All About the Writing

What I Love About Blogging

I started blogging in February 2009--reluctantly--because I wasn't sure I wanted to write little essays for complete strangers to read. In fact, I wasn't convinced strangers would ever want to read my little essays.

But the prevailing wisdom was that if you're a writer, you need a blog, so potential readers could get a taste of your writing style, and potential agents and editors could get a sense of your social media reach.

So I started out quietly, almost hoping nobody would see what I was writing. My hopes were definitely realized at first! I didn't have a clue what to blog about. Whenever a great idea bursts into my brain, my next thought is to put that bit of brilliance in a book. Why would I want to use it up on a blog post?

Still, I figured I could write about my writing journey, so I called my blog "All About The Writing". I started throwing out an occasional post that was related to writing in a vague way, because I certainly couldn't portray myself as an expert. Heck, the majority of my posts are things I'm struggling with in the current work-in-progress, or words of inspiration designed to keep me from throwing my hands in the air (or my laptop out the window). 

After about a year of posting infrequent announcement-type things, such as a contest final or a win, I decided to blog more faithfully, keeping to a regular schedule. I started "Monday Mojo" posts, designed to give the writing week a good kickoff, and in "Friday Faves" I discussed posts I'd discovered in the blogosphere, and why they intrigued me.

To my complete surprise, I discovered I loved blogging. Loved it in that annoying, all-caps, I-can't-keep-myself-from-shouting-or-jumping-on-the-couch kind of way. Everything became a potential blog post.

Was the muse Endora being cantankerous and unwilling to cooperate?

I wrote a blog post.

(Actually, I've written several involving Endora. She thinks she's the star of the blog, while I consider her the unruly mascot. But please don't tell her I said that.)

Was I feeling discouraged with my lack of progress with a book project or getting published?

I wrote a blog post.

It wasn't too long afterwards that I discovered my little essays on the writing life seemed to resonate with other writers. They would leave comments about how my experience mirrored theirs, or how I inspired them with "just the right words" at a time when they really needed them.

Even more thrilling was having my blog posts shared on Twitter and Facebook and StumpleUpon, and being the landing spot for a variety of Google searches.

My most popular post is Character Goals, which I wrote to help myself figure out what might motivate a less-than-cooperative character in my WIP. To my delight, this post has been referenced by an online gaming community as a valuable resource for developing their characters, and it gets several hits every day as a result. How cool is that?

Another post, Three Good Things About Writing Part-Time, was one I wrote to console myself about not being able to write full-time. One day this post was highlighted on the very popular Passive Voice blog, resulting in a record number of hits, more than any other of my posts. My attempt to find the bright side of part-time writing seemed to benefit other writers, which was a wonderful surprise.

I started this blogging adventure with Typepad, and I've been extremely happy. There have been a few glitches, usually some weird internet voodoo thing that cures itself in a day or two, but whenever I've needed help or asked questions, the customer service folks have always been very responsive. I've used different platforms while participating on other blogs, and those experiences have always made me run back and hug my Typepad blog in appreciation of its simplicity and the many user-friendly aspects.

Lately I've been struggling to find enough time to devote to blogging. I consider not doing it anymore, but I know I'd miss the camaraderie of the whole experience, and all the friends I've made. I also enjoy being able to work out a thorny writing problem by the simple process of detailing it in a blog post. I'm also thrilled that I've stumbled across a groove--giving encouragement to other writers--that I hadn't at all anticipated when I started down this path.

Best of all, I'm compiling my blog posts from the past few years and will soon publish an e-book of writing inspiration, which I'm calling An Encouraging Word.

All because I decided to write some little essays one day.

I Know It's Here Somewhere

Her heart raced, each beat faster than the previous one. Would she ever set eyes on that beautiful elusive creature again? She could feel her stomach clench, painfully, at the thought of never being reunited. It was too unbearable to contemplate. . .

No, this isn't when my heroine frets about whether she'll see the hero again. This is what it's like trying to find that scene I know I wrote down one day.

Unfortunately, when I say "wrote down", that can take many forms. If I'm at work, it often means a scrap of paper or a sticky note where I scribble a few words meant to jog my memory later. Only, my memory is as much of a jogger as I am (read: not at all), so sometimes those words look like a clue to a puzzle I'll never decipher. Or I'll jam the scrap into my pocket, where it resides with half a zillion other little scraps until the ink is obliterated, making it impossible to know what brilliance it once contained.

Sometimes I open up my email and type all my writerly WIP thoughts into a draft email. I used to also send it to another email account, but then I'd get confused as to which account had what. Then I discovered that saving it as a draft worked better -- all of the ideas I wanted to hang onto were there, and I could add to them as the thoughts blossomed, etc.

However, I also like to write things down in notebooks, because sometimes the muse cooperates better when I'm writing longhand rather than typing at blazing fast speeds on the laptop. I've got easily a half a zillion notebooks (since I also have an addiction to buying school supplies), so trying to find THE EXACT ONE that contains this scene I'm searching for. . .it's no surprise that "needle" and "haystack" spring to mind. Along with some naughty words that I am only going to say inside my head.

The obvious solution is to quit looking for that pesky scene's hiding place and just rewrite it. I did that with a different scene in this book. I did it again, and then again. So now I have three versions of it that I'm trying to mold into the scene I wanted to write just once.

But, on the bright side, I got a blog post out of my frantic endeavors. And I'm sure I entertained the hell out of the characters waiting on the sidelines while I paced and fumed and threw my hands in the air while proclaiming I can't do this to myself anymore. They know better. They understand that creativity is messy. They comprehend that calling the writing process "non-linear" is only accurate if you take out the word "linear" entirely.

To be honest, if it were any other way, I would be bored in an instant. I like when things are organized, but only toward the end, when I'm exhausted, faint with hunger, and willing to sell my soul to see these words lined up neatly and sweetly. I actually enjoy seeing how this big pile of bright ideas and half-baked thoughts transform into an actual story, all by cutting a little bit here, and adding a smidge there. It borders on the miraculous, this writing thing, and even though I'm convinced it never matches my vision, I'm still in awe of how it comes pretty dang close.

Which is why I'll continue to scribble notes to myself, and continue to wonder where I put them. It just wouldn't be as much fun otherwise. 

Happy Father's Day Excerpt: Lord Wastrel

Happy Father's Day to dads everywhere. Here's hoping you have a fun-filled day.

As my part of the celebrations, I'm including an excerpt from Lord Wastrel, where a rakish man discovers, to his immense surprise, that he is a father. I hope you enjoy!

London, 1811

It wasn’t the night of hard drinking Hugh Longford, Lord Weyson, regretted in that particular moment. Nor was it the fact that the sun blistering his eyes meant night had slipped away without his knowledge, once again.

The cause of his agony, and the source of his sudden wish that he had lived his past few years differently, was standing in front of him, calling him “Papa”.

“What the deuce?”

Hugh blinked, and then rubbed his red-rimmed eyes, but there was no mistaking the little creature gazing up at him. Not with fear, he noticed. Her expression was more of fascination than anything else. The poor mite was probably wondering what kind of father she had—

He gazed at the child's nursemaid with unabashed hopefulness. Surely she had some other sort of explanation, something other than the one he was being asked to accept.

"My lord, Miss Marguerite told me were anythin' ever to happen to her. . ." She coughed as she struggled to regain her composure, and then extracted a letter from her coat.

Even knowing he did not want to see the contents, Lord Weyson found himself reaching for the parchment, unfolding it with trembling hands.

She had never meant to bother him, her letter said. He had been so generous with her, especially when he had given her her congé, but she had become gravely ill recently, and had no one else with whom to entrust their child. . .

"Haselton!" Hugh turned to his unflappable butler, the one person who assured that Weyson House always ran smoothly, despite its owner's well-known excesses.

"Yes, my lord." 

Haselton gazed upon the unusual scene without the slightest bit of perturbance, even though he was as unaccustomed to young children standing in the parlor as his master was.

Hugh sighed with relief. "Well, yes, there's—her." He thrust his hand out toward the young child. "And, it says here—that is, I don't know how it could be possible, for I always took every precaution, but I suppose it is not outside the realm of possibility—apparently I—this child is—"

He ran his hand through his hair, quite undone by the morning's unexpected revelations. At this hour, he was more accustomed to stumbling into bed, and generally not his own. Though he had earned the nickname Lord Wastrel for his profligate ways, he most certainly was not used to a fracas of this sort, and not at this hour of the day.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the looking glass over the fireplace. God, he looked wretched. His hair had no semblance of the latest style, his eyes were bleary and bloodshot, his chin darkening with stubble. He had acquired the face of an old reprobate, not the wealthy young London buck that he was. In short, he had become everything he despised.

He growled, his lips turned up in a sneer.

"Are you the debbil?" a small voice asked.

Haselton coughed, turning his head, but Hugh saw the smile he was trying to conceal.

He also saw the little girl trying to hide her uncertainty. His heart softened. Her life had been turned upside down too. He bent down, to keep from towering over her, though it took more effort than he wanted to admit just to keep steady on his pins. The movement also made him feel a bit nauseous of a sudden.

Why not just sit down where he was?

The child giggled when Hugh plopped down onto the floor, putting his face level with hers.

She had the most beautiful blue eyes. He could remember Marguerite, a sweet opera dancer, with just those same eyes. And the child had the same dark-as-night curls that he had, he realized with a scowl. Not to mention features that descended from his branch of the family tree.

"Are you the debbil?" she repeated. She put her fingers up to her head as if they were horns, and wiggled them.

He laughed, throwing back his head, wishing he hadn't when the pain sliced through his skull once more. "Ah, no, but I sure as hell feel like the debbil."

"My lord," Haselton said, "perhaps you could sort everything out with your solicitor."

Hugh knew that was the best advice, but for some reason he resisted it. He didn’t want this responsibility. He wasn’t even sure he should take it on. It wasn’t that he doubted the child was his—one look at her and there could be no doubt of that.

But he was not particularly suited to parenthood. Clearly he was well versed in siring a child, but he hadn't the slightest notion of what was required to actually parent one.

One moment he was carousing and gambling and drinking, forestalling that day when he must settle down to his responsibilities, just like any other young buck in London. The next moment he was changed by the simple discovery that he was a father.

Four years ago his lineage had extended by a generation, and he had most likely been carousing and gambling and drinking, just like any other wealthy young buck in London.

Why did that young man seem so foreign to him now?

He softened as he thought of her first words to him, “Are you the debbil?” He had no doubt he looked like Old Nick in that moment. It was a wonder he hadn't set the poor child to crying, but she was obviously made of sterner stuff. She had gazed at him quite fearlessly, and even with a hint of compassion.

Hugh groaned, dropping his head in his hands. What on earth was he to do?

He felt a light touch on his head, more tender than a wretch such as he deserved. It filled him with a strange sense of peace, one he did not want to lose anytime soon.

He lifted his head. "I cannot have a child in my life right now," he blurted, with more ferocity than he had intended.

The little girl stepped back from him. Her bottom lip quivered, and for the first time she lost her composure. Hugh could feel a wrench in his heart, and even though he resisted the odd emotion, he was powerless against it when tears started pouring from those innocent blue eyes.

His daughter. And he had been the one to finally make her cry.

The lump in his throat nearly choked him. He pulled her onto his lap, holding her protectively, resting his chin on the top of her head while she sobbed. He rocked her back and forth, comforting her, and himself, with the sounds used throughout the ages to ease unbearable heartache.

"What's your name, child?"

"Lucinda," she answered, sniffing and trying to control her tears. Her breath caught. "What's yours?"

"Lord Wast—", he began, but the hopeful expression on her face changed everything. The wretched Lord Wastrel was no more. He had a child to care for—his child. "Lucinda, your father is Hugh Longford, the fifth Earl Weyson."

"Can I call you Papa instead?"

Hugh's heart melted completely, all because of this child he had not known of until moments ago. He quaked at the thought of what it meant to be a Papa. Lord only knew if he was up to the task. He squeezed her a little more tightly, for his own reassurance.

Yet he knew without a doubt she had proved to be his salvation. He could not deny her the fine things in life to which she was entitled, even if she had the misfortune of being born on the wrong side of the blanket. Nor could he permit his profligate past to mar her future.

He stood up, Lucinda wrapped in his arms, and strode towards the stairs.

"Now all we have to do is find you a mother. A perfect, biddable female who will raise you into a proper young lady."

The words fell on deaf ears, for there was only so much excitement a four-year-old could endure before she fell asleep, safe and comforted in her father's arms. Hugh's heart swelled with emotion. His head was filled with visions of what lay ahead of them, only this time he was not frightened. Now that he had been given this opportunity, this redemption, he couldn't wait to get started on his grand plans for their future.

"Haselton," Lord Weyson whispered, so as not to wake Lucinda. "I have need of a wife."

"Indeed, sir," Haselton answered as calmly as if he'd been asked to deliver a tray to the nursery. "And where shall you procure one?"

Hugh waved one hand dismissively. "London is filled with dozens of such females. All I need do is pick a respectable one, marry her, and a perfect life for Lucinda will be set in motion. I'm sure it couldn't be any easier."

Haselton nodded, his expression grave. "One would hope so, my lord. One would hope so."

Win a Year of Romance!

Crimson Romance, the publisher of my book, I Do. . . or Die, is celebrating their one-year anniversary by giving away a Kindle Fire HD that includes EVERY BOOK THEY PUBLISHED THIS PAST YEAR! Yes, every Crimson Romance title from the past year is on this Kindle. So go enter the contest, and keep your fingers crossed that you're the lucky winner!

Guest Post: Lorraine Paton's What To Read Thursday

The delightful Lorraine Paton asked me to visit her blog today, for her What To Read Thursday feature. I got to chat about I Do. . . or Die, and the inspiration behind certain parts of the story. I've also included a little snippet from the book, featuring Serena the time-share cat.

I hope you'll stop by. It was a fun interview, and you can see the blurb and cover from Lorraine's soon-to-be-released debut, Devin's Second Chance!

The Romance of Social Media

Nobody wants to be thought of as a sure thing. We all want to be wooed, and courted. The essence of romance is making a person feel special, demonstrating in numerous creative ways how important they are.

Social media should be like that, too. When used in the best way possible, it can seduce, entice, and intrigue. It can turn a stranger into a friend, and a friend into a fan.

When we first fell in love with social media, it was thrilling. We couldn't wait to dive into Twitter and Facebook, chatting with new people in time zones all over the world. There were enthusiastic conversations about writing, and books, and characters in a favorite story. It was easy to fall in love with an author, or a reader, based on shared interests on all kinds of topics, just from the connections made through our computers.

But now? Social media has been described as a chore, something writers have to do to sell books. It's often viewed as a necessary evil, a task that must be done, but one that gets in the way of the important stuff: writing books.

Maybe it's time to breathe new life into this social media romance, to reclaim those heady days when we first fell head over heels with all of the suitors clamoring for our attention.

Since we write romance, we know the importance of getting through the black moment and finding our way to a happily-ever-after. Here are a few suggestions for making that happen:

1. Every romance requires sincere effort -- While it's efficient to use tons of pre-programmed tweets, or to send out constant "buy my book" reminders, their impersonal nature can actually defeat your intentions of wooing your audience. Someone who spends their social media time actually socializing will get the results you're hoping for. Don't let some smooth-talking lothario steal the hearts of your potential readers. Make them fall in love with you. It's not about making a conquest. It's making a concerted effort to show they truly matter.
2. Don't take the romance for granted -- With instant gratification media, it's too easy to focus on numbers and followers and statistical data that makes it seem like you've sealed the deal and never have to exert yourself further. But we're talking about relationships, and they need to be nurtured, not neglected. It's not about collecting, but connecting. This is meant to be a long-term thing. It's just as easy to unfollow as it is to follow, and unliking can happen a lot faster than liking. People have taken a chance on you, so show them their time and attention is valuable to you--because it is.
3. Small romantic gestures mean a lot -- It's exciting to be singled out with a retweet or a share or a repin. It means that not only is somebody paying attention, they value what we've said, and they want other people to see it. So show some love by reciprocating. Add a few words to someone else's tweet before you send it along. Send congrats to someone on their good news, even if you don't know them yet. It's easy to just click an upraised thumb, but how much more meaningful if you comment on someone's status, or their blog post. If these are things that would make your heart skip with joy, then definitely do them for others.

These are some of my ideas for keeping your social media romance fresh and fun. I'd love to hear what works for you.

Goodreads Giveaway of I DO. . . OR DIE

I'm having my very first giveaway on Goodreads. It's for the paperback version of I Do. . . or Die, and there are TWO copies available to win. There are only 10 days left to enter. So here's the link, and good luck!

Goodreads Giveaway