A taste of what if...

My blog is a bit late this month, and I apologize... I am still coming down off my high from this years Book Expo America. For those of you who aren't familiar with this book loving extravaganza, it's a four day gathering of all kinds of book industry professionals at New York City's famed Jacob Javits Center.

Everyone from authors, publishers and agents to book buyers, bloggers, reviews and every manner of distributor shows up for this annual event. Overwhelming to say the least.

In addition to this wealth of information and marketing, authors were given the opportunity to sign promotional copies of their books, and I was lucky to be counted among them. Unknowns rubbed elbows (almost literally) with the famous, as signing tables were set up in very close proximity due to spacing constraints. I myself was right next to Erica Jong, infamous for her 1970s title, "The Joy of Sex".

Climbing up on my chair, I glanced down the 30 foot aisle to the chain cordoning off the entrance to my row, holding my breath that I would be the one to personify the old saying, "you can't even give it away." BUT...much to my delight, I had a line out the door! People were actually waiting ahead of time for me to start signing.

Now, I know the books were free...I get it. But the only things these people had to spark their interest were the book's cover and its blurb, and believe me, there were many other books to choose from and lines to wait on, so I gotta believe they saw something good or why would they waste their time, right?

So, 75 signed copies of Hunter's Blood landed in the hands of reviewers, bloggers, libraries and book buyers in less than 20 minutes. It was a serious taste of what if, of the possibilities waiting out there for each and every one of us...and while it lasted, it felt great!

Miracle or just a free book feeding frenzy? To be honest, I don't really care. I could have been left alone with my pen, dragging all those books home with me. And maybe, just maybe, something good will come of it.

One can only pray.

Friend or Foe?

Like a new recruit standing at attention, rigidly sweating bullets as his drill sergeant walks up and down the line just waiting for that one newbie to make eye contact, I await the first set of changes from my new editor.

She's tough, or so I've been warned. Actually the exact words were, "be afraid, be very afraid..."

So as each passing day dawns, with new and varied ways for my imagination to spike my anxiety, I gotta ask myself. Friend or Foe?

From what I understand, an editor's job is to take your manuscript, the story you wrote, edited, read and reread, spit and polished beyond and inch of its life, and dissect it. For those of us who have been through the process, it's not a pleasant one. Based on that alone, you'd naturally think...foe, right?

But there's always the other hand.

You want your story to be the best it can be. It's what all authors want...that and a spot on the NY Times Bestseller List. So a good editor is a necessary evil. Just think about the stigma and the slings and arrows many self-pubbed authors have to endure and you can appreciate why. It's the most common element cited in negative reviews across the board. Poor editing.

As much as it may pain you to have someone look at your work with an ice-cold eye, in the long run it makes for a much better story, and that leads to better reviews and increased sales.

Friend or Foe? I think the answer is neither one. The best way to describe a good editor is the term, Devil's Advocate...someone who can see the promised land and knows how to get there, but is going to make you work for your rite of passage.

Editing may be a jagged little pill, but a good editor knows how to bury it in a spoon full of sugar.

I just hope mine agrees.

Facing Challenges

Years ago when I first started writing professionally – getting paid for what I did -- my children were all young and the formidable task of writing around them was daunting.

I remember one time in particular when one of the twins, Danielle, lovingly known then  as Chicky, had just settled down beside me to help or hinder my writing.  She was two at the time and contributed a few words of dialogue to my effort, consisting mainly of a few well-placed “Mommys,” spiced with a few unintelligible words or praise or criticism.

When she left the room, I breathed a sigh of relief and raced to get a few thoughts on paper before she came back. But alas, she’d gone into the kitchen to get the box of cereal I left on the counter and was off sharing it with her brother.

Should I have been delighted she was sharing for a change? Or angry because she snitched the cereal and hid in the laundry room? If I hadn’t beaten our dog with my child-psychology book years before that, I could have looked for the answer. (A note to all the dog-lovers who are about to call the Humane Society. This was Ruffy, and he was much larger and harder bound than the book. Plus, he loved the extra attention.)

That’s the way my writing life went for years. The moment I thought I had the most subtle, cynically amusing thought, matching the excellence of an Erma Bombeck or a Dave Barry mapped out in my head, I was interrupted.

I remember thinking that if it weren’t for my kids, I would’ve been famous years ago. I could’ve sat beside Johnny Carson when he was still doing the Tonight Show and chatted amicably about my latest thought-provoking novel or my charming little anecdotes on life, If it wasn’t for the endless “MOMMYS”.

    “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…”
    “Mom, what is…?”
    “Mom, can I have a snack?”
    “Mom, would you tie my shoe?”
    “Mother, if you don’t keep those twins out of my room…”
    “Mom, why is it raining outside?”
    “Mom, where is my homework…my lunch…my shoes…my coat?”
    “Mom, if you’re not doing anything important, will you…”

And, believe it or not, I was a lot more prolific back then.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Excerpted from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck,  which is still looking for a home. You can find my romance novel, Play It Again, Sam, HERE, and my suspense novel, One Small Victory HERE.

A FemDom pirate?

Post by Marianne LaCroix
www.mariannelacroix.com

I haven't posted here in a while. I apologize for missing last month. I've just been wrapped up in life and writing. I am working on a pirate novel for Ellora's Cave. It started out as a novella but has grown in concept. I missed the deadline for the Ahoy series, but it would be too long for that series anyway. Below is an unedited snippet of my book I call High Seas Hellion. Enjoy!

“I do believe you may be tolerable now.” Captain Robillard stood from her desk and she moved closer to stand close to the tub. She reached for a cloth left by one of the crew on a nearby stool and held it out to him. “Dry off.”


Her gaze challenged him to refuse, but Morgan wouldn’t back down. He gripped the sides of the tub, the metal manacles and chain clanking, and stood while water sluiced down over his body. He was hard as ever, much to her amusement. He reached for the towel, but she took a step backward and raised an eyebrow. Fully aware of her femininity, he stepped out of the tub, water rippled over his skin and onto the wood plank floor. He held out a hand and she paused a moment before handing him the cloth.

She turned her back and strode across the room. He used the few moments to dry his skin and then wrap the towel about his hips. His hard cock hardly could be covered, tenting the fabric, but at least it a resemblance of a small degree of modesty.


“Don’t bother.” Her voice cut the stillness of the room. She stood by her desk and once again reached into one of the many drawers, pulling out a carefully wrapped length of rope. “You better get used to being naked in my presence.”


“I think I’d rather be chained below with the other prisoners.”


She shook her head. “Not an option.”


“Then punish me.” Morgan silently cursed. The idea of her striking him, using pain in order to control, excited him. His cock grew harder.


“I don’t believe I gave you a choice.” She turned to him and unraveled the rope between her hands.


“I could over power you. You made no mystery of where you keep a flintlock. I could easily gain the upper hand and kill you.”


Colette snickered. “Kill me and you kill yourself.” She strode closer and the feminine scent of lilacs surrounded her, permeating his senses. She leaned to his ear and her warm breath caressed his earlobe. “If I scream or even make any noise of distress…” She flicked her tongue along his ear for a brief moment sending chills down his back. “…my crew will charge in here and surely kill you before you blink.”


He closed his eyes and forced himself to focus. Don’t think about her soft body. Don’t think about her raven hair falling about her shoulders and onto a pillow cradling her head. And most of all don’t think about sinking into her and rutting her tight wet center until he found his much needed release.


The towel fell to the floor and she reached down to his cock and gasped the length. He moaned, enjoying the warmth and the firm hold of her hand about his cock.


“I told you that I would break you.”


Defiant he opened his eyes and stared into her dark ones. “I am not a stallion to be broken of spirit to serve you.”


She squeezed his cock and he stifled a moan. “You have part of it right,” she said. “You are my steed, and rest assured, you will serve me as such.”

Copyright © Marianne LaCroix, 2011. All rights reserved. 

What do you do when...

... you don't know what to write about?

I totally forgot until five minutes ago that it was my day to post here. Since we started doing this blog, I have tried to plan ahead for my day and at least get something in rough draft, so I am not caught up short on the 21st of the month.

That didn't happen this month because I am busy finishing a book and editing another for a client. Hardly leaves times to breathe. But I didn't want to  leave this space blank today, so I will share an excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. 

This is from the chapter: Yes, I Really am Doing Something Important. Enjoy...

Years ago when I first started writing professionally – getting paid for what I did -- my children were all young and the formidable task of writing around them was daunting.

 I remember one time in particular when one of the twins, Danielle, lovingly known then  as Chicky, had just settled down beside me to help or hinder my writing.  She was two at the time and contributed a few words of dialogue to my effort, consisting mainly of a few well-placed “Mommys,” spiced with a few unintelligible words or praise or criticism.

When she left the room, I breathed a sigh of relief and raced to get a few thoughts on paper before she came back. But alas, she’d gone into the kitchen to get the box of cereal I left on the counter and was off sharing it with her brother.

Should I have been delighted she was sharing for a change? Or angry because she snitched the cereal and hid in the laundry room? If I hadn’t beaten our dog with my child-psychology book years before that, I could have looked for the answer. (A note to all the dog-lovers who are about to call the Humane Society. This was Ruffy, and he was much larger and harder bound than the book. Plus, he loved the extra attention.)

That’s the way my writing life went for years. The moment I thought I had the most subtle, cynically amusing thought, matching the excellence of an Erma Bombeck or a Dave Barry mapped out in my head, I was interrupted.

I remember thinking that if it weren’t for my kids, I would’ve been famous years ago. I could’ve sat beside Johnny Carson when he was still doing the Tonight Show and chatted amicably about my latest thought-provoking novel or my charming little anecdotes on life, If it wasn’t for the endless “MOMMYS”.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…”
“Mom, what is…?”
“Mom, can I have a snack?”
“Mom, would you tie my shoe?”
“Mother, if you don’t keep those twins out of my room…”
“Mom, why is it raining outside?”
 “Mom, where is my homework…my lunch…my shoes…my coat?”
 “Mom, if you’re not doing anything important, will you…”

And, believe it or not, I was a lot more prolific back then.

The Birth of a Writer

At age ten I decided to be a writer. My friend and I were in our favorite reading spot, a small clearing in a wooded area with a blanket between us and a colony of ants. I hugged my just-finished book to my chest, watched wisps of clouds drift across the blue expanse of sky, and relived every precious moment of the story.

“I’d love to do this,” I said.

“What?” Karen continued to read and munch on a cookie.

“Write stories. Books.”

I watched for her reaction and it took about three seconds for the words to sink in. Then she closed her book and sat up. “Then let’s do it. We’ll be famous.”

Fueled by mutual enthusiasm we started putting words on paper in simplistic efforts to create our own essence of the books we loved so much. My fantasy was to write a story so wonderful it would inspire some future ten-year-old girl to spend an entire afternoon sprawled in a wooded hideaway savoring my book. Maybe she’d even decide to perpetuate the species.

We carried our dream through high school and into college, where we tried to adopt a Bohemian attitude that seemed fitting for “future famous writers.” I went to a boring Community College, but Karen went to Wayne State University in Detroit, a creative oasis inhabited by artists, dancers, musicians, and WRITERS. When I visited her, we’d put together some “appropriate” outfits and join a party where people loudly debated the merits of Joyce in one room and read original poetry in another. We were both so naïve, we had no idea that the blue haze hanging over these rooms was NOT from the incense.

What I didn’t know then, and took me too many years to learn, was that there’s nothing magical about establishing a writing career. I wasn’t going to become a better writer by absorbing that funky atmosphere. (Or the blue haze) No publisher was ever going to be there to discover me. And I’d never write a single thing if I didn’t stay home now and then and ratchet a piece of paper into my old Underwood manual.

Sure, there’s magic when the words just flow and you know these last ten pages are the best you’ve ever written. There’s magic when your characters start talking to each other and the lines zing. There’s even a bit of magic in finding that one word that says so perfectly what you’re trying to convey.

But there’s no magic on the business side of writing. Sometimes there's luck – being in the right place at the right time with the right project. More often, success comes after diligently studying the marketplace, editing and rewriting your book until you never want to look at a single word again. And then learning how to promote your work.

We who put pen to paper or fingertips to keyboard, do so out of a driving need to say something. Thoughts, ideas, opinions, feelings stir around inside us seeking expression. If we never make an investment of time and effort into the ‘business’ of writing, our expression will have a severely limited audience.

I may never be as famous as that long-ago dream envisioned. And I may never earn enough money to buy a country estate and wile away my golden years in obscene luxury. But I can take comfort and pride in the fact that I did, and still do, face that blank sheet of paper everyday and make myself put words on it.

And I’d like to think that Karen is doing the same thing. I lost track of her before I ever had the chance to tell her she was much better at it than I am.

-------------------
Maryann Miller is a freelance writer and editor and her next book, Open Season, is coming out in December from Five Star, Cengage/Gale. It is a police-procedural mystery. Her romance, Play It Again, Sam, is an e-book from Uncial Press.