Getting into the swing of writing.

Okay, okay, the holidays have come and gone. You're in the mood to start that next great project. So you flick on the screen and stare at the beautiful, white, blank page - and wait.


and wait -


Hearing those crickets chirp yet????

It happens to all authors. We start out with huge gusto and then the muse flits around laughing and leaves. How do you combat the illusive idea?

One suggestion that comes to mind is an idea notebook. I keep a small notebook beside me or on my desk at all time. When that idea strikes, I jot down the information in my head, sort of a back of the book blurb and then continue on with my chores, or my writing. I know I'll come back to it later. I might grab a few posted notes and jot down some ideas to see if it really has merit to write. If I find myself with more than ten well noted posty notes. I'm going to be writing that story.

So then, I flick on the screen set up my manuscript and stare at that blank page, just as most of you are doing now. Remember the fear of writing fades with words sprinkled across the page. They don't have to be perfect, thing of that first draft as what a gardener thinks of compost. Its what you place the seeds of your imagination in. You don't put it down and walk off. You place it in the ground or on the page and write, then come back and cultivate the seedling into a mature story. Add a thesaurus, a bit of planning, and you just might have a first class award winning tale to send out.

So keep writing, the blank page is your oyster and the world awaits. Till next time, Nan

It's in the details

I was watching opera the other night. Now don't get excited, we southerns enjoy a good melodrama, I mean we haven't gotten of the "the war" yet. Anyway, they had this big ole burly leading man. You girls know the type. Strong, blonde hair, blue eyed, deep voice that sounds like he's pulling it on with his bootstraps. I mean who am I to fuss and complain if this hunk of burning love is parading around in a skimpy tunic that would make most Roman's blush.

Any who - this person hosting the opera, decides to interview him. I gotta admit, I was expecting Luciano Pavarotti. You know, sounding like he was Italian or maybe British. Nope, the guy was very soft spoken, had a twang and said "now this is it". Slap my forehead! A southerner! Gosh knows, I'm sure gonna watch more of it. Well maybe because it comes on just before Downton Abbey - well a girl has to have a vice don't she? Nan

Thinking toward the new year.

So here we are. The last Saturday of 2012. No end of the world. No alien life forms spotted, unless you count the strange lady at the local 7/11. So we sit here and ponder what the coming year will be like.

Reflection on last year shows there have been lots of changes. A growing swell of traditional writers have gone Indie with back list and shorts to promote new series. One thing I have noticed, the rise of self publishing has empowered authors. We understand a bit more the return from places like B and N, as well as Amazon. Because of it, many are demanding a bit more in terms of accounting. In many ways, the veil has been removed.

Likewise, publishers are demanding a bit more effort on the writers part to sell their merchandize. Shelf space has become limited with the near extinction of local bookstores. Which, I might add, is a shame for many people do not have the electrical devices to download stories. Local bookstores made us a nation of readers. But, alas, I digress.

As writers, we must embrace publishers and likewise, publishers must embrace writers. We are no longer distant spheres separated by agents. We must work in tandem to bring forth a polished project. Those who self publish. Must put forth the expense of a good cover and everyone must edit with a second pair of eyes.

Authors read, analyze, discover other writers and see what they are doing. Publishers truly read submissions, look at things with a blind eye, do they merit moving on, is there a gem that could be polished to become the next big thing. Don't just pull from what is trending on Amazon or Nook. That's too easy.

With that said, I want to wish everyone a happy and prosperous 2013. May this brand new year bring each and everyone of you happiness, love, and pleasure.


Nan

On writing,

I'm getting ready to begin work on my next series. These three books will require some plotting. Which scares the bejesus out of me. I'm one of these writers who might see the opening of a story in a dream. I write down what the scene was and begin from there. So the idea of plotting out exactly what will happen before I get there is a daunting task. How do you plot what you don't know?

The late, great Judi McCoy always came to our RWA chapter and led a meeting in which we used posty notes to plot. It was a great session. I'll miss that help in January. Judi will be missed. But her ideas play on. So once I figure out the trope ( thank you Keri-Leigh Grady for that workshop ) I can write down ideas and place them in one of three acts then remember to give it a twist.

I'm actually looking forward to this series in hopes that I'm finally going to get this down to a better art.  So here's to the hard work during the winter months that will produce something awesome for Spring submissions.

Nan
Fall in love, country style

Just Saying...

Just saying... in the 50's and 60's Lucy and Desi slept in twin beds separated by a nightstand.

90's Viagra has separate bath tubs separated by an arm with.

Today, I noticed recent teasers for comedy shows involve sex. They break away breathless, the woman is wearing a bra.

REALLY?

I don't know about you ladies, but I'm not about to try that with my husband.

Let me know how that's working for the rest of you.

Go Figure...

What do you, the reader, want when it comes to romance?

Okay, I admit, I write or try to. Hear lately I see lots of people tweeting about that they want, but what do READERS want? We are writing for our public right? As readers, what made us turn to writing? What made us say, I want a story that has this, that, and the other in it? So Readers, what satisfies you??? I'm looking to hear.

 I'm looking at best sellers and what I am seeing is sex. Sex is the act, don't we need romance before? Have books evolved to wham, bam, thank you ma'am and hero walks away??? I hope not. I write sex in my stories when I think the hero/heroine have come to the point that there is no return. I struggle with this internal/external conflict because I try to avoid conflict in my real life. Yes, I suppose I am that Pollyanna type person that likes their rose colored glasses. I know that live is like running an obstacle course. Yo need those bumps in the road for introspective thoughts and yet, I'd sure like it to run a bit smoother.

 What do you as readers want? I'd like to know. I need to know if my fiction is going to be real. Won't you leave me a comment? Thanks.

 Tessa

October is for Pink.

October is for Pink. We wear pink to honor those women who are going through, who survived, or who have given their all in the fight against Breast Cancer. Breast Cancer is a disease that takes from women all the dignity they can muster. It terrifies us. It destroys the last bit of humanity. For these reasons, I let my heroine in this short novella be a survivor of breast cancer. I wanted all women to know they are still desirable, they are still loved and they are worth placing upon that pedestal as a woman.

As a woman, Lauren Phelps has suffered the worst life can throw at her. The loss of her breast, the rejection of her husband, a divorce can she pick up the shattered threads of her life and continue? Cole McGuire met Lauren Phelps through a mutual friend, his mother. When Lauren took a medical leave of absence, he wondered if he would ever see her again. When she returned to Teague and Marshalls, he made sure she was transferred to his office. Now divorced, he wondered if he stood a chance to woo her. Can Lauren learn to love again after the storm?

Little by little the gauze fell away to reveal a breast complete with areola and nipple. Her immediate reaction was to run her hands to the fullness and touch the flesh that appeared pink and rosy. Her breath rushed from her lungs as she traced the swell. It had no feeling. Her hands touched the skin, but she didn’t feel the uniqueness of her left bosom in comparison to her right.

“It should look the same,” a voice from the door whispered.

She didn’t know if it was modesty or fear someone would see her like this, but Lauren pulled the paper gown up over her shoulder, the burn of heat trapping in her cheeks.

“I-I couldn’t wait,” she mumbled, trying to scrambling to retrieve the bandages that a few moments before covered the rebuilding of her left side.

A hand touched her shoulder. Instead of restricting her movement, it offered sympathy as only another woman could. “It’s ok, Lauren. You are not the first woman to feel the need to know.”

Only when tissues were shoved into her empty hands did she realize she was crying.

“Please, look if you want. I want to check the progress of our surgery.”

Lauren dabbed her eyes. The mascara she had so carefully applied now coated the tissue.

“Hold out your arms, please,” the physician said.

Raising her arms, Lauren listened to the rustle of paper as the doctor slid the drape around to the side so that she could see her handiwork. In the mirror across from the examining table, she watched with detached emotion while Dr. Barbara Felton lifted Lauren’s right breast to measure the weight against the reconstructed one on the left. Goose pimples rose on her right side. The doctor’s hands were cold.

“You should be well pleased. The surgery seems to be quite a success.”

“Yes, I am,” she replied in a soft voice with a twinge of hesitance. “Pleased, that is.”

“I hear a but.” The good doctor stepped back.

Lauren readjusted the paper covering her body, lending her some measure of modesty in spite of all she’d lost due to her illness. Her uncertainty was brief, yet it seemed to acknowledge the doctors astute insight into what she was feeling.

“But?” Dr. Felton asked again, this time allowing her eyebrow to arch toward the spiked bangs of her stylish short bob.

“But,” Lauren began with a sigh, “it’s hard to feel. I mean, it seems like it’s just a pound of flesh there.”

“Yes, that’s true.” The doctor pulled up a chair. “But to anyone else they would never know just how tough this year has been on you.” Reaching out, she touched her patient’s hand. “Lauren, you had cancer. You’ve been through a mastectomy and three rounds of chemotherapy. You are a survivor.”

As the doctor spoke, Lauren looked at the reflection before her and felt she didn’t know the woman she saw there. Gone was the dark blonde hair that had graced her head and swung to the middle of her back. Her crown and glory, long since fallen out when she’d spent hours hugging the commode in the hospital after the bags of drugs were empty. Instead, a fine mound of baby tuff glistened across her scalp. She ran her hand across the new locks.

“It will come back,” the doctor’s hushed voice comforted her, “as lovely as before.”

This book is available at AMAZON and BARNES and NOBLE. The forward is a riveting account from my then editor, Emmy Ellis who experienced a scare of her own. This book is dedicated to my mother, her sisters and all who have been touched by this dreaded disease. Please, make that appointment today.