What Are You Reading?

Well, hello there!  And Happy Spring.  Even though the winter we had in NYC this year was not so bad at all, I'm very pleased at the arrival of sunny skies and warm weather and running outside and leaving hats and scarves and gloves at home.  Another even though: even though it seems that winter would be the best time to read, what with the being inside avoiding the cold weather and all, my own reading (and I don't think I'm alone here) always ramps up a little bit when the weather warms up. My most recents: the entire HUNGER GAMES trilogy in advance of the movie.  I loved the books and though the movie held so close to the book, I didn't love it as much.  I may be alone there.  Inspired by the media frenzy that surrounded the return of MAD MEN to Sunday nights, I read (for the first time) Rona Jaffe's THE BEST OF EVERYTHING.  If you haven't already I recommend taking the predecessor of all predecessors to Sex and the City for a whirl...it started so much (!) and was terribly engrossing, and I thought, quite sharp. I also just devoured an advance copy of Stacey Ballis' upcoming OFF THE MENU.  Loved. I told her the book made me want to run across the street to Sur La Table (true story: I live across the street from a Sur La Table) and be a better woman.  You can see what I mean on July 3.

Up next: I would love to be reading the copyedits for my next book.  I'm wondering where they are and I'm getting close to that place where wonder can turn into angst.  I deal with the uncertainty and the feelings it brings up in the best way: I keep hitting the "get mail" button.  And until something happens, I'm about to dive (er, wade slowly) into Joan Didion's THE YEAR OF MAGICAL THINKING.  This is partly because I love Joan Didion and partly because the protagonist of the novel I am currently writing has lost a lot --a lot a lot.  Much more than I ever have, so I thought reading this book would help me get in touch with certain feelings.  I'm a little scared though as I heard it was very tough and I can be a little bit of a lightweight.  Has anyone else read it?  I'd love your thoughts.  And then after that, I'm reading the book right below:  Sarah Pekkanen's THESE GIRLS.  Can't wait.

And what are YOU reading and what's on your TBR list?  I'd love to add to my own, so please let me know in the comments.

Til next time,

Alison

Idea? What Idea? Where?

 I have a confession to make: I have no idea where I get my ideas.

It’s a question I’m asked at nearly every single one of my booksignings, and I know other authors get that query all the time, too. I usually hedge when I answer, and say that my problem isn’t coming up with ideas, it’s figuring out which idea can be stretched to hold a reader’s attention for 300 pages.

It’s the truth, but that doesn’t address the real question.

I think, for me, ideas are like soup. I’m a terrible cook, so hang on while I struggle through this analogy. Coming up with a storyline works best for me if I don’t hover over it – if instead, I toss a few ingredients into a pot and let them simmer for a while. (Er, that is how you make soup, right?)

My ideas take shape slowly, and my subconscious is my partner in crime (or in chick-lit) because it does the heavy lifting when it comes to sifting through possibilities and finally closing in on a storyline. While I do things like walk the dog, put away clean laundry, and – fine, I’ll admit it – read PerezHilton.com, my subconscious is busy at work. And then, after a while, I step into the shower and a fully-formed idea pops into my head - usually just when I've lathered up with shampoo and can't escape to write down the idea. I remember it the best I can, then shoot an email to my agent and editor to see what they think. The next step is to go buy a pretty new notebook so I can sketch a broad outline of the book. (“She never buys me a new notebook. She didn’t even thank me,” mutters my exhausted subconscious.)

I’m reluctant to analyze the process to closely, for fear that my ideas will all flit away like brightly-colored butterflies. (“She really needs to knock it off with the analogies,” mutters my increasingly bitter subconscious. “Soup, butterflies. What’s next? Unicorns?”) So for now, I’ll keep giving my answer that really isn’t an answer – and I’ll hope my subconscious never quits and goes in search of a place with better working conditions. 

Sarah Pekkanen is the internationally-bestselling author of three novels, including These Girls, which publishes today! Jodi Picoult hails it as "Bittersweet, laugh-out-loud funny, and painfully real." To view the trailer for These Girls, which is a lead BookRiot TV trailer today, please click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zcw8aXvpd8Q 

Soul Sisters

Knock-kneed, shy, and pathetically skinny while growing up, I wasn’t a joiner. I did not play sports or bounce along with the cheerleading squad. I had a couple of mutually creative (nerdy) friends I hung out with, but my greatest joy was having time to curl up in a chair and read, or even better, to write my own stories.

Now I’m 49 and I can still be a happy hermit. For me, a day stretching out with no commitments, nothing but the stories playing out in my head while my fingers click across the keyboard is a lovely thing. I know we’re not all alike, and I acknowledge the satisfactions of a more socially enmeshed life than I cultivate, but I can go for days without hearing from another human being (outside of my immediate family) and hardly notice. I don’t fear solitude as some do. It’s a good predisposition to have as a writer.

Rarely do I join groups. I’m pretty picky when I choose to spend time with other humans. But, when Karin invited me to be a part of the Girlfriends Book Club, I didn’t have to ponder it too long. I find writers and book-lovers to be wonderful companions.

So, in celebration of this new joining, on my inaugural post here, I will open my journal and share a recent and rare day trip I took with some other book-loving girlfriends;  

“March 24^th, and Debbie, Terri, Margaret and me are on a literary pilgrimage to Andalusia, Flannery O’Connor’s home in Milledgeville, Georgia. Debbie’s behind the wheel, snorting nasal decongestant as we barrel down Hwy 441 outside Watkinsville, oohing and aahing over azaleas and wisteria blooming on the roadsides. We’re out of Oconee County now, discussing four short stories we agreed to read; The River, A Good Man is Hard to Find, Good Country People, The Displaced Person.

“We’re talking about Flannery’s Southern Gothic style. Her grotesque and bizarre characters, the influence of her Roman Catholic faith, the way she frequently examined questions of morality and ethics. The fact that she tried to portray her characters as they might be touched by divine grace, their transformations often accomplished through pain, violence, and ludicrous behavior.”

All of a sudden, inspired by the sheer joy of being with book-loving girlfriends, I scribble a random aside, “Oh, this trip is beautiful! I feel a well-being inside me I can’t put into words! I mean, these girls don’t give a hoot that I’m writing in my journal! They’re so down-to-earth and accepting, so happy to be on our bookclub field trip, I believe any one of us could fart real loud and it wouldn’t matter. This is what I call priceless companionship! 

“Okay, I just happened to look up and we’re getting close. We’re north of the Wal-Mart shopping center, midst a mecca of car dealerships, filling stations and dollar stores. Yep, there’s the ‘Andalusia’ sign, and now we’re turning, driving down a long dirt road . . .

“Feels like we’ve entered another world! This 550 acre farm which Regina O’Connor, Flannery’s mother, ran as a dairy farm. Where Flannery came when she was diagnosed with lupus, where she spent the last 13 years of her life, her most creative. She died in 1964, only 39 years old. A brief, brilliant career producing two novels, 32 short stories, and a ton of reviews and commentaries. I tell my book club I know all this because I own seven biographies about Flannery.  

“We are stepping inside the 19^th-century farmhouse and I see her crutches leaning near her bed. I feel Flannery’s presence!  Well, maybe it’s just that we’re both Southern storytellers who focus on spiritual matters. I’ve taken a class in eschatology, but I’m not certain what I believe about departed souls, spirits, whatever, and how they interact with the living material world. Can they enter different realms? I don’t know. But, just the act of looking at those worn, stained crutches is making me recall things I’ve read about Flannery’s struggle with lupus, how painful it was for her to walk, how she conserved her strength in order to get 2-3 hours of writing done each morning.

“’Grace changes us and grace is painful,’ Flannery wrote. I agree. Now I don’t want to exploit my own issues, for at this age, I believe everyone is wounded in some way, whether it’s from a divorce, an illness, a child who passed away too early, or other tragedies, disappointments in life. But my own brush with death, and a lingering traumatic brain injury (right front temporal lobe, you can read about on the blog page of my website) gives me a sense of urgency to tell stories that focus on the way grace touches all of us. I have no doubt I am a walking miracle. I believe divine intervention changed my life, set me on a different course.

“I write because it is my gift, and I like to write about how God redeems the seemingly unredeemable. As Flannery O’Connor said, ‘I am not afraid that the book will be controversial. I’m afraid it will not be controversial.’“  

Julie L. Cannon has been telling stories all her life. Her next novel, TWANG, will be released August 1st from Abingdon Press. Connect with her on Facebook and Twitter  Visit her website at  http://www.juliecannon.info/

What happens when you have to take a break from writing?

You go on vacation... But then what?

It’s very peculiar when you’ve spent the last four years telling wannabe novelists to “Write every day!”  “Come Hell or high water, put your ass in that chair and write.”  So, here I’ve been since the end of February NOT writing.  

I was asked by my editor to STOP.  The novel that I have been working on for more than a year (as yet untitled… Working title: The Saints of Los Vientos) will be published next year: 2013.  It’s my editor’s turn to do her magic.  She is an incredible editor and an incredibly busy editor because she is so fantastic at how she brings out the very best in every novel she puts thought and pencil to (sorry about that preposition).  That said, I’ve had the luxury (HA HA—great word choice) of selling my house since I stopped writing.  Not a luxury.  I have a whole other blog about selling one’s house.  (I’ll share another time.)  Anyway, what I am getting to is that yesterday, I could stand it no longer.  Sitting in the sunshine on a blanket in my front yard, a yard that will belong to someone else in less than sixty days, the muse (goddess that she is) came to me!  Thank you!  I wrote something totally new and unrelated to the two novels now under contract with Simon and Schuster, but it’s all me.  It’s me and that shiny muse and for that, I am unbelievably grateful.

I am putting my ass back in the chair.  And here's the beginning of Lucy Graber:

Chapter One

The psychiatrist wrote the prescriptions on a beige pad of paper and the paper, enough if shredded to make a suitable amount of confetti for a parade of one, was delivered by Lucy to the pharmacist's assistant, whose lipstick was cracked, settled in the corners of her mouth, obviously cheap, and the assistant, without looking up, asked for Lucy's birthdate, at which point, Lucy inevitably felt compelled to lie, but recalled her therapist, who couldn't legally write confetti scripts, saying, "Be honest with people, Lucy.  You can do it.  Make the right decision."

My name is Lucy Springtime and I was born on May 1st, 1990, because then I'd be twenty and not forty.  And then I'd have only been eleven whet the Twin Towers came crashing down, and then I wouldn't buy expensive face creams to decrease lines and wrinkles, and then on my birthday, I'd construct a Maypole and everyone, including Shotsy, would dance, flowers in their hair.

The assistant glanced up. "Ma'am?"  That word is the proof that I was not born in 1990, but in 1970.  Lucy smiled at the assistant.  "Date of birth, please?"

"Don't you have my date of birth?"

"It's so that we don't confuse you with someone else."

Lucy thought it would be wonderful to be confused with someone else.  "September 22nd, 1970."  She added, "Do you know who Elizabeth Taylor is?"

"Who?"

Lucy went to the blood pressure machine and smiled at the men and women, at their walkers and plastic tubing running up their noses.  She smiled at the scent of urine, at the sweet smell of diabetes, at the high waisted pants and orthopedic shoes.  The black and brown socks and knee-high hosiery.  The varicose veins were too much for Lucy.  She looked away.  I will never be that old. 

Lucy Graber is the heroine of this love story so she's debating adopting a three-legged dog or doing something, anything, that will make her empathetic to you, the reader.  She's thinking about you now.  About being famous.  Lucy pushed the green button and enjoyed the feel of her upper arm being squeezed.  She sang quietly, "Like a Virgin" and took her blood pressure three times.  It ranged from 150 over 100 to 120 over 90 to 110 over 70.  She could do that--make it change that way.  The therapist, the talking doctor without the legal right to write medications, taught Lucy how to meditate.  Meditating was so effective that Lucy decided it was magic of some sort and she (not the therapist) was some sort of sorceress.  To think otherwise was painfully boring.

Even though Lucy was sitting right there by the pharmacy counter, inspecting the older sets' hands, the deep wrinkles and sagging skin, singing and pushing the green button, the pharmacy assistant said, "Lucy Graber" over the loud speaker.

#

"Do you want to speak with the pharmacist?"  The assistant handed her a pen.  Lucy had her own.  A fine-lined black Sharpie.  She wrote with nothing else.

"No thank you about the pharmacist."  Apothecary, she thought, wishing he had a mortar and pestle, wishing he were a cloaked, bearded man and not an Indian woman with a dot on her forehead.

There were four prescriptions total.  Medicinals for Manics.  That would be a great book title.  

Taking the pill bags from the assistant who lacked a name tag, Lucy Graber pursed her lips and said, "Strike a pose.  Vogue."  Lucy was an eccentric, not a crazy.  She thought so.  Strike a pose was for the poor assistant in her humdrum glasses, crap lipstick and mousy hair.  Now the assistant would have a funny story to tell.  

Lucy sang as she headed toward the exit.  On her way, she grabbed a pack of Reese cups and tore open the wrapper.  Will they come after me for stealing candy?  She laughed, nibbling serrated edge of chocolate goodness.  Must think about that dog adoption...  Lucy wanted to drive fast.  She wanted to jump on a trampoline, one without a net, or get into one of those bouncy houses for kids.  She wanted to have fun before Daddy took the T-Bird away, which meant that Shotsy, or some other so-called friend, was going to watch her swallow each and every one of those god-damn Medicinals for Manics.

Michele Young-Stone is the author of The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors, currently in paperback.  Her next two novels are under contract with Simon and Schuster.  Michele likes babies, bicycles, birds, books, and the beach. 

www.micheleyoung-stone.com   

What would YOU ask a demon? Also Shameless Self Promotion

Well. yes. This is a post where I try to find a polite way to get people to buy/read my novella. No hard sell. No annoying glitter. No beating you over the head. Although...

Free Fall, A My Immortals Series novella is available now on Kindle.

OMG REALLY???

Yes, REALLY! You should rush out and buy it now.

It's remarkable how dangerous fonts and colors can be in the hands of someone who lacks the "artistic" gene. If I could make Blogger shower the text with glitter, I would. You're lucky I can't.

Buy Free Fall from Amazon or see below for another way to get this story. Before the demon question. I guess you could ask a demon for a copy, but I can't guarantee that would work.

Review Copy Anyone?

In the meantime, anyone who agrees to post an HONEST review of Free Fall on Amazon should leave a comment on this post by Midnight Pacific, April  13, 2012. Or email me at carolyn AT carolynjewel DOT com. I'll send you a .MOBI version of the file.

There is a question for everyone at the bottom.

About Free Fall

Attorney Lys Fensic has spent her life controlling a psychic power that kills. Her ability to lock herself down falls apart when her ex, a mage, sends enslaved demons to kill her. In a psychic free fall, she turns to tough guy Telos Khūnbish for help. But is he a mage as she’s always suspected or is he something far more dangerous?

Free Fall is set in the My Immortals series world where demons and magic-using humans called the magekind are not quite getting along. Most people have no idea they’re living in what amounts to a magical war-zone. Free Fall is based on the short story Future Tense but is considerably expanded and includes scenes that were censored from the short story. This novella is about 35,000 words (130 pages).

I should mention the censored stuff is way hot. Smoking hot. If you're bothered by demon sex you should not read this story.

An Excerpt

 

CHAPTER 1

11:40 AM. Lobby of 101 California Street, San Francisco, California

He was here. Telos Khūnbish had come. Relief nearly demolished her, it hit so powerfully. He was here, and now, improbably, she believed everything was going to be all right. Her life was irrevocably screwed, but she believed. She ignored the noise of the lobby and the man standing beside her. He was irrelevant. What a damn sad commentary it was that after nearly ten years in the city, Khūnbish was the closest thing she had to a friend. Maybe even a real friend, because he was here, and she believed she’d get through this.

Her heart kicked up a notch when she got a clear view of his black BMW turning onto Front Street. Now, of course, she wondered if she’d made a mistake involving him. She didn’t make a habit of asking for help. She wasn’t good with people. She wasn’t even sure she’d asked right. Seems she had.

The BMW was definitely looking to park. Good thing. In less than ten minutes the lunchtime rush would start, and she’d be in real trouble. Even now, there were too many people around.

“My ride’s here,” she said to Jack, the man standing beside her. She didn’t make eye contact because that would be dangerous. Instead she stared at his tie, but that turned out to be a mistake. The dark red silk looked like blood streaming down his chest. She focused on the shiny marble floor and the tips of his Oxfords. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Let me carry your things.” Jack reached for the moving box that contained the personal contents from her office. He knew Michael, and that meant she couldn’t trust him. Simple fact. She couldn’t trust anyone who knew Michael Ford.

“No.” She gripped the box tighter and looked at the street again, as if Khūnbish could help her from afar. The BMW was waiting for a van to pull away from the curb. Khūnbish had never met Michael. That was part of the reason she’d called him. That, and she didn’t know anyone else.

“Lys.” Jack was thirty-ish, good looking, and in line to make partner in the next two years. He did good suit. He was a competent lawyer and a decent litigator.

She faked a smile and looked at Jack without directly meeting his eyes. Over the years, she’d gotten good at faking contact normal people never thought twice about. She lifted the box an inch. “Hardly weighs a thing.”

Jack smoothed a hand down the river of blood that was his tie. She held her breath, half expecting his palm to come away smeared red. He reached for her moving box, and she jumped back, heart slamming against her chest. Either Jack didn’t get it, or he was in league with Michael and meant her harm. He kept moving toward her.

“Don’t.” The word came out sharp and loud. The security guard at the lobby reception area looked over. She was close to losing it. Way too close. Blocking shouldn’t be this hard for her, but the last several days had been…difficult. Not enough sleep. Not enough to eat. Too much caffeine. Far too much stress.

“Lys. Come on.” His tie vibrated at the edges of her vision. Blood red. A river of red. He reached for the box again. “I’m only trying to help out.”

She risked a look at his face. His smile was hesitant, a little irritated, but that would be normal if he really just wanted to help. Just a regular person trying to be nice. Part of her didn’t believe it. He knew Michael, and Michael had tried to kill her.

Question

If you got this far, YOU ARE AWESOME and I love YOU best of all. More than the rest of them.

If you could ask a demon any question ever, and there would be NO TRICKS, what would you ask? If you're brave, tell us what you hope the answer would be.

My Five Gifts to Aspiring Writers

by Marilyn Brant

Dear Aspiring Writer:

A recent conversation I had with a multi-published novelist friend made me think of you...and how difficult, stressful and frequently frustrating it is to break into this "challenging" (read: "OMG, it's so chaotic and insane...why do we DO this to ourselves?!") industry. How we need so much emotional bolstering and moral support (and, also, boxes of chocolate truffles and pitchers of margaritas...) from friends and family to see beyond the soul-crushing rejections or reviews, the steep learning curves, the unpredictable publishing changes and the banquet of fear/insecurity/self-doubt that this particular calling creates.

I know what you're dealing with out there. Really. I do.

My author friend and I were aspiring writers together a decade ago, and we still help each other remember that long, arduous climb toward getting any kind of professional feedback, agent interest, editor requests and -- eventually -- publishing contracts. And, yes, the industry has changed, and we all have digital opportunities that didn't exist just a few years ago, but that doesn't mean the roadblocks and the aggravations have all disappeared.

They haven't. Not even when you're published by a New York house. Or the winner of a big literary award. Or the #1 placeholder on some kind of coveted list.

But, while I could devote a lengthy, meandering post to how hard it is to get published and stay that way (or to self publish and gain discoverability), I will, instead, pull out my magical fairy wand -- just a little trinket I picked up over spring break -- and bestow upon you what I think are the FIVE GREATEST GIFTS a writer could ever have. None can be purchased, lost or stolen. And none require anyone else's consent to possess them.

So, Aspiring Writer, these are for you:

1. Persistence
Yes, rejection sucks. It sucks for everybody. You can pout for a day or two (want some Belgian chocolate? a grande margarita?), but then you need to revise your manuscript if there's room for improvement -- and, let's face it, there usually is -- and submit the damn thing again. How many times? Well, IMO, until you get the answer you want to hear.

2. A Killer Work Ethic
Be responsible. Get done what you say you're going to do. Or, to quote the wisdom of one of my favorite fortune cookies: "Always over-deliver & under-promise. (Lucky Numbers: 28, 29, 16, 52, 38, 14)" It's stunning how often people don't follow through. Unless a family or health crisis prevents you -- because, on rare occasion, there ARE legitimate reasons for not finishing a project on time -- show how incredible you are by not being a slacker.

3. Creative Thinking
There will be moments when readers won't get your story's humor (trust me on this) or like your "unusual premise" or relate to your offbeat characters/plot/narrative style. Still, don't play it safe and write something that doesn't have a shread of risk in it. Use your imagination. You're special. It's true, you REALLY are. Show us your unique vision in some way.

4. Optimism
Yes, rejection sucks. It sucks for everybody. (Do you hear an echo?) I'm not advocating rampant Pollyanna-ism. It's useful to see the world as realistically as you're able...BUT, there's no need to be the Loudest and Most Insistent Voice of Doom in the Tri-State either. You're allowed to grumble sometimes. (Though, if at all possible, try to avoid tactless ranting on social-media sites, okay?) But then, if there's any kind of a bright side or silver lining to be found, please try to find it. It'll most likely make you feel better, and it'll most certainly make other people more inclined to want to lend you a hand.

5. Curiosity
What do you care about? What are your passions? What makes life worth living, in your opinion? If you can't answer these questions, for heaven's sake, don't work on a manuscript right now. Go out into the world and experience some of life until you DO know. Ask yourself, "What if?" Ask other people, "Why?" and "How?" and "Then what happened?" When you're bursting with something you just have to try to express, THEN go home and write about those sensations, thoughts, emotions, situations and complications... Attempt to write what you care about so passionately that it inspires curiosity in others.

And above all, Aspiring Writer, hang in there. It's a long road, this journey of ours, but you can do it.

Here's wishing you the fulfillment of your every literary dream~
Marilyn

p.s. I don't think my list of gifts is an exhaustive one. What qualities would YOU give to other writers?

Marilyn Brant writes contemporary women's fiction and romantic comedy. Her latest novel, A Summer in Europe, was recently called "an armchair traveler's dream come true" and it'll be the B&N General Fiction Book Club's featured online read for May 2012. She's insanely passionate about both travel & chocolate, and she just returned from a family trip to London (after 16 years away!), which is where she picked up her magical fairy wand, along with a suitcase crammed full of Bournville Cadbury Bars. Those Brits, they have everything. :-)

13 is a Very Lucky Number by April Henry

Today is the publication day of my 13th book, Eyes of Justice (co-written with Lis Wiehl). Thirteen actually feels like a very lucky number. 

This is the fourth in the Triple Threat series, but in this book something happens that’s so big it turns the series upside down. It seems to have worked. Publishers Weekly  says the book is .shocking, fast-paced, and a sure bet.  

As a mystery writer, I steal and kill all the time. I take inspiration from my own life, as well as headlines, dreams, photos, even bits of memory.  And I've killed dozens of people - but only on paper.  

There’s a new character in the book who has Aspbergers, although it’s never labelled that.  My nephew has Aspbergers.  

A bank robbery serves as a major turning point in the book. My co-author, Lis, worked a lot of bank robberies when she was a federal prosecutor.  She knows bank clerks who had been robbed and who afterward were never able to go into a Home Depot because the sight of duct tape gave them flashbacks.  

And at the end of this book, there is a big showdown at Portland's Oaks Amusement Park - a great old-time amusement park. (It even has a roller skating rink with a wooden floor that floats if the nearby Willamette River floods.)  We were having a hard time of thinking of an iconic place for the finale to occur, so I actually ended up turning to folks on Facebook.  And somebody’s 11 year old daughter was the first one to come up with the idea of Oaks Park.  

Read the first chapter of Eyes of Justice here