The Convenience Store

I had good intentions. I had my husband's laptop. I had the pendrive. Unfortunately, the computer could not read one word of 62,000 of them in Mistress by Midnight. Everything suddenly became coded into little rectangles and doohickeys. After I panicked, thought I might vomit, took my blood pressure medicine, I decided it was a sign from God to just relax and have fun on vacation. So I did.

Since we were in Vegas, I thought it was appropriate to watch What Happens in Vegas on pay-per-view. I don't get to the movies much, and this looked appropriately silly. A romantic comedy, it had all the trappings: the marriage of two strangers (one of my favorite tropes, even if they were blotto), forced togetherness, man vs woman sabotage, big bucks riding on the line. There were lots of things which were annoying (the interoffice intrigue came off as racist to me), but on the whole I laughed out loud quite a bit.

It made me think of how little romantic love had anything to do with marriage until recently. In some cultures marriages are still arranged, and they often work out as well or better as those founded on severe attraction/lust. Marriages of convenience are fun to read, although they work better in historicals than contemps. It's difficult for an independent woman to imagine being stuck with some random guy. But with half of all marriages ending in divorce anyway, there's no guarantee that love will last.

Could you marry a stranger? Could you live with somebody for six months so you could split 3 million dollars? Could you live without a bathroom door? Could you live with a guy who thought of empty beer bottles as decor? Do you wonder why men sit with their hands down their pants? Who would think a fluffy romantic comedy could be so thought-provoking?

Just a Joke

Last night my friend and I were sitting in the den and I said to her, "I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle to keep me alive. That would be no quality of life at all. If that ever happens, just pull the plug."So she got up, unplugged the computer, and tossed my wine in the garbage.She's such a bitch.

Thanks to my friend Claudia (who is not a bitch) for the joke. I am unplugging for a bit and will not be blogging until after July 4. Have a wonderful Independence Day (and every other day, too)!

Red wine or white? What's your favorite cocktail? Should I take the laptop with me on vacation?

Fresh Out

School's out for summer. Aren't you hearing Alice Cooper right now?

Well we got no class

And we got no principles (principals)

And we got no innocence

We can't even think of a word that rhymes

There seems to be an issue with the word principle in the lyrics. I guess it can go either way. I hope in general I have class and principles (I know I have my very own principal.*g*). My innocence is definitely gone, and while I don't want to be a poet, there are plenty of times when I search for the right word. I keep Thesaurus.com minimized for handy reference when I write. I find I blank sometimes when I'm talking, too---that name or word just eludes me. I prefer to think my brain is simply too busy, not that I've got senile dementia. :)

Keeping things young and fresh is important in writing. I make an effort not to repeat certain things from chapter to chapter and book to book. I discovered when editing Waking Beauty, the heroine Penny blushed so much she must have owned Covergirl stock. I'm now conscious of the whole blushing scenario and try to flush it out every time I'm tempted. For some reason I'm stuck on the phrase 'velvet agony' and must embed it in at least one bedroom scene. Stop your snickering now.

Do you have a habit of repeating yourself? Do you have deja vu when you read your favorite authors? Do you marvel that Nora Roberts can write a million books and come up with a million ideas? What are you doing this summer?

Note the illustration provides both blush and velvet. Agony not included.

Pitch Black

My friend Terrio has tagged me to "sum it up in six words." That's six words to describe myself, my life, my hopes, dreams, etc. When I found out, I used six words immediately: Damn you, Terri, you evil bitch. Getting tagged or being asked to forward something or else the universe will implode brings out the rebel in me. As Captain Hellion might say, "I don't wanna." While I pride myself for quick-thinking on my feet in real world situations, my tootsies feel mired in molasses now. How can I find the six perfect words?

But really, Terri has done me a favor. She's making me think about streamlining something bulky into something short and sweet, or sour as the case may be. I suck at pitching (well, actually, I've never tried to pitch but I would suck if I did). Describe Mistress by Midnight in a simple sentence? Uhh....young lovers reunite? Borrring. Fellow Vixen Ely's good at this high-concept stuff. My Fair Lady meets reality TV works perfectly for her contest-finalling book Take a Chance on Me. Then she does something like Roman Holiday in Africa for Lay All Your Love on Me. I'm going to have to hire her.

I've still got nothing for MBM. Romeo and Juliet after a dozen years but no one dies and there's a secret baby? OMG, I just realized after over 55,000 words I have written a secret baby plot book. Double-damn you, Terri, you evil bitch. Okay, how about Regency Brady Bunch but much darker with lots of sex?

Now that I've got MBM pigeon-holed, it's time for me. Writer believes in love, sometimes self. That will have to do.

Pitch your current project right here. It can't be any worse than mine. :) And Terri, you know I love you. I even put it in writing!

The Last Supper

There’s nothing I like better than reading and eating when I’m alone. I’ve even been known to read while my husband sits across the table from me. I am, as Alec Baldwin might say, “a rude little pig.”

I’d like to get my hands on the recently published book, My Last Supper, detailing the final favorites of 50 world renowned chefs. There are some surprisingly humble choices: hot dogs, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, cheeseburgers. There have been studies on what prisoners choose for their last meals before they step involuntarily off into the great unknown. Comfort food seems to be key: steak, fried chicken, and that ubiquitous cheeseburger with a side order of fries.

If you were writing the menu for your last meal, what would be on it? Whose book would you be reading?

I think I’d be having Thanksgiving dinner reading anything by Georgette Heyer. Pass the cranberry sauce, please.

Series-ously

I'm a little slow on the uptake lately. Blame it on the end of school and the associated craziness. I don't get paid over the summer either so I get all angsty about fun and finances. I always plan on writing during vacation, and want to finish Mistress by Midnight before the corn is as high as an elephant's eye. Of course, I haven't planted any corn, just tomatoes and Hungarian sweet peppers. I have no elephants handy either.

But last week, I realized I had inadvertently set myself up for a series. My heroine Laurette is very bored waiting for the hero Con to come and cavort with her. Here's what I wrote, without any forethought whatsoever (like most of my writing, LOL):

The afternoon now stretched before her. There would be no afternoon callers or jaunts to the shops. There was no basket of mending she could muck up with her crooked stitches or vegetable plot to weed. But the day was fine, so she walked about in the garden, watching the bright yellow birds flit from branch to bush. The fountain burbled, the flowers exuded their fragrance, the sun braved the haze of the city to shine on her bench. Laurette sat in the square of warmth and gazed up at the windows next door, all discreetly laced and swagged in curtains. She wondered if the other mistresses were as bored as she. Perhaps she could form a kind of Mistresses’ Union, where they might take tea together---or something stronger---and complain about their ennui. She let out a laugh.

So, there you have it. It seems I'm writing a mistress series. I've already begun Mistress by Mistake, and Mistress by Marriage is waiting in the wings, or at least in a cobwebby corner of my brain. All future characters must be embroidered lightly into Laurette's life, a challenge I'm eager to undertake. This pantser will actually have to plot.

But first...32,000 words to go on Midnight.

Anybody out there writing a series? Have a favorite series to recommend? Are mistresses and courtesans passe already? I guess there's hope if Showtime is airing The Secret Diary of a Call Girl. Gasp.

Almost Famous

When my oldest daughter was little, she wanted to be “famous.” I think she saw herself on Days of Our Lives and dating all the New Kids on the Block (Not simultaneously, though. That would be wrong. And can I tell you she plans to see the resurrected New Kids in concert this fall with her sisters? They have their tickets already. Some things never change.). The other day we were commiserating about several celebrities who are in dire need of no more unflattering crotch and cleavage shots. I reminded her of her earlier wish, and she’s pretty happy just as unfamous as she is. And for the record, she wears underwear.

Writers do not have the glamor that movie stars do, but they still have to get out and meet and greet. The Internet has provided a wonderful venue to do so electronically. If you’re a blog-hopper like I am, you keep tripping over authors who are promoting their books. No red carpet or limos required. You can post in your pajamas. Or your underwear. Or not.

Would you like to be rich and famous, your every action recorded by the paparazzi? Are you comfortable meeting strangers? When you’re published, do you dread getting “out there?”

The way you overcome shyness is to become so wrapped up in something that you forget to be afraid. ~Lady Bird Johnson

Pants R Us

We’ve already established that I’m one of those pantsers---I start something, or something starts me, and off I go. This was especially true of Paradise, which appeared in a rather unsettling fashion just over a year ago. It took about eight months to finish, with frequent interruptions (two novellas, the last third of another book and its revision, life). And as I was nearing the end last year, I started Mistress by Midnight. I made myself stop, then revised Waking Beauty and Paradise. I’ve got all the time in the world for MBM now, but at 45,000 words in, I’ve realized, as usual, I don’t have much of a plot.

Hmm. Halfway home and what to do? Research. I’ve set some of the book in Dorset, a county in England I’ve visited at least twice that I can remember. Yeah, I know. Hardy country. Nothing like setting myself up for a great big fall. But Dorset remains very fresh in my mind. I can picture Con and Laurette skipping rocks and fishing on the River Piddle, going to All Saints Church in Piddletrenthide, a perfectly charming village I've stayed in. We even went to church (pictured) one Sunday, along with about six other people total, including the vicar, and we were the youngest there, hands down. That doesn't happen all that often anymore, LOL. Right now I’m moving around some rocks in my head and creating Ryland Grove and Vincent Lodge from a couple of historic houses. I’m going to follow Con’s footsteps to Egypt thanks to the fabulous memoirs of Giovanni Finati. Yikes.

I’ve already accidentally found some pivotal stuff that’s perfect for my storyline. Crop failure? The heat wave of 1808 with fireballs in the sky and hail the size of a Robinson baby's head (see post below). And somewhere in my milk crate are folders with even more information. Now all I have to do is write the book on my brand new computer!

Do you jump right in or think and plan before you write? Are you mindful after recent publishing scandals of translating your research into your own words? Do you just make stuff up? Where is the closest Plots R Us store?

Please don't forget to visit Vauxhall Vixens on May 29 for our very first guest, the awe-inspiring, artful, amazing and absolutely audacious Loretta Chase, whose Your Scandalous Ways is bound to be a bestseller. One lucky commenter will win a copy!

Clean and Fresh

I've whined about my computer problems for several weeks. I'm happy to say I'm typing on a sparkling new keyboard with a gigantic flatscreen in front of me. I took the old system down and put the whole new thing together in less than an hour, discovering in the process dustballs the size of a Robinson baby's head--- and Robinson babies had big heads.

The fresh computer inspired me to look at the rest of my writing/dressing room, which is a tiny third bedroom on the first floor of my house. This space is my sanctuary. There's a twin bed I can lie down on to read or think or possibly nap if the thinking becomes tiresome. The closet is filled with my clothes. My dresser holds my wrinkled stuff. There are two tubular plastic stacking shelves that stack an odd assortment of essential things. Quite frankly, everything was a bit of a tip, as the English say.

So the other day, I sat on the floor surrounded by a pile of stuff. I found all my rejection letters. There weren't as many as I remembered. A part of me wanted to chuck them, but instead I put them in a manila folder and hid them away in a plastic box in the closet. I collected my RWR magazines; the one with my name in it now has a sticky note. My keeper books are vertical and reach almost up to the ceiling. Envelopes and stamps and address labels are actually together and within reach. The plan is to celebrate Memorial Day by dragging the dead things out of my closet and cleaning that too.

Will this new-found organization help my writing? Probably not. But for a short while, I'm going to enjoy it. It can't last.*g*

What's your writing/reading space like? Do you keep everything you read? Did you spring clean?

Don't cook. Don't clean. No man will ever make love to a woman because she waxed the linoleum - "My God, the floor's immaculate. Lie down, you hot bitch." ~Joan Rivers

Omm

For you faithful readers, you know a couple of weeks ago I decided that I needed to limit my Internet time. I wobbled in my adherence to the new regime, but was saved by the Dell. Yes. She crashed like crazy---right after I sent out a bunch of queries (see her obituary below). It's as if she let me write the book and the letters but had quite enough. Amazingly, I have emerged from this experience whole and relatively sane. I've discovered the world still rotates without me commenting on blogs and reading the New York Times online. I've even gotten some requests for Paradise, which have gone out between computer seizures.

I haven't worked on my WIP or super-poked people, though. But with my new-found free time, I've begun to think about the next book (Yes. Will wonders never cease.). As I tried frantically to make sure all my files were backed up, I came across things I'd almost forgotten about---things that with a little pruning and prodding might keep me busy for the foreseeable future.

So I'm turning the frown upside down. I'm so Zen now my family wonders where Maggie went. It's time I realized what I have control over and what I don't.

Are you mellow or nervous by nature? Would you be scribbling on a yellow legal pad if you didn't have access to a computer, or biding your time? Do you have to write to be happy?

Dell-ightful

Shh. Don’t tell my Dell. This is probably the last blog post I’ll ever type on her beaten keyboard, where the e and the a and the o are almost completely worn away. She has been malfunctioning lately, going black, going bright blue with dire warnings, going going gone. She is the computer I started my alleged writing “career” on almost five years ago, when I didn’t know there was a word count feature or how to copy and paste or clear my cookies.

She’s seen a lot. In her quiet blocky, boxy way, she’s hogged the desk and put up with ignorance and incompetence with insouciance. She was with me as I cried with joy when I finaled in the Avon contest and felt like a real writer for the first time. She’s gloried in the granddaughters’ pictures and the rest of the family slide show. She didn’t judge either me or the agent when I got this rejection: “I would like to see the next project you work on though. This project doesn’t fit my needs, but I like you’re [sic] writing and your credentials are good.” She’s gathered dust and crumbs and never complained. She's kept me in touch with old friends and helped me make new ones. She’s survived fatal errors and viruses and highjacking. She was the inspiration for Third-Rate Romance, when she went into a coma and I had to write something.

This week she’s getting a new sibling, who I hope will bring me as much luck, lunacy and laughter as she’s provided in this half-decade of half-baked writing. She holds all my secrets, most of which I pray I’ve backed up on my pendrive just in case she can’t be rebooted in her new location. I want to thank her from the bottom of my crusty, shriveled heart for dragging me valiantly into the twenty-first century. Love you, Dell I.

Have you had any computer disasters? Got a warm feeling for your toaster or another appliance? Spill, but not on the keyboard.

Invisibility Cloak

Fair warning: Not one word past the first and last paragraphs are mine. The following was e-mail sent to me by my friend Claudia, who has known me over three decades but loves me just the same. It made me cry. Happy Mother’s Day to all the quiet architects out there, and blessings upon you works-in-progress.

***

Invisible Mothers...It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you see I'm on the phone?' Obviously not; no one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. I'm invisible. The Invisible Mom.

Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this ? Can you tie this? Can you open this?

Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, 'What time is it?' I'm a satellite guide to answer, 'What number is the Disney Channel?' I'm a car to order, 'Right around 5:30, please.'I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated summa cum laude - but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She's going, she's going, she's gone!

One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England. Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself. I was feeling pretty pathetic,when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, 'I brought you this.' It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe. I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription:'To Charlotte, with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.'

In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work: No one can say who built the great cathedrals -we have no record of their names. These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.

A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, 'Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it.' And the workman replied,'Because God sees.'I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, 'I see you, Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become.'

At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride.I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.

When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, 'My Mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table.' That would mean I'd built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add,'You're gonna love it there.'

As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we're doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.

***

And after all that loveliness, come click over to give me your perspective on mothers in fiction on my Mother's Day Romantic Inks post!