Nitpickery

I finally got my edits for the YA book. Now I’m going through the manuscript, plugging up plot holes and scouring for any last-minute typos. (The little buggers do get through. When I got my first print copy of my first published novel I ripped it out of the box and flipped through it. First page I turn to, there’s a glaring typo that I missed, the editor missed, and the proofreader missed, in spite of all my reads and two passes of edits. Such is life.) Fortunately there weren’t that many corrections, and next to no rewriting. Want to solve the head-hopping problem? Write in first person. Unless your characters are telepathic, you’re home free.

Maybe it’s me, but I feel like I’m seeing more and more grammatical, punctuational, and spelling mistakes in print these days. Since I need a topic for today’s blog, let me tell you about some of my favorites—or least favorites, for the ones that are really annoying.

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It started with its. Or it’s, which seems to be the accepted usage nowadays, regardless of context. As in, “The dog wagged it’s tail.” No. Non. Nyet. Uh-huh. No way, Jose. In short, wrong.

Its is possessive, like his or hers (I’ve seen her’s used, but not hi’s. Not yet.) It’s is a contraction for “it is” or “it has.” Its’ is a Frankensteinian construct that needs to be destroyed. Let’s not make grammar any more complex than it has to be.

Here’s how you tell them apart. If you can replace the word with “it is” and the sentence still makes sense, you’ve got the right one. To return to our example, “The dog wagged it is tail.” See what I mean? You need the possessive, not the contraction. “It’s clear to me it’s going to need a tune-up to get its motor running for its cross-country run.” Easy when you know how.

I don’t know why, but lately people have become apostrophe happy. Anything with an S on the end gets an apostrophe, whether it needs it or not. Excuse me: whether it need’s it or not. A noun with an apostrophe S means “belonging to that thing.” So every homeowner with a sign out front that says something like “The Martin’s” is actually saying “belonging to the Martin.” What they meant to say was “The Martins’,” belonging to two or more Martins, or just “The Martins,” more than one person named Martin live here. Go run out and fix your signs. I’ll wait.

Here’s a new one: lead. I’m seeing this more and more. As in, “He lead the charge,” or “she lead the way.” Nope. Lead (long e) is a verb. Its past tense is led. Lead (short e) is a noun. It’s a really heavy, dense element that Superman can’t see through. It has nothing to do with leading anyone anywhere, unless the geologist led the group to the lead deposit. This is why we need to proofread carefully, and keep a dictionary within reach.

Yes, I said a dictionary. You can’t trust your software’s spell check. It’ll only tell you the word’s spelled correctly. That doesn’t make it the correct word. Remember that typo I mentioned above, the one that messed up my book? Here it is: “You’re gong to love it.” I meant to type “going.” Every time I read that sentence, my eye saw “going.” The spell check wasn’t any help. As far as the computer was concerned, the word was spelled correctly.

The same thing happens if you type stuff like, “The dog beared its teeth” or “The soldier lead the attack,” or “Your a stupid ho-bag.” Human eyes and human brains are fallible, but we still beat out a computer. Yay for us!

Overreliance on spell checkers can lead to all sorts of fun. I recall a fantasy novel where the prince fiercely proclaimed, “I will not allow them to set food in my city!” I’m pretty sure he meant “foot.” If not, then I’ll bet a lot of his subjects went to bed hungry that night. Here’s one from a Harlequin romance of yesteryear, right on the first page: “She stared, frozen by the tabloid.” I’m sure the writer meant tableau, but that’s not what got into print. I pictured a copy of the Weekly World News with Bat Boy and a space alien caught in the act on the front page. Of course I didn’t buy the book. I wonder how many people did?

Sorry, folks, but if you want to be a writer and not get laughed at, you’re either going to have to bone up on your grammar, punctuation and spelling, or hire a proofreader, or drag your old English teacher out of retirement and get her to beta your stuff. Anyone who knows the difference between its and it’s is the person you want. Now: where did I leave my copy of Strunk and White’s Elements of Style?

Well, Waddaya Know

Since I didn’t win anything in last night’s Powerball drawing, looks like it’s back to the keyboard. That’s okay, because yesterday I won something even better: Evernight Teen accepted my novel! I can now add YA to my list of conquered genres. I haven’t read extensively from the modern YA shelves, but I used to read a ton of science fiction and fantasy, and a lot of times it amounts to the same thing. (Heinlein’s advice on writing juveniles: “Make the protagonist 17 years old, then write it the same way you’d write any other book.”)

Here’s Slayer for Hire in brief: a fan obsesses over the star of her favorite TV show. Then she meets him in person and discovers he’s a douche. Lucky for her his co-star is a hottie of the highest order. They end up fighting vampires together. Yes, there are vampires in it, but they’re secondary characters and wind up getting slain. It’s an anti-vampire vampire novel.

The hottie co-star is based on an actor I’m currently obsessing over. Jared Padalecki’s been very, very good to me. I’ve put him in three books now, with a possible forth poking around in the underbrain, waiting for inspiration to hit. I’ll get to Misha’s book someday. Jensen? Sorry. You had your shot. You’re done. You get a cameo in Misha’s book. You’re Captain Kirk and Jared’s Spock, and Spock was always my favorite. Better luck next show.

Yeah, I remember the thrill of seeing my favorite actor on screen. I had a major fangirl crush on Harrison Ford for decades. It made writing Billie, my female protag, that much easier because I’ve been in her shoes. Write what you know.

That’s basic writing advice, but is it any good? Depends. If you’re a doctor, writing medical thrillers is pretty much a no-brainer. On the other hand, I doubt very much if Stephen King has ever personally faced ghosts, aliens or demons, or lived through the flu-induced end of the world. I myself have written M/M, and I’m fairly sure I’ve never been male, either gay or straight. Nor am I a shapeshifter. If I was, do you think I’d be living in my current shape?

It works if you use “write what you know” as a starting point. Ever been cold? Ever gone outside in a snowstorm? Then you can write about somebody lost in a blizzard, or growing up on an arctic planet. You’ve grown up, haven’t you? That makes you a potential YA author. Ever taken a vacation at the beach? Go ahead and write that mermaid story. Hell, you can write it even if you’ve only ever been to a river or lake. Who’s to say there aren’t fresh-water mermaids?

I used to consider myself a SF/fantasy fan, and attended my share of cons in the ‘80s and ‘90s. I’ve watched the costume contests and attended the filksings (yes, that’s spelled correctly). I’ve sat up until 4 in the morning watching Japanese anime—in Japanese. I’ve experienced the culture shock of returning to the mundane world after three days surrounded by people in costumes and alien makeup. I saw William Shatner in person back in the late ‘70s. (He’s shorter than you think.) I once spoke to Darth Vader. (David Prowse was a guest at a con in Philadelphia. I was poking through stuff at a dealer’s table, turned around, and there he was. “Hi,” said I. “Hello,” said he. That was my conversation with Darth Vader.)

In short, I’ve been exposed to fandom and remember the fangirl mindset, and I know what it’s like to crush on both an actor and his fictional character. Writing Billie wasn’t much of a stretch for me. I’ve never worked in a diner, but I did work at a McDonald’s. I’ve spent time behind counters. I never waded through a swamp to catch a glimpse of Harrison Ford, but I’ve waited all week long (and boy, did it feel long) for my favorite show with my favorite star to come on.

You probably know more than you think you do. Use those memories. Talk to other people and use their memories. Start with the basic experience and extrapolate from there. Stephen King’s novella “The Body” (filmed as Stand By Me) sprang from a friend’s recollection of the first time he saw roadkill in the street. Everything else was Stevie drawing on the memories and emotions of his childhood.

In fact, knowledge of people and how they feel and react is pretty much all you need. Human nature hasn’t changed in thousands of years. If you know people, you can write anything.

Now that I’ve added YA to my resume of genres, I’m beginning to feel invincible. Maybe it’s time to dust off the Gerald S. Parker pseudonym and get cracking on those horror/thrillers. Sooner or later, one of these genres is going to earn me a living. Happy writing, everybody!

John Fogerty: A Cautionary Tale

Lately I find myself considering the case of John Fogerty. For those of you who weren’t born in the Middle Ages, Fogerty was a co-founder of Creedence Clearwater Revival, one of those oddly-named ‘60s bands your parents used to listen to (Strawberry Alarm Clock, anyone?). They had a slew of hits like “Proud Mary” and "Green River" and “Down on the Corner” and other songs with the words “swamp” and “bayou” in them. If you see the initials CCR, that’s who we’re talking about.

Anyway, the band had about five-six years of success, then broke up in the ‘70s. John moved on to a solo career. As happens with a lot of bands desperate for money, the rights to CCR’s songs, most of them written by John, were sold to someone else. And there’s where the fun begins.

John, in the course of his solo career, wrote a song called “The Old Man Down the Road.” The new owners of the CCR catalogue thought it sounded far too similar to “Run Through the Jungle”—also written by John. So they sued. Mr. Fogerty found himself in court, accused to plagiarizing himself.

What does this have to do with writing? Glad you asked. That YA book I’ve been blogging about grew out of two published novels, a M/M and its follow-up, a M/M/F. That’s a human man, a male vampire, and a vampire/human woman. I got wondering what their kids would be like, so I wrote about it. There’s where the problem enters in. Technically it’s a sequel of sorts to my published books. Maybe “spinoff” is more accurate.

At any rate, I’ve got this paragraph in my contract with my publisher. I understand it’s standard in most contracts. “B. If AUTHOR writes another WORK that is a sequel to the WORK covered in this contract, using an identical theme and/or major characters from the contracted WORK, PUBLISHER retains a right of first refusal for the subsequent WORK. If PUBLISHER does not accept for publication this additional WORK within ninety (90) days of submission, it will be considered refused and AUTHOR will be free to market rights to the new work without encumbrance.”

Normally this wouldn’t be a problem. Having related (by characters or theme) books all come out from the same publisher makes sense from a marketing standpoint. If readers like one of the books, they know right where to go for the others. My problem is, I jumped genres. The first two books were erotic romances. The continuation is YA with no sex and a plot not focused on romance. It’s intended for a wholly different audience and age group. You don’t need to read the other two to understand what’s going on in the third. In fact, if you’re under 18, I’d rather you didn’t.

However, under the terms of my contract, does my current publisher (who doesn’t publish YA) have a claim on it? If I try to market it to YA publishers, am I in violation of contract? Am I in danger of becoming John Fogerty?

Fortunately this was easily resolved. I emailed the publisher and explained the situation. They agreed it wasn’t their cup of tea, in spite of its origins. The new book is intended for a different age group and audience, so there’s no conflict of interest. I’m free to market it to YA publishers, where it belongs.

Now, if I ever write the other sequel, the one about the secondary character from the other books, that’ll be a whole different situation. That one is a romance, possibly a steamy one, and even though it’s M/F it’s something that company publishes, and it’s using characters and themes taken directly from the previous books, and major characters from the first two make cameo appearances. In that case, right of first refusal would definitely kick in. I have no problem with that.

The moral of the story is, just because you created something doesn’t mean you’ll end up owning it. The minute contracts come into play and money changes hands it’s a whole new ballgame. In fact, the second there’s profit to be made is when the fun begins. Read those contracts carefully, have a lawyer go over them if necessary, and be careful what you’re selling and what rights you’re signing away. Both Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster have passed on, but I think their estates’ lawsuit against DC comics is still going on. (They sold all rights to Superman back in the ‘40s, I think. It was a comic book character. Who knew?)

Maybe I should have asked Paul McCartney to write this blog. He’d know what I’m talking about.

Okay, enough with the legal crap. Gotta write something no publisher has a stake in yet. I think I’ll listen to my “Best of CCR” album. On vinyl. Middle Ages, remember.

Fun With Prompts

Here’s a fun game to fire up the writing juices when you find yourself blocked. Flip through a magazine or Internet sites, find an intriguing photo, and write a flash scene about it. If you’re in a writing group, everybody can join in. We’ve done this a couple of times over at Shapeshifter Seductions. One picture, five writers, five completely different entertaining stories, lots of happy readers. Wins all around.

I found the above picture in a Yahoo story on prize-winning wildlife photography. The panicked baby gazelle was being used as a teaching tool by a mama cheetah for her less-than-expert offspring. One suggestion from Savanna later, and I’ve got today’s blog:

Oh cud, LeeAnn thought as she pelted over the veldt with the Chodo brothers in hot pursuit. Damn horny cat boys. You couldn’t even go to the water hole without some blasted sack of hormones on legs trying to run you down.

She was faster than they, but just barely. The Chodos had just gone through an adolescent growth spurt and hadn’t gained full control of their new, lengthy limbs yet. And what fine limbs those were. LeeAnn had often spied on the boys in their human forms. Chet had the handsomest legs of the four, with strong, shapely calves. Kevin was the one with the sense of humor and heart-stopping smile. Killian was trying to grow a moustache to make himself look older, which LeeAnn considered a waste of facial fur. James didn’t talk much. With that killer bod of his, he didn’t need to. Puberty had worked the most wonderful miracles on all four of the boys.

Wait a ding-dong minute. Why the hell was she running?

LeeAnn screeched to a halt. She spun and confronted the cheetahs. Taken by surprise, the Chodo brothers tried to stop and ended up in a four-way collision, literally falling all over each other. They went down in a yowling, spotted heap of long limbs and tails. LeeAnn shook her head.

She straightened gracefully into her human form. The Chodos shifted automatically, prompted more by confusion than anything else. Four red-faced, lean and beautiful young men stared up at her. Somehow the power had slid out of their hands and into hers, and they were still working it out.

“So, boys,” LeeAnn purred, “who wants to eat me?”

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For a variation, try the first-line game. Somebody provides the first line of a story, and everyone goes from there. Here’s the first line of an unsold novel of mine currently moldering in the closet. Maybe you’ll have better luck with it. “The imp came at me out of nowhere.” Happy writing!

Force of Habit

I'm in a rush tonight, so you get what you get. Here's how I write my stories. I like to do the first draft longhand, because I can carry a pen and notebook all over the house more easily than I can balance the laptop. I've gotten into the habit of writing first thing in the morning while I have my cup of caffeine. I don't know how many pens I go through in writing a book, probably three or four. I use the same pens for journaling and sketching and writing random notes to myself, so it's hard to say.

The second draft is the typed draft. That one goes into the Troglodyte-1000, because I haven't gotten a printer for the laptop yet. I have to have a printed version. This is where habit comes in.

When I started writing, everything was paper. No computers in that bygone era. I'm talking typewriters, folks. (Ask your parents what a typewriter is.) You know, that thing that looks like a computer, but doesn't have a screen. You roll a sheet of paper into the thing and type directly onto it. What will they think of next?

Like that wasn't horrendous enough, I started out on a manual. I didn't get my first electric typewriter until after I was out of high school. (It was my graduation gift.) On-screen correction meant dabbing Wite-Out on the typo. If you wanted copies, you used carbon paper. (Ask your parents.) If your fingers really started flying, several keys would hit the paper at once and they'd get clumped up and stuck. Those were fun times, let me tell you.

My first computer changed all that. No more stuck keys. No more typing over gobs of Wite-Out. You correct it right on the screen. I can type as fast as I want and make all the mistakes I want because I can go back and fix it all before I print it out. Yes, it comes with a printer. Hallelujah! No more carbon paper stains on my fingers and smearing all over the keyboard! You want a copy? You want ten copies? Just hit Print. The machine does the rest.

Since the advent of email, I know some writers who don't even print out their drafts any more. Why bother? Hardly any publishers ask for hardcopy manuscripts. You attach your work to an email. Whole books are written, rewritten, edited, submitted,and offered up for sale to the reading public without ever being committed to paper. No trees were harmed in the creation of this trilogy.

So why don't I just type my stuff directly onto the laptop and save myself all that extra work?

Because habit's a tough thing to break. I grew up with paper. I feel more secure around paper. I want to have that visual proof the book is finally done. I want to sit in bed with the pages and sip my tea while I read through it yet again and scribble notes in the margins. It's hard to do that on a screen.

Paranoia plays a role too. The Troglodyte 1000 crashed on me once, and I lost everything in the hard drive. It's 20 years old; it could go at any time. I know I could save to a flash drive, but what if that corrupts? I've had disks go bad on me too. Paper is my security blanket. Short of a fire, it won't crash or go all screwy on you. And you can wave it under people's noses and impress them with how industrious you are.

That's why the third draft is the one typed onto the laptop, for emailing. That's why there's a third draft to begin with. It's also helpful in that I catch errors and plot holes and make little tweaks every time I type. I need that third draft for the final run-through.

At some point Trog will give up the ghost and I'll be left with Mr. Lappy. But I'm not typing a thing until I buy a compatible printer for it. You're not crashing on me, bucko. No sirree.

Uncharted Territory

The best-laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley, or so the saying goes. We can add writers to the list. We can definitely add this writer, because my twisty mind took another turn down a bumpy side road, and now I’m dealing with the consequences.

A couple weeks ago I explained how I ended up as a writer of M/M romances: by accident. I had ideas and ran with them, and happily it paid off. I also suffer from a bad case of sequelitis. One idea sparks others, and next thing you know I’m writing a series. It’s how I wound up writing my first ménage, something else I’d never done before. The ménage sparked an idea for a second sequel, which I swear I’ll get to eventually.

Then the ménage fooled me by sparking—well, I can’t exactly call it a sequel. Let’s call it a follow-up. It’s an outgrowth of the first two books, but with different characters … and in a whole other genre.

Suddenly I find myself contemplating the creation of a young adult novel.

It’s like this. At the end of Legacy, human Jeremy, vampire Wallace, and human/vamp hybrid Colleen have formed a household. In the last chapter, we learn Colleen is pregnant. She and Wally will soon be proud parents, with equally-proud co-parent Jeremy helping out as the nanny. HEA, over and done with, on to the next book idea.

Except … I couldn’t let go of the characters. Colleen wanted a lot of kids, and she was sleeping with both the men. I decided they ended up with four kids. Kid #3, a son, is Jeremy’s. He grows up to look just like his dad, height and all. In high school he falls in love with the Drama Club. Instead of going to college he gets his first role and goes into acting. He ends up on the cult-hit TV show Slayer for Hire, about two guys who travel around the country killing monsters. Yes, I’m still milking That Show.

Then I got ideas for a plot and characters, and now I’m writing the thing.

It’s not erotica. It’s not even a romance, though it has romantic elements. The girl’s 19, the boy’s 22. There’s no sex. They hug and kiss a bit. It’s a lighthearted romp, in spite of the vampires and a couple of grisly murders. Right now it looks like the overarching theme involves rabid fangirls, fantasy versus reality, and the dangers of getting too caught up in a TV show. Might as well write what I know.

I figure it’ll work best as YA, given the ages of the leads, and the girl’s struggle with figuring out her place in the new-to-her, confusing world of responsible adulthood. This means I’ll have to learn a whole genre’s worth of new rules. Brain, what have you gotten me into this time?

I’m not sure where or how it’ll go. I’ve only got the first half plotted. I’ve figured out who kills the bad guy vampire, and how. Foreshadowing is fun. I suppose if I finish it and do try to market it, I’d better ask Siren’s permission first, because of that one paragraph in the contracts. It’s not a direct sequel, but it does use concepts and characters from books Siren published, even if they’re only alluded to. I figure on using my P. E. Cunningham byline for this, the one I keep for my SF and fantasy work as opposed to the romance books, or maybe come up with a new one. I’ve heard some YA authors are using grown-up versions of their characters to write erotica works and cash in on that market. I don’t think anyone’s ever gone in the other direction. I doubt if the Belonging and Legacy readers would be interested in YA. I know I’d rather not have any teen readers looking at my source material.

That’s where I stand right now, mired hip-deep in a whole new genre and trying to write myself free. Well, it’s always good for personal growth to try new things. That’s how I ended up writing romance, paranormal and M/M. Maybe I’ll finally learn how to draw and go into comic books next. It never ends …

Freak Love

Romance novels fall under the category of fantasy. Impossibly handsome, successful, alpha men sweep us off our feet and bring us to unbelievable orgasms using techniques we’d slap any real guy silly for even suggesting. Naturally, if you’re writing these books, you want to create a hero who fulfills the readers’ every fantasy. Physically beautiful, rich as hell but still cooks you dinner, IQ in the 200s but never makes you feel like an idiot, who loves your cat even though he’s allergic, and could have any woman in the world but wants you and you alone. Not to mention he has a schlong bigger than Tommy Lee’s, and he knows tricks in the bedroom even Ron Jeremy never heard of. We as writers use all the tropes with abandon, and throw in our own personal preferences to help make our fantasy men stand out.

Which is wherein my problem lies. It’s a darn good thing I was drawn to paranormal, because my character crushes over the years have been consistent and all point in the same direction. Namely, I dig the freaks.

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My first big-time crush on a TV character grew out of my favorite show, Star Trek. I realize Captain Kirk was the designated sex symbol, but he never did much for me. I fell for Spock. Pointy-eared, alien Spock, with the astronomical IQ and emotionless demeanor. No throwing punches for this action hero: he had the Vulcan nerve pinch, which was cooler than cool. Spock himself was cooler than cool. Yeah, okay, Shatner was easy on the eyes in those days, and artfully ripped his shirt in quite a few episodes. But put Kirk in a scene with Spock and my attention switched allegiance. Spock set the tone for my fictional hero crushes: tall, slender, intelligent, cool, loyal, with a dry sense of humor and just a hair off the norm. Sorry, Captain. Bring on the aliens!

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If watching big, overdeveloped males in combat is your thing, I recommend professional wrestling. I was a big fan for quite a few years. All those muscle men in spandex engaging in soap opera plots! Of course it’s all choreographed. That’s half the fun. I got more laughs out of wrestling matches than I did from sitcoms. And you can’t fake those physiques. Those guys work out, and it shows.

So, with literally dozens of fine physical specimens to crush on, who did I fall for? Kane. The silent, seven-foot guy in the mask. They built a whole

mythology around him. He was Undertaker’s younger brother, hideously scarred in a fire and bent on revenge. He never spoke. He was insane. He had long, stringy hair and a beautiful butt spandex was just made to mold to. The mask just added to the mystery. What was under there? What horrible secrets was he hiding? (Other than the fact he’d been wrestling for the WWE for years as other characters before he hit it big as Kane.) He was the perfect gothic hero, big and brooding and damaged, waiting for the right woman to save him with her love. Eventually he lost the mask (and that hair! NOOOOOOOOOOO!) and became just another big-muscled dude. That was the point I lost interest in wrestling. I notice he’s back in the mask now. Don’t mess with success.

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About two-three years back I discovered Supernatural. I came late to the party; fortunately, the library had seasons 1, 2, and 4, so I was able to catch up in a relatively short time. The heavy marathons probably contributed to my obsession with the show. And who did I fixate on? Castiel, angel of the Lord. Cute, cool, powerful, emotionless, dry sense of

humor, total badass, doesn’t quite get us humans. His only drawback is that Misha Collins isn’t as tall as Leonard Nimoy. Fortunately Jared Padalecki is. I can get my tall, slender guy fix watching Sam. Between the

two of them, I’ve got my perfect fantasy man. Dean? Nope. Sorry, Jensen, you’re too Captain Kirk for my taste. Try artfully ripping your shirt.

# # #

My pattern of crushes continues. I started watching Grimm last season. The lead, Nick, is your standard TV paranormal hero: cute, competent, boring. Yawn. Right off the bat I was drawn to Monroe the werewolf. He’s funny and loyal and looks out for his friends, and he’s not

all that hard on the eyes. I’d date him in a second. As for Nick, I don’t think even ripping his shirt would make up for the lack of personality. Better luck on your next show, buddy.

# # #

No wonder I don’t date much. I look for the weirdoes, the oddballs, the freaks, the folks on the edge of normalcy. My kind of people. With nice butts. Looks like it’s back to cruising SF conventions. In the meantime, I’d better write another book. My hero will be tall, intelligent, and inhuman. That’s the way I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.

Why Guy?

I didn’t deliberately set out to become a writer of M/M paranormal romance fiction. When the grade-school teachers asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up, I didn’t stand in front of the class and announce, “I want to write stories about two or more hawt men falling in love with each other, complete with explicit sex.” (Imagine if I had, though. I’d probably still be in detention.)

I ended up in this subgenre the way I ended up in a lot of my day jobs, and the same way I ended up as a romance writer in general: I just kind of fell into it. I always wanted to be a writer—that much was a deliberate choice—but I always thought I’d make my name in science fiction and fantasy. Somehow I drifted into romance, specifically paranormal romance. It was the same thing I’d been writing, just with hot bits.

Many people believe the whole M/M genre grew out of slash fan fiction, which began with Kirk/Spock back in the 1970s. Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Darkover series contains elements of M/M, F/F and ménage in a science fantasy setting. The leap from one genre to the other wasn’t that wide of a jump.

However, I started with traditional M/F, or as traditional as that gets with werewolves and vampires involved. My slide into same-sex debauchery began with a publisher’s call for novellas involving angels and/or demons. I came up with an idea of a demon and an angel competing for a human woman. Except, as the plot moved along, they became less interested in the woman and more and more drawn to each other. Oops. Oh well, what the hell. And that’s how Bad Boys came to be, and how I wrote my first M/M.

Not that I planned on making M/M my career choice. I’d had an idea, I had fun writing it, now we move on to the next. “The next” turned out to be Belonging. The inciting idea was basically “a brothel intended for vampires,” so the leads were a prostitute and the vampire customer she falls in love with. Yes, I did say “she.” That book started life as M/F. Then I discovered Supernatural. Jared and Jensen were just so pretty and had so much on-screen chemistry, they inspired me to give my hooker a sex change. The she became a he, the book became M/M, and I found myself writing in a whole new category.

And it ain’t over yet! I have a list of M/F stories I’d like to get to someday, but I also have a growing list of M/M plots, including an idea for a series. Those dang horny boys just won’t go away.

I think I’ve finally figured out why.

I like men. They’re cute. They’re fun. They can change overhead light bulbs without needing a ladder and open stubborn jars. They may not have much sense, but at least they’re trainable. Then there are the other obvious pluses, which I won’t go into here. We all have our own top-ten lists.

As a writer, it’s my duty to create a male lead a female reader would gladly take home to meet the parents. What do I like in a man? What turns me on? What draws me in? I take all my favorite physical, mental and emotional traits and pour them into one drop-dead-gorgeous man-package. Over and over, I create my ideal mate, my perfect man—

And turn him over to someone else. Some undeserving bitch.

There’s the one big drawback to being a writer of romance. The leads have to fall in love with each other and live happily ever after. Terrific for you two, but what about me? I’m not my heroines. They’re all younger and tougher and prettier and a whole lot thinner than I am. I keep coming up with variations on my perfect boyfriend, then have to watch him ride off into the sunset with another woman, the skanky tramp bimbo whore.

Ah, but then we’ve got M/M. I get to create two perfect men, and I get to keep them. Two drool-worthy, be-still-my-heart hunkalicious males, making out on the page with tender abandon and no rival women in sight. I get my paranormal fix, my romance fix, and my guy fix. Show me the downside to any of that.

I’m not alone in this mindset. There are M/M fans out there who won’t read a ménage if there’s a woman involved. A reviewer who read Legacy expressed initial trepidation because she hadn’t wanted to see a woman come between Wallace and Jeremy. I hadn’t either, but the idea hit and I ran with it. I guess it worked out. It gave me the chance to write about the Preacher, with his smoldering eyes and single-minded intensity. I’ll get to his story eventually. He ends up with another woman. I appear to be addicted to self-punishment.

As you can see, I’m not giving up on M/F entirely. I’m willing to concede some of my female leads are worthy of the men I give them. Fine, Amber/Ashley/Brittany, you can have Todd/Brent/Mitchell. I’m keeping Adam and Donner. They’re werewolves, they’re naked, they’re hungry for each other and they’re mine.

All of a sudden I’m in the mood to reread my favorite Spenser books by Robert B. Parker. Then I can picture Robert Urich and Avery Brooks solving crimes together. I’ll just skip the scenes with Spenser’s girlfriend Susan in them. Those two men … yummy yum yum.

When to Shut the Bedroom Door

A discussion on a readers’ forum got me wondering about this topic. How much sex is needed in the average romance novel? When do you want to get down and dirty, and when should you just shut the door? Answer: depends on the heat level and how much the story demands, and whether or not the sex scene informs characterization or furthers the story, or is plain ol’ PWP (porn without plot). While PWP can be fun to read (and write), if you’re on a limited word count – say, with a novella or short story – every sex scene described had better do more than bring the characters to orgiastic fulfillment.

First of all, how many sex scenes? As many as the story needs. Some books might have one explosive scene at the very end. Or it may be one quiet scene. I once read a Nocturne where the characters don’t even have on-screen sex; there’s some explicit foreplay, then they consummate their passion between scene breaks. In other books the characters can and do tumble into bed in Chapter 1 and never let up from there. Too much of a good thing? Maybe not to them, but to each their own.

Next, how hot should they be? Euphemisms or fuck me fuck me? Again, that’s up to the story, the characters, and whatever publisher or line you’re aiming for. You probably won’t find too many trembling virgins being gently deflowered in the final chapter at Ellora’s Cave. Write your story the way it needs to be, study publishers’ guidelines (better still, examples of what they’re publishing), send yours to the one that best matches what you’ve written, and cross all fingers.

Keep in mind the characters can have sex every other page if they want to, but we don’t necessarily have to watch. Does the sex scene serve another purpose? Does it further the story? Does it tell us something new about the characters? If not, skim over it or skip it. If it does, that’s the one we want to see.

My M/M couple in Belonging has plenty of sex, but not all of it is onstage. I chose which scenes I described and didn’t describe deliberately. When the story opens, Jeremy is a prostitute working in a brothel and his vampire lover, Wallace, is a regular customer. Wallace has just fed and he’s in the throes of blood lust. All he wants is a quick, hard lay. He won’t even remember the particulars afterwards. Though emotions are involved, this is first and foremost a business transaction. As Wallace’s sanity fades out, so does the scene. There’s little point in watching a mindless vampire receive what amounts to physical therapy. Therefore, we don’t have to.

A couple chapters later they have sex again. This time it’s different. Wallace isn’t in blood lust and knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s determined to show Jeremy the difference between the brutal, blood-lust sex Jeremy’s accustomed to and actual, tender lovemaking. This scene is described in detail because it’s more than sex; it deepens their relationship and moves the plot forward. Subsequent sex scenes are glossed over or hinted at. They’re together now and they’re falling in love. It’s okay to save the explicit stuff for when it actually matters. Otherwise it’s just PWP and a waste of wordage.

Later on in the story Jeremy learns a devastating secret about Wallace’s past which the vampire has been keeping from him. He’s heartbroken and furious. He finds Wallace at his house, dying of blood lust, and only sex can save him. Angry as he is, Jeremy can’t leave the vampire to suffer and die. He picks up his lover, slams into the bedroom and kicks the door shut. What’s about to follow will be ugly and have nothing to do with love. Therefore, it isn’t shown. The story picks up in the aftermath, with emotions clashing as brutally as their bodies did moments before.

There are only two more descriptive scenes: their reconciliation, where Wallace conquers his blood lust and actually stays aware throughout the act, and the HEA finale. In restrospect, I probably could have cut the second one, but I wanted my characters to go out on a high note. Anyone who’s read the book, let me know: does the final sex scene add to the story, or could I have axed it without consequences? That’s the ultimate test of any scene, sex or non: Does it add to the story? Consider that when you’re wondering whether to leave in that scene between Axel and Molly and the matching dildoes, or if you’re better off with just an ellipsis.

Too much? Too little? In the end it’s a tightrope walk. We all learn by doing. With time and practice, instinct should tell you if you’ve hit a workable balance. Otherwise the readers will, God love ‘em. Hard to believe you can go wrong describing explicit sex, but that’s one of the joys of writing. Have fun!

By the Numbers

Every so often I get the urge to punish myself. The other day, out of morbid curiosity, I decided to haul my royalty statements out of the filing cabinet and check my status to date. Maybe the statistics gleaned can help me up my production and maybe put a couple more bucks in my bank account.

I’ll end the suspense right now: I’m not one of the writers earning the Big Bucks. I do not get five- or six-figure royalties. I’ve yet to hit four figures. My sales remain unnervingly comfortable in the three-figure-per-quarter range. In the quarters where I don’t have a new release, that’s low three figures. You might want to consider that before you quit your day job.

Beginning with my first release in 2009, and including numbers from Siren and all listed distributors, here’s how the sales stack up through March 2012:

Coyote Moon (2009, M/F, novella) – 310

Best of Breed (2010, M/F, novella) – 117

A London Werewolf in America (2010, M/F, novel) – 223 (includes print copies)

Bad Boys (2010, M/M, novella) – 374

Belonging (2011, M/M, novella) – 522 (includes print copies)

Legacy – (2012, M/M/F, novel) – 111

Love on the Wild Side (2011, compilation print volume, includes Coyote Moon and Best of Breed) – 8

What can we learn from these numbers? For starters, I don’t write very fast. Unless and until I pick up the pace, I won’t be making a living through writing any time soon. When I do, it had better be M/M. The numbers shout out the story rather loudly: my M/M sells far better than my M/F, both on the Siren site and through secondary markets. Coyote Moon has been out since 2009, and Belonging handily passed it in sales in less than a year. I’m not sure where the ménage stands yet. Legacy’s only been out since March, and I won’t have the numbers from Amazon and elsewhere until I get my next statement.

I’m not sure if having a backlist has increased my sales. I threw everybody off by switching genre horses in midstream. Is there any crossover between the M/F and M/M? Not that I can tell. Legacy might spark additional sales of Belonging, since Legacy’s the sequel. Will those readers then try Bad Boys? You got me. Will they try any of the M/Fs? Probably not.

I must admit, I was surprised Love on the Wild Side sold anything other than the single copy I bought. To the other seven people, thank you and bless you. And the M/Fs may not sell as well as the M/Ms, but they’re steady. Coyote Moon still sells a couple of copies every month. Gas and grocery money. I’ll take it. I’m not proud.

I’ve made several mistakes in my three-year career that I’ll have to fix. There’s the aforementioned genre switch, for starters. People got used to seeing M/F from me, and then I threw man love at them. With my next couple books I’m going to do what I should have in the beginning and write the genres under separate names. At this point I’ll probably have to stick to my real name for M/M and start over in M/F under another name. The ménage was an accident and probably won’t be repeated. Now you know what happens when pantsers try to have careers. Don’t let this happen to you!

I also lost any momentum I’d been building when I took a year between books. Like I said, I’m a slow writer, and Legacy ran far longer than I thought it was going to. Writing shorter stories should help with productivity, and might boost sales: shorter works have lower prices. It’s been recommended you should try to have a new release every quarter. Yeah, good luck with that.

I should probably do more promotion. At the moment I do next to zilch. I announce my new releases, post a few excerpts, then abandon them and move on to the next book. I have this blog, and I’m part of the group over at Shapeshifter Seductions (www.shapeshifterseductions.blogspot.com). I’ve done a couple interviews on others’ blogs. I don’t have a web page, a Facebook account, or Twitter. I have an author’s page on Amazon, which I never update. I’m signed up on a writers’ site but don’t comment in the forums too often. My signature is “professional lurker,” which pretty much explains that. I’m not very social, in media or elsewhere.

Possibly the best thing I could do for my budding career is to get back to the keyboard and turn out more and better books. Let quality speak for itself. Judging by the numbers, I should probably write more M/M novellas about gay vampires. Maybe even a series. Back to caffeine and cable TV …

This 'n' That

I don’t have any one topic to chat about today, so here’s a couple snippets of things. We’ll start with the fun one, because everybody should kick off the day with a laugh. British researchers have determined that dinosaur flatulence released millions of tons of methane and other greenhouse gases into the primordial air, and may have contributed to prehistoric global warming. And you thought cows were bad. Me, I’m green with envy over those Brits, who got paid to speculate on the effects of dinosaur belches and pooties. Who says you can’t find a job in today’s economy?

There’s another touch Mr. Spielberg could have added to his now-cancelled show Terra Nova. The kids have once again slipped out of the compound without supervision or weapons. They hear an enormous bang. “What was that?” The gas cloud hits. “Yecchhh! Fartosaurus!” Or imagine a scene in Jurassic Park, with the Brontosaurus herd placidly grazing, punctuated by the occasional air horn or earth-shaking belch. What did they say to each other? “Pull my tail”? No wonder they were known as “thunder lizards.” Maybe the next flick in the series will be written by Adam Sandler.

Nobody has yet speculated on the effects of pterosaur mid-air evacuations. Think about that next time the local robins target your car.

# # #

This one’s not so funny if you’re a writer who wants to make a living. It’s romance writer Ann Voss Peterson, who won’t be writing for Harlequin any more because she can’t make a living thanks to their low royalties, which she worked out to be about 2.4%. This is after 25 releases, books in bookstores and WalMart and Target, and worldwide distribution. Selling 10,000 copies sounds like a lot until you realize you’re only getting 6-10 cents per copy. She could probably self-pub her out-of-print books and make a ton more money, but Harlequin’s clinging to the rights. She’s not the only one who has issues with Harlequin’s contract and business practices either.

The whole story can be found here at Joe Konrath's blog, A Newbie's Guide to Publishing, at jakonrath.blogspot.com. Look for the "Harlequin Fail" entry on May 8. Or check out the forums at Absolute Write (www.absolutewrite.com/forums, Romance/Women's Fiction thread, "Tell us how you really feel, Mr. Konrath!")for other writers’ takes on the story. Between this and Harlequin’s reported response times of up to a year or longer, I don’t think I’ll be subbing anything to them after all. There was a time when Harlequin was pretty much the only game in town, but that’s not true any more. Much as I’d love to see my paperbacks on a bookstore’s shelves, I’d rather make a decent living without having to look for a job. I can still get print copies through POD, so in the end I’ll be happy.

# # #

Here’s why I like physical bookstores: you can take a book off the shelf and skim through it in the store to see if you like it or not before you slap down your dollars at the register. That’s not fair to the writers who worked so hard for so long to get it into the store so you can flip through it for free, but times are tough. One book I previewed had a total weepy wimp of a heroine—a vampire, no less—who failed to grow a spine in 200 pages and allowed not one but two “heroes” to emotionally abuse her. Of course, the alpha male had a change of heart at the end and decided he truly loved her after all. Yeah, right. Am I glad I didn’t pay good money for that. Ladies, if you want to sell, write better books.

# # #

The Avengers has kicked off the summer movie season, which means there won’t be any real movies for grownups until after school starts in September. I do recommend The Avengers, because there’s actual character development and growth in between the fight scenes and stuff blowing up, and because Joss Whedon is God. The CGI Hulk doesn’t quite steal the movie, but he comes pretty damn close. Take that, expensive flesh and blood actors. We’re heading for the point where pretty soon Hollywood won’t need you any more. I recommend you learn computer animation or brush up on your voiceover skills. Or you could always write for Harlequin.

# # #

What will I be doing this weekend? Probably pulling weeds and mowing the lawn. Wish I had a dinosaur to eat all my greens, but the winds would probably blow my mobile home over. There’s an upside and a downside to everything. Enjoy today!

The Grim Reality

Yes, it’s all my fault. Blame me. I’m the one who ruined the market for scripted TV by watching reality shows. I like the competition shows best, like Project Runway and Top Chef and all the knockoffs they spawned. Catfights and meltdowns aside, there’s something about watching raw, unbridled creativity on display that gives me hope for humanity.

So far we’ve had singing shows, dancing shows, cooking, fashion, art and interior design shows. The one thing glaring in its omission is something for us writers.

That’s what we need—a reality competition show for writers! Twelve hungry wordsmiths eager for fame, recognition and huge sales. Okay, mostly huge sales. Really, how many people would be doing these shows if there wasn’t a huge monetary payoff? The winner would get a hefty advance and contract from some big New York publishing house. Sounds like a winner to me.

Imagine the drama. Writer’s blocks! Stolen ideas! Creative burnout! A storm knocks out the power and nobody can use their laptops and they have to finish a chapter longhand with a deadline looming. That’s TV gold!

The camera zooms in our contestants, following their every move, every word hurled back and forth at each other as they … uh …

Sit there. Stare at their laptop screens. Get up to use the can or go for coffee. Lots of trips for coffee. Consequently lots of trips to the can.

What do the viewers get so see? A growing stack of papers. If the writer decides to just save it on the hard drive, maybe not even that.

I think I know why there haven’t been any competition shows for writers yet.

Okay, so writing’s not the most visual career in the arts and crafts basket. It can still make for exciting TV. We could follow a group of writers as they create and polish their masterpiece, then send it off to an agent or publisher and … well … wait. And wait. For months. Or thirteen episodes, whichever comes first. Probably the thirteen episodes.

It’s a shame writing doesn’t lend itself well to TV, because without writers there wouldn’t be any TV, scripted or not. That’s right, “reality” shows have writers just like any other show. Somebody has to take those hours and hours of footage and edit them down into a coherent forty-five minutes of show. People like their entertainment tidied up and making sense because real life is chaotic and makes no sense at all. That’s where the writer comes in.

Our lives aren’t exactly the stuff of riveting drama, but without us you’d have to make up your own stories. Good luck with that.

Actually, there is a new reality show that shows writers in competition, sort of. It’s called The Pitch and it’s on AMC. It’s about rival agencies coming up with ad campaigns for a business. The final product utilizes graphics and video and multimedia, but it all starts with the idea. Guess who comes up with the concept?

That’s our reality. No glitz, no glamor, little recognition. We don’t even get a TV show. Sometimes you get to make a living from typing your fantasies onto a screen. You won’t get the fortune, or even the fame if you’re using a pen name. You get the satisfaction of knowing you gave somebody a break from reality for a couple of hours, maybe entertained them or made them laugh or (God forbid) even think about life differently. It’s not $100,000 and a contract with a major talent agency, but it’ll have to do.

Anyway, I like to write while sitting in bed with the laptop and wearing my ratty old bathrobe. I don’t think I’d want a camera on me. Maybe it’s all for the best.

Crossroad Blues

This should be brief. I wrapped up a draft earlier in the week and am going through the usual post-partum floundering while I decide which of the dozens of stories logjammed in my head wants to get told next. That logjam includes blogs. This is my third attempt to write something of value. I should have just skipped today and run a promo and excerpt for Legacy like I was planning to. Yeah well.

I don’t count this as a block. A block is when I’m writing one particular story and the plot stops dead. Then I can either plow ahead or set it aside and have a go at something else. This isn’t really a block because my WIP isn’t frozen. They all are.

This is more like when you’re driving and you come to a five-way stop sign. The road you’ve been cruising along on abruptly ends. Now you have to decide which way to turn. Each of the five roads you’re presented with will take you to a suitable destination and provide a dollop of interesting sightseeing along the way. So which one do you pick? What if the road hits a dead end? Then you have to backtrack and start over on another road. No one road is any better than the rest, just different. It’s the choosing that’s got me stumped.

In real life, sooner or later some other driver will come up behind me and start blatting the horn. Then I have to pick one and live with my decision. No impatient drivers are sitting behind me with their hands on the horn while I type. I can remain stuck at the stop sign for weeks if some story doesn’t leap up and yell, “Write me!”

Fortunately there’s busywork I can do while waiting for my muse to get off her butt. I can inventory all those false starts and abandoned stories in my dozens of spiral notebooks. I can pull an old manuscript out of the closet and see if it can be salvaged. I have a list of frontrunners I’d like to work on, but need a running start. Maybe if I start half a dozen stories, one will want me to type beyond page two. Or not. Remember the beginning of the month, when I was going to write 3000 words a day and complete a book (or three novellas) by now? That lasted about a week. I finished the longhand draft I’d started in March, then hit this post-project logjam. I started another story and didn’t know where to go with it. I tried writing random scenes and they petered out. I ended up typing the longhand, with polishes and edits as I went along. Now I’ve got a typed and printed draft and I’m back at the stop sign again.

I could write my titles on slips of paper and pull one out of a jar and work on whichever one I pick. That doesn’t always work either. That is, it works, but not in the way I planned. My brain gets fed up with me forcing a story and tosses a bright and shiny new idea in front of me. That’s how I wrote the story I just finished. I was trying to force my way through one my brain didn’t really want to write, so it sent me down another road. That abandoned story is still sitting on my desk. Maybe I’ll go back to it and see if Mr. Brain coughs up something better rather than work on the dead one.

Y'know, I could have a whole career that way. That could be my Inspiration Story. The poor thing could languish for decades while I write other book after other book instead of finishing that one. I go with whatever works.

Once I do decide on something, I’ll try the book in a month thing again. I can write 3000 words a day. At least I proved that much. Now I just need a new idea. Easy as pie.

Or I could say to heck with it and go watch The Real Housewives of Lower West Armpit, Texas. There’s a lot to be said for cable TV. Where did I leave the remote?

Excuses, Excuses

I hate my brain sometimes.

I had it all figured out. I’d sit down and over the course of a day turn out 3000 words. At the end of 30 days I’d have either a novel or three novellas or something ready to go. I had a list of projects to work on, stories I’ve been meaning to get to but haven’t for one reason or another. I’ve got plenty of time throughout the day. You’d think I’d be able to pull it off, right?

Guess again.

April started well. I spent the first couple days wrapping up a novella I’d been working on in March. I didn’t get 3000 words in, but I hovered in the 1500-2000 range. That’s better than I normally do. I finished the novella … and my brain cut out on me.

Just when I was ready to go, my creativity took a powder. It ducked out the door, hopped a bus and is currently lying on a beach somewhere thumbing its nose at me. I, for my part, am stuck at home with a pen and blank paper, or a keyboard and blank screen. All those ideas are still up in my brain, stuck in a holding pattern. They’re not talking to each other and they’re sure not talking to me.

When I planned this experiment, I forgot the most important part: have something ready that you really want to work on, otherwise you’re up the creek.

I tried writing the book by scenes, and the scenes went flat. I’ve got four or five novella ideas that just won’t come to life. The only thing that wants to get done right now is the novella I just finished. I wrote it longhand and went right into second draft typing. That’s zipping along just fine. I hit over 4000 words last night. Trouble is, those are mostly words I’ve already written and that’s not how I wanted to do this. So what’s a writer to do?

Luckily, somebody else stepped into the breach and proved my theory for me. Today’s blog is dedicated to Missy Martine, who whipped out a 50,000 word first draft in nine days. She figures it’ll take her about two weeks to polish it into a publishable book. I’m glad somebody was able to writer up and accomplish something this month.

The upshot is: I’m sure it’s possible for somebody to write a 90,000 word book (or three 30,000 word novellas) in the month. That somebody just isn’t me, at least not at this time. I’ve picked up my pace, though, and that’s a good thing. I’ll bet I can get that novella typed up, polished and ready to go by the end of the month. I’ll continue jotting random scenes from the one book; eventually I’ll accumulate enough to call it a finished draft. Meanwhile, an idea I abandoned a couple years back is making noises at me again. I hope that’s the one that hits because it’s set in Gettysburg, and I love Gettysburg. Any excuse to road trip to the battlefield works for me.

Anybody else who wants to try this, go for it and good luck. Just make sure you’ve got an idea or ideas lined up that are rarin’ to go. Try to force it and your brain will bail. Mr. Brain and I are going to have to have a long talk when he gets back from the beach with that tropical tan. Maybe I’ll set my next story on a desert island.

Project Pantser

Yes, it’s true. I watch reality TV. I have a weakness for the competition shows, like Project Runway and Top Chef. I love watching raw creativity on display, especially when I have no talent in those areas. Make a wearable dress out of Twizzlers? Whip up a gourmet meal from the crap found in a snack machine? I couldn’t do that to save my life, but I love watching those who can. I doubt if any of them could write a readable novel. Things even out.

Even the contestants aren't always good at all aspects of their crafts. On the recent Project Runway All-Stars, the judges wanted to see the contestants’ prelim sketches for their garments. One of them, Mondo, had nothing to show. Mondo doesn’t sketch. Mondo doesn’t know how to sketch. He goes to the fabric store and buys whatever “inspires” him, then brings it back to the workroom and hopes the ideas start flowing. Somehow, week after week, he managed to create a unique piece in the time allotted and, more often than not, won the evening.

Watching the episode where he admitted he couldn’t sketch and basically worked on the fly, it hit me: Mondo is a pantser.

Hooray! It’s not just writers! Other creative types find the planning stage a waste and sew, or cook, or paint, or whatever, by the seat of their pants. Somehow it works out for them. It makes me feel less alone.

It also makes for great TV. Watching the little dude sweat through creative blockage made me squirm in sympathy. I know the feeling, brother. I go through it every time I pick up a pen and paper or sit in front of a keyboard and watch the cursor blink. I’ve got a vague idea of how I want my “creation” to look, or read, when it’s done. I’ve picked out the fabrics of character, plot, POV and maybe a couple of scenes. Now I just have to cut, stitch and hem, and hope the reader can wear it when I send it out on the runway.

A lot of times the fit’s not perfect. The pattern I picked out starts changing the more I put the story together. Maybe I had a straightforward plot in mind when I started, but a colorful mosaic of subplots is working out better. I intended to write a short story and it’s turned into a novella. I tried to dress it up with a couple flashy scenes that in retrospect should be cut out. Don’t want the poor reader tripping over an unwieldy train of thought.

The designers on the show have the added pressure of short deadlines. Two days to create a dress? I don’t think even Isaac Asimov could have written a book in two days. A long novella, maybe. Of course, with no deadline, I have the leisure to let my ideas sprawl all over the page, or the hard drive. It results in a lot of extra work that could probably be eliminated if I did an outline first. But where’s the fun in that?

Eventually I get the fabrics cut and basted up together so all the seams don’t show. The end result’s as much a surprise to me as I hope it’ll be to the readers. All I can do now is send it out into the world and let the readers try it on. They’ll let me know if it’s too long, too short, too tight, too baggy, or if I got the fit just right.

I’m sure I could save a lot of time and energy by sketching/outlining first. I’m also sure I’d take that extra time and watch TV with it. Might as well stick to what works.

For the record, Mondo won the competition. But then, he’s a creative genius. I don’t have that to fall back on and will have to rely on hard work, sweat, and gallons of caffeine to see me over the rough patches. At least there’s a bunch of fast-food joints in my neighborhood, so I don’t have to cook. Next up: The Amazing Race.

I'd Rather Be ...

Let’s face it—writing is hard. That’s why I avoid it whenever possible. It’s amazing how the most boring, horrible tasks magically become alluring when it’s a choice between them and sweating blood over a notebook or a keyboard.

Here’s my typical writing day: get up, have my morning tea, write a couple of sentences or maybe a paragraph, and then do one of the following: Laundry, housecleaning, dishes, shopping, read, watch TV, play computer games, exercise (only as a last resort), visit the library, eat something, drive over to the grocery store to get more stuff to eat, yard work, clean out drawers … well, you get the idea.

Grocery shopping is a wonderful time-waster. There are any number of stores I can visit and poke around in for at least an hour. Then I come home with junk food, which I can munch on while watching TV. See how it all ties together?

For blowing off an afternoon, you can’t beat the library. I don’t have Internet access at home, which is a good thing because if I did I’d probably never leave the house. Once on the Net I can do an endless circle of checking email, checking blogs, reading posts on my favorite writing forum, check my sales numbers, read fan fiction, read excerpts from other writers’ books and call it research, look up weird stuff on Google and call that research, watch stuff on YouTube, and so on yea unto infinity. When I get bored with the Net I go in and read the paper and sometimes browse the shelves. Or I can bring home a flick or TV series on disk, just in case there’s nothing on any of my 80 cable channels.

I know a writer who actually goes to the library to work. Takes all kinds, I suppose.

This is why it takes me forever to get a story done. I could finish a 90,000 word novel in a month if I didn’t fart around all the time. Sooner or later, though, even procrastination loses its appeal. I get so bored I finally go back to writing. That lasts for about a page or two, long enough to remind me just how difficult writing really is. Then it’s back to the TV to see what else is on. After about six months of this, I accidently finish something and end up sending it out. Then I go through the whole twisted process again.

I understand I’m not getting any younger, and I’m wasting a truckload of valuable time on stuff that doesn’t matter. I’m trying to readjust my bad habits and become more productive. But hey, at least I’m good at something. I may not be the world’s best writer, but I’ll bet I’m in the top ten when it comes to procrastination.

On some level I really do want to be a writer. If I didn’t, I’d go out and look for a job.

There, just blew off about fifteen minutes coming up with this blog. I should go write something now. Or I could draft another blog. Or see what’s on TV. Or play computer solitaire. And how is your day going?

Hard-Boiled Dick

I first discovered Robert B. Parker’s detective hero Spenser through the Robert Urich TV show. I’ll cop to my normal shallowness here. I liked the show primarily because Robert Urich was cute. That, and Hawk. Avery Brooks as Hawk was the coolest character ever to appear on a TV show, before or since. Put the two together and magic happened. Who cares who the murderer is and if the case gets solved? The fun part of the show was the two guys tossing quips at each other, and Brooks looking killer in those shades. That’s what I tuned in for.

With my curiosity stirred by the show, I checked out the novels. This wasn’t the pretty, cleaned-up-for-TV character I was used to. However, I warmed to him quickly, this thug with a heart of gold, a modern-day white knight with his own code of chivalry in a tarnished world. And Hawk was there, still cooler than cool, and the two were together and trading quips and making Boston a safer city for you and me. When the show was cancelled, I still had the books. I was a happy camper.

Skip ahead a couple of years. The library hosted a talk by a local romance writer. We had a lively time asking questions and picking up tips on writing, promotion and business. Yes, you could make a living writing for Harlequin if you can write four or five books a year. Oops, that lets me out.

Somehow the subject turned to the Spenser novels. To my surprise, almost every woman in the room was a fan of the tender tough guy. It wasn’t memories of cutie Urich or Spenser’s devotion to his girlfriend Susan that drew them in, either. It was the relationship between Spenser and Hawk. The women didn’t care that much for Susan. I think if Parker had killed her off they would have been content. They came back book after book for the Spenser and Hawk scenes, just like I did. That, somebody said, was the real romance in the series.

I didn’t know it at the time, but this was my first experience with M/M fiction (outside of fanfic slash) and its appeal for a female audience.

Let’s be clear here. These aren’t sex books. They’re hard-boiled detective mysteries. I wrote it “Spenser and Hawk” and not “Spenser/Hawk” because there’s no romance in a traditional sense. Both men are straight. Both men also understand each other, are completely at ease with each other, and have each other’s backs in all situations. They’d die for each other. Best of all, they’re fun to read about together. They’re the perfect fictional romantic couple, just without any sex scenes.

But if you did add sex scenes, you’d have a classic M/M series.

I’m pretty sure Parker didn’t intend his books to serve as an example of how to write epic bromance. They are a textbook lesson on how to develop character and advance plot through snappy dialogue. Plus, the Spenser and Hawk relationship and how Parker maintains it from book to book bears careful study. The relationship between two (or more) men is the heart of any M/M novel. Parker weaves this and other male relationships through fast-paced mysteries with lots of physical action and endings where the good guy doesn’t necessarily win, but does achieve satisfaction. As examples to emulate when writing M/M—or mysteries, or pretty much anything—you could do worse.

Sadly, there won’t be any more new books forthcoming. Robert B. Parker passed away last year—died at his desk, according to reports. The last Spenser book he completed came out in January. Hawk wasn’t in it. Maybe that’s best. Now we don’t have to say good-bye.

Somewhere in an alternate universe, Spenser and Hawk still team up to fight crime and battle the bad guys using fists, guns, brains and their own code of honor, bringing justice to an unjust world. And trading those wry quips. I’m going to reread some of my favorites, with an eye toward figuring out how Parker make his pairing so likeable, and how I can apply his lessons to my own M/M books. Happy writing, folks!

Stealth Inspiration

Sometimes I hate my brain. Whenever I need it the most, like when edits come in or on blog-posting day, it either freezes up on me or starts reminding me about all the other stuff that needs to get done, like laundry or the dishes or that fire on the stove that just burned lunch, and now I not only need to clean the kitchen, I have to go to the store. I have a PhD in procrastination. As long as I jog along Put-Off Drive, my brain is more than happy to cooperate.

Sometimes, though, the evil bastard chooses to throw me a curve. I’ll be working away (finally!) at my WIP of choice when all of a sudden my muse goes ninja and a new idea hits me out of nowhere. If the WIP is giving me grief and no deadlines are involved, this can be a blessing. I suspect it happens because Mr. Brain is bored or tired of having to wrestle with the same plot points for months on end (I write really slow) so it comes up with something new to amuse itself, and distract me from my regular work in the process. The bitch.

One time nasty Mr. Brain nearly screwed me bad. I was working on a legitimate book when the muse suddenly decided she wanted to write fan fiction. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but I like getting paid for my writing—money really comes in handy when bill time rolls around—and you don’t get paid for fanfic. So I tried to stick with the “real” writing, but it was a helluva struggle. The other plotlines kept intruding, to the point I could barely focus on the paying project. I ended up writing several scenes longhand just to work it out of my system. The compulsion ran about three weeks before it finally faded.

Some good did come out of the experience: the fanfic led me into writing a legitimate book with original characters, which I did end up getting paid for. The longhand pages I scribbled in a white heat of creative fury are currently sitting in one of my many spiral notebooks, a wealth of concepts waiting to be mined for future original works.

I’m going through a similar situation now. I’ve been working off and on on a M/M shapeshifter story. Parts of it are fine, other parts need help. I guess Mr. Brain got tired of my farting around, because another plot I’d been toying with came bursting out of my subconscious like Venus from the sea foam and shouted, “Write me! Write me now!” So now I’m working on that one while the shifters take a break. Maybe the respite is what the story needs. Guess I’ll find out, unless Mr. Brain waylays me again with yet another bright idea. Sometimes I wish it would steer me into an easier profession, like heart surgery. A writer’s life is never dull.

Hack Job?

A fellow writer and I had a discussion the other day on what’s selling in romance. It was sparked by the edits I’m currently doing for my latest book. The editor wants more explicit language and another sex scene to bring the heat level up to line standards. I had no trouble with that. Whatever makes the book better is fine with me.

Then I thought: better, or more saleable? Am I turning into a hack?

There’s no fault in wanting to make a living doing something you enjoy. I’ve wanted to be a writer since I first learned the alphabet. I had my first success in science fiction before I sort of fell into romance. I’d been reading romance for years, even played around with a couple of plots, but never got serious until I found an open call for a romance anthology and realized I had an idea. So I wrote the idea and discovered I liked the genre and could write saleable stories in it. Then I found a publisher that likes my work. The rest isn’t history yet, but I’m working on it.

At the moment I’m writing paranormal, which is like the SF/F I was writing before, just with sex scenes. Sometimes I get caught up in the plot and have to remind myself to add sex. I’m still new at this.

This wasn’t some conscious decision prompted by market research. I didn’t look at sales figures and say, “Romance is selling better than SF, and with all the e-publishers I stand a better chance of finding a receptive market. Plus, I hear you can make huge royalties if you’re prolific. I’m going to do this for a living.” The “prolific” part alone should have scared me off. If I can write even a novella in six months, I’m having a good year.

What concerned me in the wake of our conversation was the decisions I did make. I’m trying to change my slothful habits so I write more. That’s helpful in any genre. However, I’ve added M/M novellas to my to-write list. In today’s market, that seems to be where the money is. Never mind that I’ve got ideas for paranormal M/M stories and I enjoy writing them. The book I’m editing now is M/M/F. I didn’t write it because ménages sell. It’s a sequel to my last book (an M/M novella) and I wrote it because the idea nagged at me and I wanted to hang on to the characters. On the other hand, would I have written either if their respective subgenres weren’t hot sellers right now? Am I a savvy writer with an eye on the market, or a hack?

You tell me. I’m not even sure where the line is drawn between writer and hack. I stumbled into this. I read Marvel Comics growing up because of the soap opera elements. I loved seeing relationships develop between the characters as much as I did the superheroics and cosmic plots. In high school I wrote comic book fanfic and made one of the heroes gay, so the M/M didn’t come out of nowhere. It just happens that, for once in my life, what I want to write actually has an existing, robust market. I want to make a living at this. What writer wouldn’t? But if I consciously choose to focus on the selling subgenres, am I flirting with hackdom?

I feel like I’m justifying. I don’t know. I do know I love reading my dad’s old Louis L’Amour collection, but I can’t see myself writing a Western. A Western with SF or paranormal elements, romance optional, yeah. But if straight, traditional Westerns become the next big thing, I’m up the creek. Couldn’t do it. The same for F/F in erotic romance. I have no ideas in that direction. If M/M goes down the toilet I’ll write paranormal M/Fs, which I’m still writing, by the way. Or excise the sex scenes and write the books as SF or fantasy. If the idea hits me hard enough, I have to write it down, and I have to write it the way it wants to go. That’s how I ended up here in the first place.

How about you? What’s your definition of hack, and how close do you find yourself flirting with it in your efforts to make a living as a writer? Maybe “hack” is just a term invented by people jealous of other, more prolific writers’ success. I like that one; it makes me feel better.

And now, back to the edits. How many uses of “dick” is too much in one paragraph? Ah, the life of a working writer.

Editorial

Thanks to my publisher’s schedule, the laptop and I are starting the new year off with a bout of major editing. My latest novel, the 86K-word elephant on the hard drive, requires some early-chapter cuts and tightening, a bit of character tweaking to clarify one of the relationships, more dirty words to up the heat rating and possibly an extra sex scene. I’ve got three weeks to accomplish this. Fortunately the temperature this week is supposed to nose dive into the 20s, so as long as I’m holed up in my snug, warm house, I might as well brew up a couple cups of tea and plug up some plot holes and such.

As usual, I had my typical response when I first scrolled through the file. My initial reaction to an edited manuscript is anger and/or despair—either Omigod, I totally screwed up, why did they even buy this? or You pretentious bitch, you can’t possibly know my story as well as I do. How dare you even suggest I got it wrong? This state can last from about ten minutes to maybe an hour or so. Once the initial shock wears off I calm down, lock my ego in the closet, and set about incorporating most if not all of the editor’s suggestions into the rewrite. Because it’s not about me or her. It’s about making sure all the words on the page are as right as they can be, so the reader reaps the benefits.

A good editor is an asset beyond price. Their fresh eyes will spot your logic flaws, your run-on sentences, and the fact you had your main character’s eyes go from blue to brown within the same paragraph. They’ll suggest ways you can tighten up the narrative or clarify characterization. They’ll let you keep your original words if you provide a good enough argument. They’ll help you make an okay book better, and a good book terrific. Who wants to argue with that?

In this case, my editor zeroed in on flaws and questions I’d had about the manuscript myself. I probably should have let the book sit for an extra month and given it another once-over before I sent it out. I wasn’t even sure they’d accept it. They did, and now I’ve got my work cut out for me. Fortunately, I don’t have to fix this draft alone.

I’ve been lucky in that my current publisher has a top-flight editorial staff. That hasn’t always been the case. Back in the ‘80s a magazine copyeditor working on one of my stories changed the word “grunted” to “grinned.” I’m still not sure why. It wouldn’t have been so bad, except the character doing the grunting was a pterodactyl. Ever seen an animal with a rigid beak grin? Not even in science fiction. Another copyeditor changed my spelling of “leery” (used and spelled correctly by me in context) to “leary,” as in Dr. Timothy. This mag didn’t send galley proofs at the time, so the mistakes ran as “corrected” by the editors. Things like this make the writer look bad, and develop a poor attitude toward editors in general.

For a true editing horror story, dig up the 1989 Tor Books edition of But What of Earth? by Piers Anthony. (You can find used copies on Amazon for as little as a penny.) It’s two books in one: the original story, as Anthony intended it to be read, and Anthony’s notes on the mutilation it went through during the editorial process. No fewer than four copyeditors hacked up his work, with the gleeful abandon of Jason Vorhees pursuing nubile teenagers. They took a mediocre book and made it even worse. No wonder that line went out of business.

Luckily for us writers, that sub-category of editors appears to be rare. The majority of them want you to write the best damn book you can, and they’ll work with you to get it there. A good book makes the readers happy, which makes writers and editors happy. Isn’t that what we’re all looking for?