All About the Writing

How to Make Writing into a Dream Job

Writing seems like a dream job when we're fantasizing about spending all day effortlessly creating stories.

But when it's finally time to write, we end up being very creative in finding other things to do. We don't want to sit down and make our brain force out the words, because it's no longer a dream.

It's work.

Writing involves TWO wildly different jobs: allowing your heart to fantasize, while persuading your brain to do the heavy lifting. This means you are not only the employee, you are the boss.

Boss You: "I see that you've played ten games of solitaire and sent
200 tweets this morning. Good job. We couldn't be more proud of you. Well,
actually we could. We'd like to see, at a minimum, a thousand words added to
the WIP today. You get to choose when that happens. Even better, YOU get to
choose which words you add. Let me know if I can do anything to help you out
with this project."

Employee You: "Thanks. I'm good. This is a piece of cake for me."
(Eight hours later) "Crap! I haven't done anything today. The boss is
gonna kill me. Oh wait, I'm the boss. Well, I guess I could double up tomorrow. That's what I said yesterday though. Maybe I should call in sick. *coughs* After I tell my Twitter friends about this scratchy throat I've got. . ."

Boss You: "I've got to talk to HR and see how to fire them. Er, me.
This isn't at all like I dreamed it would be."

Now your "dream job" sounds like an oxymoron, doesn't it?

Here are a few suggestions to help you be Employee of the Month in no time:

1.  Be realistic – It's easier to dream about writing. We all want the acclaim, the adulation, the accolades. There's nothing wrong with that. A lot of people who dream of writing a book someday are probably motivated more by those "a" words than anything else. But for others, writing means scratching out the words no matter what, even if the books never hit the bookshelves, let alone bestseller lists. Decide if writing is a dream, or a dream job, and go from there, without guilt or regrets.

2.  Be mindful of the dream – Remember, this is what you want to do. Nobody is forcing you to write. Even if your "boss" is standing over you, tapping their foot while you blithely try to close out fourteen browser windows. . .this is your dream. You want your books to be read and enjoyed by lots of readers. How will that happen if you aren't writing your stories down? Maybe oral storytelling will make a comeback, but until it does, your books need to be written.

3.  Be willing to work – When it's time to write, it's time to write. There are plenty of distractions, no matter where you work on your WIP, and writers are willing to explore every single one of them in the name of "research". Set a minimum word count, or a minimum amount of time, such as an hour, where nothing but writing is done. It's amazing how inspired you feel when that's been accomplished. Don't be surprised when you want to do even more writing afterwards.

Now it's your turn. Give me some of your helpful tricks for handling the challenging writer employee that you can be. What works best for you?

Six Sentence Sunday Part 8: I Do. . .or Die

Thanks for visiting again for Six Sentence Sunday.

In today's snippet from I Do. . .or Die, Shelby is reflecting on an unexpected passionate interlude between her and Detective Ryan Nichols. Although they had agreed not to do anything about their attraction until after the case is over, it's not proving easy, for either of them.

He was back to being Detective Nichols, the one who had told me that whatever happened was up to me. So if I chose, I could walk away. Yeah, like that would ever happen. Once I was done with Detective Sexy Pants, he'd be lucky if he didn't have to retire early with a disability pension.

Ryan finally pulled into the driveway, and I was ready to bolt out of the car and grab the garden hose, dousing the flames he continued to ignite in me. I had a feeling it wouldn't do any good, though, because it felt like he'd fired up one of those trick birthday candles that won't extinguish no matter how many times you try.

Amuse the Muse

Each of us has our own source of writing inspiration, something that helps us create and mold our stories, an elusive creature we worship with cult-like devotion.

No, I’m not talking about Richard Armitage. I am talking about a muse. Or in my case, Muse, capitalized because it’s her title, her calling, her raison d’etre, the reason she can be such a pain in the–

My Muse is Endora. (For the young ones out there, she’s the temperamental mother in the TV show Bewitched. For the rest of you, thank you for your sympathy.)

Endora is the perfect storm of haughtiness, disdain, and tough love. During her unpredictable visits, I count myself lucky when she remembers to call me Donna instead of Durwood.

If there is anyone who is more confident of their contrary opinions, I haven’t met them yet. She’ll bark out a laugh when I startle her with something funny (especially if I didn’t MEAN for it to be funny). She’ll wrinkle her nose and sniff as if the litter box is overflowing when I’ve offended her storytelling sensibilities.

She’s also incredibly surprised when I create something that amuses her. I live for those rare moments when her heavily penciled eyebrows shoot up with astonished admiration. She’s miserly with her praise, as if each encouraging word causes a sharp pain in her soul, but I make her give until it hurts.

She’s a witch with a capital B, but I’m driven to please her. And she knows it.

Endora loves her job, but she’s also flighty, and fickle, and rather capricious about when she will actually do it. She is incapable of keeping to a regular schedule, so I’ve quit suggesting it. If I accidentally bore her, there’s a snap of fingers and a puff of smoke, and I’m instantly alone, staring at a blinking cursor on the computer screen, wondering how to lure the insufferable wench back.

What I usually do is tap away at the keyboard, resigning myself to the fact that I’m going to have to do this writing thing on my own for a little while. Somehow the mundane task of typing entices Endora. Maybe she’s planning to thump me on the head for waking her from her beauty nap. Or maybe she’s come to warn me of the hex with my name on it if I don’t stop trying to write solo.

I’m never sure WHY this technique brings her back. I doubt she knows either. But it does. The next thing I know, she’s looking over my shoulder, snorting with derision, and then I hear a muttered, “I suppose that part’s not too horrid.”

It’s hard to tell which of us is the most surprised by her grudging approval.

The tricky part is figuring out WHAT makes Endora happy, because, as with any diva, it’s never the same thing twice. If she adores chocolate one day, and the words flow after I’ve presented her with the most exquisite confections ever made. . .the next time she’ll take one bite of the same stuff and spit it out as if I’d given her a clod of dirt.

If I take a nap to deal with the heartbreak of her desertion, she plops down next to me, whispering tantalizing plot points in my ear until I am wide awake, frantic to give her my undivided attention again.

There’s some sort of magic in this partnership of ours, and I’ve quit trying to figure out the dysfunctional workings of it. Ultimately she seems proud of my efforts, and I like to believe she wouldn’t hang around if she didn’t get something out of the experience.  (I don’t want to even contemplate how many other unfortunate writers she torments on her daily rounds. We could probably have an annual convention.)

Yet, as contrary as the old gal is, I can’t imagine what my writing life would be like without her. I do my best to amuse her, and she returns the favor, in her own inimitable fashion.

So tell me about your muse. How do you keep your muse happy? How does he/she reward you for your efforts?

P.S. Endora insisted I mention the latest review Lord Midnight received: a Top Pick rose from Romance Reader at Heart. We're both thrilled!

Six Sentence Sunday Part 7: I Do. . .or Die

Thanks to everyone who has been stopping by to read the snippets from my romantic comedy/mystery, I Do. . .or Die. I appreciate your compliments on the heroine, Shelby, and Detective Ryan Nichols, the man who will help her change her non-committal ways--one of these days.

Here's a scene right after someone shoots at Shelby, while she's in Ryan's car, and he's trying to keep her protected:

"I don't think they followed us, but the shot came from back there," Detective Nichols said, half to himself, twisting in the seat while keeping his body lowered over mine.

"I can’t really see."

My face was embarrassingly close to a certain portion of his anatomy. A part that was well worth investigating, but this wasn’t really the time, or the place. Although I was definitely developing an interest.

And it was clear that his interest was well, um, it was developing too.

Patriot's Day: Redcoats and Rebels

Today in Massachusetts it is Patriots' Day, where we celebrate the events which got the Revolutionary War started. Here's another chance to read a post I did about a "Redcoats and Rebels" re-enactment. I hope you enjoy!

Everyone knows how Massachusetts got things off to a great start in the Revolutionary War. There are plenty of re-enactments, especially on Patriots' Day in April, but since they have an unfortunate tendency to start way too early in the morning, I've never managed to see any.

However, there was a recent "Redcoats and Rebels" event at Old Sturbridge Village, which is an outdoor museum depicting rural New England from 1790 to 1840. This particular event didn't start at the crack of dawn, which was a huge plus, because I'm a more appreciative audience once I've had my daily coffee. I was really eager to attend, since this is the closest I can get to time-travelling, or going to a Regency-era theme park. And it would be an opportunity to get some practice with my infrequently-utilized camera.

There were exhibits throughout the day, and in different parts of the campsites and buildings. Unfortunately I missed the 18th century court martial, as well as the laundress demonstrating her skills with 18th century clothing. Oh well, maybe next year.

But there was lots of other fun stuff. And I'm not just talking about all the sexy boots! I spent so much time LUSTING after the boots that I didn't get any good pics of them. Too bad I can't download some of my mental pictures, especially of the young man who was a scout for the colonists. I'm not sure which I liked more, his gold hoop earring, the ponytail, or the thigh-high suede boots.

*fans face* Is it getting hot in here?

Well, maybe it's best I leave that mental picture where it is. Instead, here's a pic of the window he was looking out of--but this is before he got here, so you're going to have to use some imagination.(You can tell from this pic that he was really hot, though.)

The cannon demonstration by the Royal Irish Artillery was LOUD. I commented to a couple of Redcoats as I passed that it might be louder than I could handle. One of them suggested I plug one ear and keep my mouth open, and that would help. He said it with a straight face, but I wasn't entirely sure if his "advice" was payback for us winning the War for Independence, so I didn't give it a try.

The cannons produced these cool smoke rings, as if a giant was smoking a huge cigarette, with a lot of panache. (But not in any of the pictures I took.) It required several men to prepare the cannon for shooting, and when they had to move it, even though it was on wheels, they strained. I'm surprised somebody hasn't invented a Cannon Workout, because clearly it worked a lot of different muscle groups. And the cannon-shooting men were very fit.

My favorite demonstration was on how to load and use a musket, by a re-enactor for a Massachusetts regiment. He showed us, first in slow motion, and then in "real time", how long it took to go through the many steps of the process. Sad to say, there was only a few seconds difference between the two demos.

The gunpowder is in a little thing of paper that is kept in a leather bag at the hip. The corner of the paper is torn off with the teeth, so having two opposing teeth was a necessity. The powder is followed by the "ball", one full ounce of lead, which he said is much bigger than current bullets. It doesn't just HIT a person, it SLAMS into them, and it can make them spin several times from the force of the blast.

Also, accuracy wasn't exactly the goal when shooting a musket, because it wasn't really a possibility. It was more of a 50% success rate. It was partly why they stood in lines, so that hopefully SOMEBODY would hit something when they fired their weapons. The re-enactor said the commands used to be:

• Make Ready
• Take Aim
• Fire

However, General Washington changed the second one to "Take Sight" to more accurately reflect that not a whole lot of aiming was going on.

A good shooter would take about 20 seconds for the loading process, but most soldiers took about 30 seconds, so two rounds in a minute was the average (not exactly a "room broom").

A young boy with a snare drum tapped out a different rhythm for each of the commands. Since things got so smoky during battles, from all of the ignited gunpowder, drums were the main form of communication.

Someone asked why the soldiers didn't just crouch down so they wouldn't get hit, but it sounds like there wasn't a high likelihood of getting hit anyway. Also, if they did crouch down and the opposing shooters couldn't accomplish anything, they would affix bayonets to their muskets, and it was the bayonets that really struck fear into the soldiers. The blade is three-edged, which apparently creates a wound that is impossible for a doctor to stitch up, so it caused a very painful demise. (The re-enactor said the Geneva Convention does not permit that kind of blade for modern warfare because it is too brutal.)

Right after this demonstration, the various regiments lined up so they could parade to the battlefield. I wish I'd figured out beforehand how to use the video feature on my camera. Oh well (all together now: "next year!")

One of the colonial militia groups – it was easy to see they weren't part of the Continental Army because instead of snazzy blue coats they wore plain brownish linen clothes – anyway, the militia group was a pretty ragtag bunch, and they had trouble figuring out which direction to turn on the command "wheel right". Their commander asked them to hold up the hand they used to hold their ale the previous night, and of course a couple of them raised both hands, letting their muskets drop to the ground. The captain of a nearby Redcoat regiment told his troops, "I don't anticipate any trouble from the Yankees today. They're quite disorganized so it should be a quick and easy battle."

How could I not laugh out loud?

The battle took place in a field, complete with split-rail fences and trees lining the perimeter. It was unbearably hot, and humid, so none of the soldiers seemed inclined to "play dead" until the battle was almost over. I don't blame them. I was wearing a light linen shirt and jeans and was close to expiring. They had wool jackets and vests and breeches and Lord knows what else that I couldn't see. . .oh, and those boots. But not these boots. I'm talking about the boots I didn't take a picture of. . .

I'm feeling faint again.

Okay, where was I? Oh, yeah, since nobody wanted to lie down on the ground, the battle pretty much looked like a bunch of men in kick-ass costumes shooting at each other, over and over. They didn't use the lead ball, just the gunpowder, in both the muskets and the cannons, and there was plenty of smoke hanging over the field.

Earlier, while strolling through the campgrounds, I noticed a lot of campfires going, and even though I couldn't see any wood smoke, it was really bothering my throat. That was a detail I wouldn't have expected, so it was great to experience it firsthand (and it was even greater to get away from it).

Another interesting research detail: the tents had six soldiers assigned to them. Two of them would sleep, two would have sentry duty, and two would be on fatigue, which meant camp duties like digging latrines, cooking, whatever needed doing. The tents were made of canvas, and there wouldn't be much warmth in the winter, so the soldiers apparently slept on top of each other to keep from freezing.

I know I'm not the only one who is changing this plot point to include a colonial scout with a gold earring and thigh-high suede boots, who needs to steal that Redcoat jacket in the back, so here's a pic for you:

This was a really great experience, and I can't wait to go again. Next time I'll definitely be braver about taking more pics and asking more questions, since the re-enactors love to share their knowledge. Maybe they'll even tell me where that scout hid himself. . .

Six Sentence Sunday #6: I Do. . .or Die

I had a hard time deciding what to post this week for Six Sentence Sunday, since there were several snippets I thought might be fun. I finally decided on this one, where Shelby tries to figure out her attraction to Det. Ryan Nichols:

Ryan had on a dark blue polo shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, taunting me to investigate further. The ribbed sleeves gripped his tanned upper arms, the way I wanted to, but I was worried about him getting a restraining order if I did. He wore some pleated khakis that enjoyed being on his body, judging by the way they hugged his backside.

I sipped my dark roast brew, although I should have asked for iced coffee, just to cool my overactive libido. Why was he affecting me so much? It felt like I'd gotten stuck in the middle of my lust cycle, one I didn't even know I had.

Six Sentence Sunday Part 5: I Do. . .or Die

I'm excited to be #6 on today's Six Sentence Sunday link list. Such a great number!

I've included another excerpt from my romantic comedy, I Do. . .or Die, and at the end, I've added links for the previous snippets in case you want to read those too.

In this excerpt, the heroine Shelby talks about her feelings for Ryan, the detective assigned to the case:

I hated how he made my heart beat a little faster, and not like during a really good aerobic workout. It was actually more like dashing out the door, after my usual two or three cups of really strong coffee, worried that I'd left the curling iron on, but too late to go back and check.

Why would I feel anything for someone who was so clearly unimpressed with me?

The laws of attraction didn’t make much sense to me. Maybe someone should write a policy manual, with guidelines and suggested procedures. It would be a lot easier for me to follow the rules if it didn’t feel like they were written on a sticky note that kept getting glued to my butt.

Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 -- Part 4

 

 

Spring Cleaning

I've been thinking a lot lately about how to maximize my writing time, which seems to be dwindling despite my best efforts. I've got a lot of stories I want to dive back into and finish, and a ton of new stories poking at my brain, trying to convince me to move them to the top of the list.

I finally decided the best thing to do is to reduce my blog posts from twice a week to once a week.

I've been doing the twice-weekly posts for a little over two years now, and I've really enjoyed them--hopefully you have too. However, I feel like reducing the blogging to once a week will free up some more of my time and mental energy, which I can devote to these stories I want you to be able to read one day.

I also would like to do a little re-organizing, making it easier to find certain things within the site, so I'm planning to do that in the next few weeks as well.

So, I will continue to do the Monday Mojo posts, in the hopes they will inspire you for the rest of the week. I'll also be posting the Six Sentence Sunday snippets (on Sunday), because I've been having a lot of fun reading everyone's comments, as well as going around reading everyone else's posts. I won't be posting any more Friday Fave posts for the foreseeable future.

I hope these changes will give you more writing time too! It should be a win-win situation for everyone.

Six Sentence Sunday Part 4: I Do. . .or Die

Today you get to meet the hero of I Do. . .or Die. The previous snippets have all featured Shelby, the commitment-phobe bridesmaid, at the wedding that turns her life upside down.

In this bit, Shelby gets her first look at Ryan Nichols when he shows up at the hospital where her friend Alexa is recuperating from her minor wound. Here's Shelby's description of the man she doesn't know yet is a police detective assigned to the case. . .

Just then, as if he’d been cued, in walked the man who was going to make my life miserable. I could feel it, just by the way he stopped in the doorway and inspected us, his eyebrows raised, like he'd finally located the missing cast members of a white-trash wedding sitcom.

And for some reason, I felt wildly attracted to him.

He was probably six feet tall, and athletic, judging by how gracefully he moved. His sandy blond hair was ready for a haircut, but he’d probably wait a week or two before realizing it, yet it still looked good curled over his suit collar. His tie was loosened, as if he was at the end of a long day and ready to have a few beers with his buddies, but obviously we had derailed that plan.