...But you look so normal?

Not too long ago I was at a friend's framing shop. I had stopped in to say hello and catch up, but seeing as she was busy, I told her I would come back another time. Needless to say, she asked me to stay, saying she'd only be a minute finishing up with a client that had come in from New York City to have some custom work done.

We all got chatting, and my friend mentioned that I was an author, and had been successful with recent book signings at a few local Barnes & Nobles. The look on the client's face was nothing short of incredulous. It wasn't because she had read my work and couldn't believe I had scored book signings at such a big chain, nor was it because I was a small pubbed author...it was because she couldn't believe I was an author at all. And her reason?

"But you look SO normal!

She simply couldn't wrap her head around the idea that someone with talent could walk around without being pierced, tattooed, or sporting mutli-colored neon hair.

"That's certainly not what we see walking around the city?" she said staring at me like I was some sort of anomoly. I half expected her to turn me round and ask me to open my mouth so she could examine my teeth.

I politely told her that while those things may very well be the "costume de rigueur" of people who consider themselves creative, true creativity lies in how one dresses the mind, not the body. And while fashion choices may be an outward show of a creative mind, it certainly ISN'T a pre-requisite for one.

Now I'm no stranger to the stranger types...I hold an MFA from the School of Visual Arts in Manhattan, and have my fair share of friends who choose to dress as such, but that doesn't automatically make them more creative or talented than anyone else. Sadly, in my opinion, it almost makes them cliché, a stereotype of just the thing they are trying to rage against.

For Romance Writer's the stereotype is even sadder. When most people think of us, it's usually the image of a lonely woman sitting in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, conjuring lovers and adventure in her imagination. In other words, one step away from being the neighborhood cat lady. If that description just made you go "eeewww", then you get it. Thankfully, for most of us that image is far from accurate, and the same goes for the people who read our work.

On one of the Amazon forums, a woman once described what we write as 'white noise', what she reads to dumb down her mind after a busy day. While I don't mind the idea of our genre being escapist, I do mind the stereotype that it's somehow less than, and to say that it's something one reads to "dumb down a mind' is insulting to those of us who work so hard at our craft.

Stereotypes are hurtful and wrong... especially when they bleed into your personal space.

Marianne Morea

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.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, I Am My Mother After All...

This past Saturday night, my darling husband and I attended a Cystic Fibrosis fundraiser for a family we know affected by the disease. It was a wonderful event. Good food, good music, great friends and a fabulous cause...and of course, lots and lots of pictures taken.

That's when I realized things were no longer the same... As we sat laughing and having a terrific time, cameras were busy snapping candids and all was right with the world...that is until I hit the back button. I started scrolling through the pictures and found myself staring at the small lcd screen, the words "Oh my God, is that what I really look like?" reverberating off the walls of my brain. Why is it that men always seem to get better looking with age, but as a woman approaches the most vital, most productive, most creative time in her life, everything else seems to go south along with her boobs? It's the ultimate betrayal. Mother Nature's practical joke on womankind. Sunday morning I got up and took inventory of my face. As I stared at myself in the mirror, it was the first time I saw shades of my mother's face looking back. The transformation isn't complete, but the outlines...along with the crowsfeet...are there. Squaring my shoulders, I realized I had a choice. I could either view my newly discovered signs of aging as badges of honor or signs of decay. Which was it going to be? Like with one of my stories, it became a matter of POV. Was I going to allow myself to wallow in what the world tells me is beautiful, or was I going to do some world building of my own and create my own definition? So, botox or battle scars? For my own sake, and for the sake of the two girls I am trying to raise till the day they find me staring back at them from some mirror, I decided to place my bets on my own definitions. After all, words are my weapons...and whether or not they are on the written page, or in the mantra I tell myself everyday...they are powerful. I am powerful. I am beautiful. I am woman. What's your definition?

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.