything she could to make her space—our space—the absolute best it could be. Admittedly, the book writing process is not Mother’s forte, why it takes so long, or why I invest insane amounts of time writing, researching, editing and rewriting. I mean, seriously, isn’t the wash piling up somewhere? But I do have an answer when she questions my all-consuming nature, a dogged insistence on my optimal performance. I remind Mother, “I’m only doing exactly what you taught me.” 

Laura Spinella is the author of the award-winning novel, BEAUTIFUL DISASTER and the upcoming novel, PERFECT TIMING. Visit her at www.lauraspinella.net. 

Time, the Only Thing You Can’t Make Up

By Laura Spinella

We could each write a character with pristine time management skills. In fact, I’m working with a guy right now who is an incredible specimen of man and management. Levi St John is the composite of a shrewd, buttoned-up editor-in-chief I used to call boss, and the sexy geek-god I rode an Orbit bus with every day to North campus but never really knew. Levi’s outer shell, well, that’s wrapped in Tony Robbins confidence.  You know, the iron jaw motivational guru who, I suspect, but don’t know for sure, harbors some critical flaw. Levi’s flaw is his past, but his current time management skills are stellar.

Sadly, Levi has to rely on my time management skills for his next breath. And in this effort, I’m afraid I fail him miserably. If I did work for Levi (which metaphorically I suppose I do), he’d have fired me months ago. But I think that’s standard fare for authors who write books and don’t earn a living from them. My typical day gets divided into thirds. How about yours? Part one is spent running this house and the beings who reside inside. You know how that goes. I’m not whining, but I am responsible for everything from trips to the veterinarian to the dry cleaner, as well as deciding what’s for dinner 365 times a year. Yes, even the much frequented Rancho Chico is a decision, one that generally falls to me. Complicating this third is that pesky child rearing thing, which runs on no manmade timepiece. While we’re on the downside of the hill, and my crew toes-the-line for the most part, you never know when a crisis will arise. It’s guaranteed to knock the Levis of my life right off the radar until all has been averted or resolved.

            The middle portion of my day is dedicated to a multitude of other authors and their needs. For the past year, I’ve worked for AuthorBytes, a very cool web-developer. As time goes, I’m fortunate in this respect. I only have to switch from the computer in the sunroom to the computer in the study. After arriving, I tend to a cornucopia of tasks, everything from assisting in the redesign of a website to showing one of our 500 clients how to navigate the inner workings of their website. It’s an interesting gig for a girl who stumbled through blog posts when she joined GBC two years ago. Seriously, who knew I had untapped mad computers skills? Well, that’s sort of a fib. My co-workers, aka computer wizards, don’t really ask anything that requires too much computer literacy. Mostly, I was brought on board to translate. Suggest to the tech folks how authors might see things, and to guide authors through the treacherous but necessary minefield of web technology. Still, it’s a singular job with fun perks, like rubbing elbows with New York Times bestselling authors.  Although, I also enjoy chatting with our first-time, nervous-Nellie clients—I once knew somebody like that! The chance to pay-it-forward is more gratifying than I might have imagined. But hours during this third can be erratic. If something big is brewing, I must defer to AuthorBytes, just when I’m on the brink of a major plot point between Levi and Aubrey (love interest whose skill set, while intriguing, also does not include good time management). Again, he, his story, and his developing love life are sent to the back of the line.

Gratuitous Seussical photo of Grant (center)

            Finally comes the last third of my day, which is really the first third. It can begin as early as 5:30 a.m., though cutoff is noon sharp. But even here time management can take a beating. For reasons I suspect writers can relate to, it is excusable to abandon a WIP if the insurance man I’ve been trying to get a hold of for days calls at 10:00 a.m., or, God forbid, my editor emails. If Grant, my 15-year old, forgets his biology textbook, you know I’m leaving Levi mid-thought to run it up to the high school. Of course, that was a purely facetious example, as Grant would never purposely call asking for his biology textbook.  But things will go my way eventually, including a string of days, usually two or three rainy ones, where it’s nose-to-the-grindstone writing. Interruptions are avoidable and I walk the romantic linguistic walk that writers’ dream of, or at least embellish to their friends. No, time management is not my strong suit; I am a greased hourglass in that regard. I have no spunky or foolproof advice to offer. But what I will have, maybe late this fall—despite the lack of regimented writing—is a decent draft. The one where Levi St John’s story will be told and, hopefully, book number three will be well in hand.       

Laura Spinella is the author of the award winning novel, BEAUTIFUL DISASTER and the forthcoming title-pending Penguin novel, for which we may soon hold a GBC suggestion contest! Visit her at www.lauraspinella.net.     

Holiday Temptation

By Laura Spinella

There’s no better time than the holidays to stop everything and blog about the lack of time during the holidays. I’m referring to writing time, as opposed to the general time we scramble for at the November/December juncture. Personally, it always manages to sneak up on me. One minute I’m scraping bottom for the last fun-size Snickers in the Halloween bowl, the next my kids are sending me buy links to Zumies (aka skateboard hell) and Victoria’s Secret. Zumies I pray will pass before the boy suffers a catastrophic head injury, VS compels me to send this reply to my daughters: “Girls! You realize this is despicable body image advertising at its worst, and that real women don’t look like this. Furthermore, I am at a loss to understand in what brothel-like circumstance you were reared—apparently, it’s one that would lead you to believe a lacy string up your butt suffices for underwear… Love, Santa.” 

            Apologies, I digress. My point is how writing time suffers during the holidays. I am, I think, like many writers, a creature of habit. I prefer the laptop in the sunroom to the desktop in the study. Ordinary tea becomes a potion that cues my brain to get in gear.  And so much the better if Trip, the ugly tiger cat, hangs over my shoulder while we coerce sentences into submission and cajole plot into paragraphs. I’m not a fan of noise, so if you’re home sick, find a television on a different floor. I know that sounds harsh, probably because it is. However, I also know the depth and span of the cavern one must cross to get from, “I have this idea for a story,” to “Penguin called. They bought your book.”  

             It’s a path that offers no holiday shortcut.

However, fighting for time and that coveted writing rhythm isn’t to say I’m not tempted. On the contrary, during the holidays I can be my own worst enemy. I am a sucker for quirky traditions, giddily abandoning a WIP for The Homecoming. Do you know it?  It’s the cavity inspired pilot for The Waltons’ television series, and it would not be the holidays here without it. It’s hokey and couldn’t be more out of sync with… well, the ideals put forth in a Victoria’s Secret catalog. But grounding twenty-plus years of tradition in hokey is what, in part, allows me to joke about the scantily clad. Holiday temptations and obligations start with the Waltons, continuing on to things we all whine about but would never forgo: the food, the shopping, the presents, the decorations… the time it all takes.  

            A wiser writer might retreat during this period, using the downtime to recharge and read, enjoy the festivities and start anew along with the year. The publishing industry seems to operate via that mindset, all but shutting down during December. I wish I could follow suit. But my compulsion to write doesn’t recognize holidays or vacations. I don’t know how to shut it off, or even hit the snooze button. So what I’m wondering is if, during the holidays, you happily pack up your laptop and say, “See you next year!” Or do you adjust for the climate, writing through the graveyard shift while no one is stirring, not even a mouse? I’d be curious to hear. I’d welcome the advice. It would be interesting to know if I’m certifiably odd or assuredly in the company of others who find writing an inescapable master.          

Laura Spinella is the author of the award-winning novel, BEAUTIFUL DISASTER (which makes a groovy holiday gift) and ISABEL'S RHAPSODY, coming November 2013. Visit her at www.lauraspinella.net.    

                   

A Fine Time For Rhyme Time

A Poem, by Laura Spinella

Tic tock screams the study clock

A Yahoo glance says I’m on the spot

It’s my turn to chatter all front and center
But I'd do better to lend this blog to a renter

No reasonable excuse pops to my mind
I’m busy! I’m flu-ish! Let’s face it, I’m in a bind

What topic to tackle, that’s first on my list
Something funny or wistful with a mysterious twist

On occasion I think we’ve covered the gamut
Not one fresh thought makes me yell, “Damn it!”

Ellen and Karin they’re quick with a quip
They’d generate verses that would be a sure hit

I’m not feeling unique or even mildly reflective
Odd since this blog is the last from a 40’s perspective

Book banter is popular, something close to our hearts
But I’d rather you click here and drop one in your cart

Novel news leaves this author with naught to report
No worries, by next fall you’ll wish I was hoarse

   

Ideas are vague my thoughts a sad rhyming jumble
This blog link however should make each of us humble

A surprise  inbox request heightens my frazzle
They want a cover blurb by tomorrow—and make sure it dazzles

Poetic grammar is moot with no time to check
Looks like it’s ee cummings style with all due respect

So I’ll leave you my gal pals begging that comments be kind
Perhaps a blank date would have been wiser than rhyme

Laura Spinella is a bad poet and also the author of THE IT FACTOR, coming fall 2013, and the award winning novel, BEAUTIFUL DISASTER. Visit her site, where no poetry is posted, at lauraspinella.net

 

Novel Confessions

By Laura Spinella

The mess that pushed me over the edge

Is there a rule about using GBC as a confessional?  Hmm, perhaps I’ll start a trend. Since the current theme is transitions, I’ve decided to share the curious personal transition that occurred last weekend. To begin, I set a kid to the curb. That’s right. I had my fill of a bedroom floor I couldn’t find, clothes strewn about like the remnants of a church tag sale, and an array of fuzzy bottomed cups that I may donate to the local middle school for fall science experiments. I was done with all of it, so I packed up Jamie and her belongings put them in her car and said, “Laters, baby!”  As her vehicle inched down the driveway she offered a solitary backward glance.  I stood with Jamie’s much neater sister and her little dog, which we kept, and waved farewell.  Almira Gulch never felt such satisfaction.  “Maybe you should have let her keep the dog,” Megan said, a teensy hint of guilt riding her voice. “Tough love, kiddo,” I replied, heading inside to redecorate. 

Happy Jamie at School!

            Okay, here’s the confessionJ My interpretation of Jamie’s departure is somewhat embellished. No worries, I’ve not set her up for years of therapy.  Well, not with that episode anyway. We packed Jamie up and sent her 1,200 miles south, back to college where a comfy off-campus apartment with her own bathroom (she shares with three people here) awaited. I would have sent the dog too but no pets allowed. As a writer, I took a little literary license. As someone who writes women’s fiction with a heavy thread of romance, I tend to gravitate toward a touch of drama. In truth, my kids trend more toward a PBS special than Jersey Shore.  So, for the most part, snippets of their lives must be overstated to achieve good fodder.  

The personal transition came with the redecoration—which was true.  I’d methodically plotted this all summer, and was ready with a paintbrush the moment she vacated the premises. Of course, before you paint, you have to prep. We set about corralling dust bunnies and filling a giant trash bag with whatever Jamie deemed unnecessary baggage. At one point, all but swallowed by a mountain of trash, Megan murmured, “Geez, if only we’d thought to call Hoarders first…” In her effort to clean sweep the room, she decided to pare down Jamie’s books. Jamie is a voracious reader. In part, I think this is because it avoids cleaning. We decided all the paperback James Patterson books could go to Good Will while the stacks and stacks and stacks of YA novels could be donated to the library. The rollaway bin in the closet, packed to the gills with cozy mysteries... Well, maybe the secondhand bookstore would be interested. Having worked her way to bookcase number three, Megan said, “What should I do with these?” It’s important to note that while Megan reads, she is not a book lover. She does not see books as keepsakes or memories or markers of time. She was asking about the Laura Ingalls Wilder series—including the lesser known hardback books. I guess it had been a while since I really looked at Jamie’s shelves. “Put them in my room,” I said, “they’re mine.”

I hadn’t forgotten the Copyright 1971 books, but I’d never really thought about how they related to me as a writer. Naturally, I was compelled to flip through, the stiff yellowed pages smelling of my bedroom back on Long Island.  Or at least I decided they did.  Inside the front cover of each book, glued to the page, was a mimeographed bookplate.  In meticulous third grade scrawl, under “This book belongs to,” was my signature: Laura Jean Wilson. At nine I was convinced Ms. Ingalls and I shared a past life because we share the same first name.  At ten I’d saved enough money in hopes that my parents would take me to the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum in Mansfield, Missouri. Suffice it to say two East Coast parents never could see their way clear to a trip to the Midwest. While I never made it to the museum, I was, forty years later, struck by how obsessed I’d been with the words. It was all consuming, enlightening, and, frankly, a little weird.  In retrospect, I suppose it makes perfect sense. Excessive pride of ownership at nine or ten now seems like an appropriate segue, taking me from reader to writer.  How else could anyone justify the endless hours spent putting stories to paper, unless they’d first spent equal hours investing in them?

As for Jamie and her books, I stopped Megan at the top of the stairs.  Her blue eyes peered queerly over the top of the stack.  “We’re not getting rid of them, are we?” she said, deflated.  I shrugged, telling her to run to Target and buy another bookcase.  It would be a shame to get rid of Jamie’s books because, clearly, it may take decades for my voracious reader-hoarder to figure out what they really mean.   

Laura Spinella is the author of BEAUTIFUL DISASTER, 2012 RITA Finalist, Best First Book, NJRWA Golden Leaf & Desert Rose RWA Golden Quill winner, Best First Book, Wisconsin Write Touch Readers' Award, Finalist, Best Mainstream Novel, A Favorite Book of 2011 at SheKnows.com.  Visit her at lauraspinella.net.          

No Junk, Just a Little SLUSH in the Trunk

By Laura Spinella

Okay, so what I'm really wondering is how long until we Google through all the cute clipart that complements "trunk novels?"  Anyway... when our own Brenda Janowitz suggested the trunk novel theme, it seemed like a topic we could all relate to, sharing the would-be books and what became of them—kind of like spinsters in a crochet circle yapping on about the one that got away.  (I know, speak for myself)  Aside from a universal pitch that was sure to attract readers, writers and, who knows, maybe an editor’s eye, I own the unique experience of having resurrected a trunk novel for a very different reason.

            A few months ago, I was asked to start a writers’ critique group. Hmm, I ’m not a leader by nature. I’ve never aspired to teach the written word.  Writing is tough enough, never mind conveying the hard and fast rules of which the first rule is there are no hard and fast rules. I’ve heard I can be a tough critic.  My children hide essays better than the Easter Bunny hides eggs.  But after receiving emails from what seemed like an eager and genuinely interested group, I said yes. I said yes with the understanding that I would be an equal participant, no more, no less.  With a few more beginners than intermediate writers, I was perplexed as to what I might bring to the table. At the time, I was in the last round of revisions with my agent and THE IT FACTOR.  No offense, but I really wasn’t looking for outside input, not at this delicate juncture.  Then I thought of SLUSH. 
        This is the novel that was destined for greatness, my sure thing debut after BEAUTIFUL DISASTER had been permanently assigned to the trunk.  This alone goes to show what I know.  So off I went to the critique group, submitting chapters of SLUSH the way a kid might feed koi in a pond. At first, I was tentative—koi might as well be sharks if you’re six. Then there was my fascination at the hungry nibble.  I was amazed, watching my words roll around their mouths as if they actually tasted good. A few chapters in and the group was gathered by the edge, waiting for more.
Okay, maybe this book didn’t suck.

In truth, it never sucked.

Oh sure, it’s riddled with flaws.  They are flaws that this far more seasoned writer cringes at, scrambling to adjust unnecessary backstory and cliché character traits for an eager-eyed audience. And, so far, I’m having a good time doing it. SLUSH is more mainstream women’s fiction than romantic fiction, the genre that stamped my passport to publication. But the enthusiasm of these unexpected readers has refreshed my perspective, at least to the point of hunting up old emails, recalling exactly where that all changed. Agent number one rejected SLUSH outright. I mean, she probably broke a nail in her haste to dial a phone, telling me how much she hated the thing.  More than a decade younger than me—or my protagonist—she couldn't fathom why Lydia Sommers could not get past the drowning death of her three-year old son.  Go figure.  After that I was agent-less, (my choice) managing to get full reads for SLUSH from three major publishing houses. Each offered what I’d a call a positive rejection—complimentary but ultimately passing because… well, you fill in the blank. SLUSH was actually in the hands of publisher four when BEAUTIFUL DISASTER turned up from the trunk, almost by accident.  I’d succeeded, I was there. I could forget about a family saga that takes place in the seaside village of Snow Harbor, Maryland. I could move on from Lydia and Grady Sommers, the secrets that wash ashore decades later—a fateful twist of an ending that even I had forgotten I’d written!  I could forget all this except for a thoughtful group of women writers who have reminded me that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn't.

            This is an excerpt from SLUSH, which was honestly not titled to irritate or mock the publishing masses. For the full chapter read, click here:

The Boathouse

Twenty-four Years Earlier

Snow Harbor, Maryland

          “Well, hello.  I was wondering if you changed your mind.” It was a whisper that stuck to the air like melted ribbon candy.  Audra Bauer stepped from the cabin of the dry-docked sailboat looking sweeter than anything Grady Sommers had ever tasted.

            “Changed my mind? I can’t believe you’re really here,” he said, grabbing onto the boat’s mast as if it was caught in rough seas rather than moored to a pit of dirt. “Sorry I’m late.  I had to take a shower.  I didn’t want to come out here smelling like bucket of varnish.  I was helping my dad with the finish on the tiller.”

            “Oh,” she said, looking past Grady’s shoulder, “should we be expecting him?”

            “Who, my dad?  No,” he laughed.  “They went to Mt. Pleasant for the evening.  That’s why I helped.  I wanted to make sure he got it done.  He won’t have any reason to come out here.  It’s the last piece before he puts her back out to sea.”

            Audra took a few steps closer, glancing around the dim cavern of the boathouse.  “I see.  That was clever thinking, Grady.”

            “I wanted to make sure we were alone.”  He guessed she was as nervous as him, watching her tuck a length of blonde hair behind her ear.  He knew it was a habit, having spent much of his senior year observing Audra Bauer.  She was unattainable. 

 Audra and her father moved to Snow Harbor the summer before.  There was no mention of a Mrs. Bauer, except to say that there wasn’t one, Walter Bauer filling a need as Snow Harbor’s only lawyer.  They were from Philadelphia, which according to Grady’s father made them city people and complicated.  According to Grady, it only added to Audra’s allure. Two gas lanterns cast a glow around her, moonlight threading through the cracks of the barn-like building where Emil Sommers dry-docked broken boats.  On the raw wood ceiling craggy shadows jumped about like little devils on an errand. And knowing what they’d come there to do, the shadows made Grady feel even edgier: looming hell, Audra Bauer, and his father’s voice booming in the back of his head.  He was amazed she didn’t hear it.  Use good judgment and you’ll be fine, son.

            Audra’s voice stifled any lecture.  “Did you bring it?”

            “Yeah, here,” he said, pulling a paper bag from the shadow of his jacket.  “It’s the kind you wanted, right?  Extra-dry.” He smiled, wanting very much to please her. It was part of his image to deliver things, like liquor, as effortlessly as he did the winning touchdown.  It went with being popular.  Just like handsome went with the fact that he’d done it with half the girls in the senior class.  There were girls he’d gone all the way with while parents’ slept in the next room, and ones he’d jaded under the bleachers after a big game.  He’d heard it all, stupefied by his own prowess.  The stories were stunning and empowering.  The trouble was, not a single one was true.  
         Click here to continue... 


 Laura Spinella is the author of BEAUTIFUL DISASTER, a 2012 RITA finalist for Best First Book. The novel is also the winner of the NJRWA Golden Leaf and Desert Rose RWA Golden Quill awards for Best First Book, as well as a finalist in the Wisconsin Write Touch Readers' Award. Visit her at lauraspinella.net