Writing by the Seat of my Pants

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by Susan McBride

If you didn’t guess by the title of this post, I’m one of those writers who usually flies by the seat of my pants. I never worked with outlines while composing 10 novels that never got published; nor did I use one for my two small press books or the five Debutante Dropout Mysteries I wrote for Avon.

All that changed when I signed with Random House to do THE DEBS young adult series. My contract required I turn in an outline before each book. A detailed outline. And it had to be approved by my editor, which meant turning it in and getting her feedback before I got the thumbs-up.

You can’t even imagine how bad my first outline was. I figure my editor at RH assumed I was drunk when I wrote it (and I don’t drink). Or possibly that I let my cats’ paws do the walking on my keyboard. It stunk because I had no clue what I was doing. Creating an outline before I could sit down and write felt foreign to me, almost like I was ruining all the fun. Somehow (thank God), it all worked out, and THE DEBS came out A-OK.

Over the course of two more YA books (LOVE, LIES, AND TEXAS DIPS and GLOVES OFF), I got better at outlining. Not great, mind you, just adequate enough that my editor could make some sense of the plotlines I suggested. I’m still not entirely comfortable with the idea; but it doesn’t freak me out anymore either.

Now, after turning in GLOVES OFF and doing the revisions lickety-split after getting notes back before January ended, I’ve gone into manic writing mode as I work on THE COUGAR CLUB for Avon. My deadline is May 1. Gulp. I’ve made fairly good progress, but I find myself hyperventilating now and then, realizing “I have no frickin’ outline!”

I got so used to them that now writing by my gut again feels a wee bit scary. Don’t get me wrong, I am enjoying the freedom of letting my crazy brain take me in all sorts of directions. I fall asleep at night thinking of what I’ve just written that day, and I wake up in the morning with new ideas that get my heart pumping.

But I’m nervous all the same. A part of me misses having that crutch of truly knowing what’s coming next…and then next after that. Then I remind myself that once I get COUGAR done and sent off to my editor at Avon, I’ll have an outline to write for Random House again.

So next time I’m at a panel and someone asks, “Which of you outline?” I’ll raise my hand. And then when they inquire, “And which of you flies by the seat of her pants?” I’ll raise my hand, too.

Common Business Courtesy?

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I like people who do what they say they will, when they say they’re going to do it. I like them a lot, especially since they seem to be an endangered species.

I must have missed the email that said it’s okay now to lie about what you can and can’t do.

I know I missed the message about deadlines being mere suggestions.

And when did returning business phone calls and responding to business emails become optional? I’m not talking about returning advertisers’ emails or calls from strangers soliciting donations. I’m referring to communicating with people who are currently working for or with you. When you don’t return my phone call or email within a few days, I get angry.

I seem to be angry a lot lately.

Everyone has a horror story about waiting for the cable guy who never shows. Who claims he was there and you were not – even though you’d stayed parked in a chair near the front door for twelve straight hours waiting for him.

Everyone knows that if you pick up your order through a drive-through window, you have to check the sack before you leave, because nine times out of ten, you are missing items you’ve paid for. Ever notice how extra items never land in your sack by accident?

If you buy new tires and have them installed, be sure to check to see if all the lug nuts have been tightened. I’ve probably purchased five sets of tires in my life and twice I’ve had problems because the lug nuts weren’t tightened.

Before I found my current hairdresser, I’d show up for appointments and the hairdresser would be absent. No one would have called to let me know not to come in.

It seems that business standards have disappeared from my world. Please, thank you, showing up on time, cleaning up after yourself, doing a good job, finishing the job on time – I guess those expectations are outdated.

What is the norm now? When did we become so accepting of bad behavior and substandard service, that we’ve lowered our expectations to almost zero?

Tell me what you expect from the people you do business with. Tell me about the companies or individuals who are exceeding your expectations. Anyone have any “service awards” they’d like to bestow?

Evelyn David

It’s Time to Leave the Attic

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I don’t know if it was the lengthy winter, the snow day we had yesterday, or just a general cabin fever that made me do something I never thought I’d do: sign up to go to two conferences. I admire my intrepid Stiletto co-bloggers; it seems that they are all headed somewhere all the time, while I sit in my attic week after week, content to work from dawn until dusk. But during the snow day yesterday, surrounded by husband, children, and canine companion, I decided that it was time to get out of the house and do something related to my mystery writing. (I do plenty related to my day job and those things seem to be eating up all of my time.) So, I consulted with the Northern half of Evelyn David and signed up for Deadly Ink in Parsippany, New Jersey, and Malice Domestic in Washington, D.C.

I used to travel a lot for the job I used to have, way back in the ‘90s. And I have traveled plenty for pleasure after leaving that job. But I haven’t traveled for “work” except to go to a presentation in Tennessee back in October—and that included one of my best friends as my travel companion. I used to attend at least four or five conventions when I worked outside of the house and when I say I knew everybody who attended those conventions, that’s only a bit of an exaggeration. Between all of my colleagues from work, and friends I had made at competing companies, and the authors I worked with, I knew just about everybody at a specific convention. What scares me about signing up for the two conventions is that I’ll only know one person (the Northern half of Evelyn David) out of everyone who’s attending. And that scares the bejesus out of me.

I’m not a shrinking violet by any stretch of the imagination but when I think about attending a convention where I only know one person (who has her own books to promote and won’t have time to hold my hand for 48 hours), I imagine that everyone knows everyone else and I’ll just be by myself the whole time. Intellectually, I know this won’t be the case. And as my husband always reminds me, “you can talk a dog off a meat wagon.” I’m not sure what that means, exactly, but I think he’s telling me that I won’t lack for conversation or companionship. I also think he’s referring to my ability to find out the life story of everyone I come into contact with. That ought to help me, right?

So, dear readers: will you let me know if you’re going to be at either of these conventions? And, if so, can I charge one of you with making sure that I’m not holed up in my room with Pay-per-view and the room service menu?

Now It’s My Turn to Prepare for a Conference

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I’ll be heading off to Las Vegas (actually Henderson) for the EpiCon tomorrow. Epic is the organization for electronically published writers. http://www.epicauthors.com

Our first stop though, will be to see my sister who lives in Las Vegas. I love going to Vegas for conferences as I can visit my sis and write the trip off. We don’t get to see each other often enough and we’re the only two left in our immediate family.

I’m going to be giving a presentation on writing mystery series–good topic for me since I write two, the Rocky Bluff PD series and the Deputy Tempe Crabtree series. I’m also on two panels that are going to be for young writers: one is about putting it all together and the other is on World Building or settings.

There will be lots of good presentations to go to also as this conference is really geared for e-publishing and promotion. The publisher of my Deputy Tempe Crabtree series, Dan Reitz of Mundania Press, will be there and it’s always good to be able to touch base with your publisher in person.

Like so many cons, I’ve gone to enough of them that I’ve made good friends that I’m eager to see again. Lee Emory, Treble Hear Books publisher, is a special friend and we’ve enjoyed each other at several Epicon. She bravely published my Christian horror novels. Of course there are many others I’m looking forward to seeing.

The conference is located at the Montelongo Resort and it looks like a fun place to explore. I’m not a gambler so that part of Las Vegas never appeals to me.

My books are already packed to the bookstore. Next, it’s deciding what clothes to pack–always a major decision. I’ll give my sis a call and find out what the weather’s like–it’ll surely be warmer than it is here.

The next conference for me after this one is Mayhem in the Midlands in May. I’ve already been contacted as to what kind of panels I’d like to be on. Mayhem is where I first met Susan McBride.

Now, back to packing.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Suspension of Disbelief

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I’m as eager as the next guy to suspend disbelief. In fact, I do so on a daily basis. My daughter is in college and I prefer to believe that she is in her room at 7:30 pm, diligently working on her term papers, then accept the alternative that she is blithely walking the streets of her inner city campus. Seems a reasonable leap of faith.

How about the time that my mother took me to see the opera, Samson and Delilah. I was so caught up in the soaring arias that I ignored the fact that Delilah, the Biblical siren, outweighed the puny baritone playing Samson by a good 125 pounds.

My willingness to put on hold my rational brain may explain why I’m the perfect person to write cozy mysteries. By definition, these traditional whodunnits demand that, at some level, you park your common sense at the door. Cozies celebrate Ms. Average Citizen, the only person in town, regardless of her profession, who can figure out the who, what, when, where, and how of a murder mystery that has confounded the police. One of the reasons we love these stories is we want to believe that in a pinch, each of us would step up to the plate and do what needs to be done, even if it means putting Sherlock Holmes to shame.

Murder Takes the Cake, the second in the Sullivan Investigations series, will be published in May and is now available for pre-order. When creating it, both halves of Evelyn David wanted to craft a mystery full of red herrings and clever clues, with enough humor to make you laugh out loud, while avoiding the Jessica Fletcher syndrome. Remember? Jessica, a mystery writer, lives in a small town in Maine where there is a murder a week. Amazing that housing values didn’t plummet when potential buyers looked at the crime rate.

My job as an author is to write a story with enough believable elements and characters that ring true that the reader is willing to suspend disbelief and go along for the ride. When the aria – or the mystery – is thrilling enough, that’s not hard to do.

Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com

Ramblings of An Auspicious, Articulate Mind

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Big thanks to those wonderful high-heeled divas for hosting me today!

(Clears throat.)

(Okay. Now what do I say?)

I’m Anne Carter, author of paranormal romantic mysteries. First published in 1998, working on my 6th novel… (yawn) I’ve been blogging for a couple of years now. I vacillate between personal, newsy, gossipy stuff and eloquent, factual mini-biographies of people I find interesting (see The Word From Beacon Street.) But when asked to GUEST blog, I begin to obsess over what to write about. I mean, what if I disappoint? What if their last blogger was Ray Bradbury or Kirk Douglas?

Note to the curious: around the time my last book debuted, I very excitedly approached my local Bumpty-Bump Bookstore and squashed down my shrinking violet shyness by suggesting that, perhaps, just maybe, I could please do a wee little booksigning within their hallowed walls? It went something like this:

Me: “Here’s my press kit, there’s a copy of POINT SURRENDER in there too, it’s a great story about this abandoned lighthouse in northern California, and the people who own it now, who try to figure out what happened to the last keeper, he’s dead, you see, but they need to find out why, and there’s a ghost… it’s published by Echelon Press, and, um, I’m signing next weekend at the Bumpty-Bump Bookseller in Ventura, but I have a lot of people who want to come here to buy a book from me… er, you…my book that is…”

Young Bob Bitchen, CRM for Valencia Bumpty-Bump Booksellers: “Wow, that’s really cool. Yeah, uh, thanks. We do always like to support local authors. Let me look this over and I’ll get back to you.”

Note-within-a-Note: This would have been a very good time to have my good friend and fellow Echelon Press author, Jeff Sherratt, with me. Young Bob B. would’na had a chance.

Me: “Oh, great, thanks so much…”

Me, one month later, reading local newspaper: “Nice. Says here Ray Bradbury is coming here next month. And just after that, Kirk Douglas will be signing his new book.” Grumbling, deep frown. Aloud, to husband: “And who the h*ll is Trace Adkins?” So this is why I am particularly sensitive to [still very worthy] authors like Bradbury and Douglas. (Who is Adkins again?) (End of note.)

So I went to one of those prompt generator thing websites. Surely, here I’d find something to blog about. I clicked through about 50 of them before I shook my head. “Why would anyone want to know about my happiest, or worst, high school memories?” I said aloud to my laptop, I guess, since no one else was listening. Or how about, my ten favorite words. Hmm, let’s see… Serendipity. Auspicious. Articulate. Superfluous. Space-Time-Continuum. Oh wait. That’s three. Oh! Hypotenuse. (Okay, so I was helping my daughter with math last night.) How about Chocolate? (Sure, I’ll have some!) Tenth word: YUM.

What do you want to be remembered for? Sure, I’ll bite that one. Aside from the usual of being a good mother, wife, sister, daughter, friend, I want to be remembered as someone who made others feel better at some point in their lives. Not like Florence Nightingale, but just someone who brings something to the day that makes someone else smile.

I want to be remembered as someone who wasn’t afraid to try to write a whole book and get it published. A person who loved lighthouses, dolls, photography and travel. Ice cream, Mexican food, classic rock and old Hollywood movies. Warm weather over cold, the window seat on the plane, and long, very hot bubble baths.

But I digress. I still haven’t found a good topic to write about. Can I come back when I think of something?

Anne

Anne Carter is the author of paranormal romantic mystery, POINT SURRENDER, from Echelon Press, Amazon and Fictionwise. Visit Anne at BeaconStreetBooks.com.

Endings

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At the Love Is Murder conference earlier this month I listened to Guest of Honor Jeffery Deaver talk about his dislike of writing the wrap-up chapter of his books. You know the chapter – the one that finishes everything off; fills in any gaps; and lets the hero or heroine, if not ride off into the sunset, at least saddle their horses.

I’ve been thinking about endings a lot lately. One of my favorite television shows, Battlestar Galactica, is ending. In an unusual move for Hollywood, the producers/writers have been given time to craft a real ending to the show that’s lasted four seasons. After tomorrow night’s episode, there will only be three episodes left to tell the tale.

Last week’s episode was disappointing to me. One of the supporting cast was lying (maybe dying) in a hospital bed. Besides the normal hand-wringing and emotional angst displayed by his ex-wife and comrades in arms, the dramatic scene was used to relay a great deal of backstory. Without going into a lot of explanation for you poor souls who’ve missed one of the best television series ever, here are the basics.

Caprica (an earth-like planet inhabited by humans) was destroyed by the Cylons. Cylons are an artificial lifeform created by humans to serve humans. The Cylons rebelled and fought a war with the humans, lost, and were banished to space for decades. The first episode of the show begins with the Cylons returning with a bang and killing off all the humans except for a small number of refugees who escaped the nuclear explosions. Among the refugees were; humans aboard a ragtag band of spaceships; retiring, Captain William Adama and his crew of Galactica – a aging combat ship that was being decommissioned and turned into a museum; and Laura Roslin, a midlevel official from the Department of Education. Ms. Roslin, a former school teacher, was on Galactica the day of the attack. She’d been sent to Galactica to give a speech at the museum dedication. She was also trying to deal with the news that she had advanced breast cancer. After the attack, a quick headcount of the government was conducted and guess what? Laura Roslin was next in line for the Presidency. For the next four seasons the survivors have been on the run from the Cylons, who’ve been determined to wipe out the last of the human race. Oh, and one more thing – the Cylons, except for the Centurions (a soldier subspecies called affectionately Toasters), have evolved into creatures that look, talk, and act like humans. So you can’t tell most Cylons from humans and a good number of them have infiltrated the fleet for more than a lifetime – kind of “sleeper” Cylons. But the humans eventually figure out that although Cylons look like humans, there are only a limited number of models. Once you can identify the models, you know the Cylons on sight. That is except for the Final Five Cylons that no one, including the other Cylons, can identify.

So back to my writing related point – you probably thought I didn’t have one – the guy in the hospital bed has recently discovered that he’s one of the Final Five Cylon models. Poor guy always thought he was human. As a result of his combat injury many suppressed memories are coming back; important memories about the Final Five and the history of the Cylon race. In between medical procedures and during brief periods of lucidity, he related these memories to the ones around his bedside and to the viewing audience. This moment was where I found myself losing interest in the episode. If the deathbed dialogue had been in a manuscript for a novel, my editor would have red-penned most of it with the note, “too much telling and not enough showing.” It was as if the writers decided to make up a huge, elaborate backstory at the last minute and dump it on the audience in exposition form. In my book, pun intended, that’s cheating. It might be easier for the writers and save oodles of time, but it invariably disappoints the viewers/readers. Just as my description of 80 some odd episodes of Battlestar Galactica were condensed to a paragraph or two above, telling instead of showing should always be the last resort. (i.e. You should watch the show! Rent or buy the dvds.)

When you write or read the last chapter of a book, do you want a full recap? Should one be necessary if the rest of the book is well-written? I absolutely know that very little “new” information should be revealed in the last chapter. As with the Battlestar Galactica episode, too much new information at the end of the story makes the reader feel cheated. Why pay attention to all the details throughout the story, if at the end, none of it gave you an opportunity to figure out the mystery for yourself?

So to recap – yes, I’m smiling here but note that I’m not going to give you any new information – your final chapter should be one that ties up the loose strings, makes sense of the clues, and gives the reader a view to the future lives of the characters. Build the backstory into middle of the book – don’t “tell” it in the reveal at the end. In fact try to “tell” very little of it at all. “Show” it!

Evelyn
http:www.evelyndavid.com

More on Stuff

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In no way, shape, or form could I be considered a neat freak. I’d like to think I am, but when dust bunnies come rolling out from behind my bedroom door as I walk by, I’d say that aspiring to be one is not a realistic goal. However, in following up with Evelyn’s Monday post about “stuff,” I have some definite opinions. And they do not gibe with the rest of my family’s take on the subject.

I’m a “dumper” married to—and the mother of—“hoarders.”

I’ve been accused of possessing no sentiment, but my defense is simple: If it wasn’t for me and my big, black plastic garbage bags making a sweep of the house every now and again (usually when no one is home), we’d be overrun by stuff. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

They’re wise to me, though. They have taken to sifting through the garbage bags when I’m not around and retrieving stuff they know they cannot live without. For example, the book of stickers that my daughter got for her fifth birthday (she’s now fifteen). Or, the forty pairs of ice skates—in various sizes—that my husband’s colleague at work gave him because he was throwing out his own stuff. Or one of those goofy “family information” posters that tell you fake information about your family based on your surname. News flash: They all have the same information on them. We also have vhs versions of every Disney movie, every plastic super hero ever made, bills and checks from before we had children, and a hodgepodge of furniture from various points in our lives.

I fear that if I don’t take serious action soon, we may be overtaken by our stuff.

My husband’s answer is “we need more storage.” My answer is “we need to throw more stuff out.” Tell me, how do a hoarder and a dumper meet halfway? Do any of you have the answers out there? (And I’m looking at you, Marilyn, because you’ve been married the longest.) I’m wondering, if like Evelyn, we decided to downsize if that would encourage the disposal of all of the things I don’t think we need, yet everyone else considers essential? Is moving the only way to get rid of your stuff?

I took it upon myself to get rid of a bunch of 45s—remember those? Small records with a weird cut out in the middle?—a few years back. I thought the coast was clear and that nobody would miss them until my husband decided to buy a turntable. He searched for his 45s and finally asked me if I had seen them. Busted. I had to admit that I had thrown them out.

But I’ve found that I’ve become the scapegoat for all missing objects. Can’t find your homework? Mom must have recycled it. Missing a shoe? We bet Mommy threw it out! Looking for that crucial bit of paper that had all of our 2008 tax information on it? Well, there’s a big black plastic bag in the closet…look in there. We bet she tossed it with the rest of the garbage.

I have to admit that after the 45s affair, I’m less inclined to throw people’s stuff out without asking their permission first. But I’ve found that asking permission to throw something out is met with hurled invective and recriminations. So, I’m putting you, our faithful Stiletto Gang readers, on notice: if for some reason I don’t post next week, send someone to my house and up to my office. You may just find me under a mountain of stuff.

Maggie Barbieri

The Academy Awards

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I’m a big movie fan and have been since I was a kid. Big influence was my dad who worked at Paramount as the head plumber. He had some interesting anecdotes about movie stars and how movies were made. In fact, he was the one who figured out how to part the Red Sea in Exodus. Much harder back in the days before computers, he did it with glass, piping and hydraulics. He also spoiled a lot of movies by telling us secrets about how they were made: toy trains instead of real ones, painted scenery in the basement instead of really outdoors, a big tank on the back lot for ocean scenes.

We went to the movies every Friday night and always listened to the Oscars on radio and after they were on TV, of course TV. While I was a kid, dad always told us which of the stars were nice and which weren’t complete with anecdotes.

The best thing about this year’s awards was Hugh Jackman. Who knew the man could sing and dance? The production itself was grand. But, I must admit, I haven’t seen hardly any of the movies. Nowadays the movies that seem to win are about horrible people with angst and unhappy endings. I did enjoy Benjamin Buttons because it was a fairy tale. I saw Changeling too, and it was okay. I loved the L.A. scenes. I was once a phone operator, but the scenes in the movie were before my time, though we had to dress up and wear nylons, no one roller skated. I did ride on the streetcar to get to work though.

The movies I liked best didn’t win anything. Australia was great–like an old time epic film, like Gone With the Wind but with a happy ending. Mama Mia was great fun, saw it with my two grown daughters who danced and sang in the aisles.

It’s time Hollywood made more happy movies to raise our spirits during this difficult economic time.

Marilyn
I have a new interview here: http://tinyurl.com/chudrp

Too Much Stuff

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With a tip of the hat to the brilliant, much-missed comedian, George Carlin, lately I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about “stuff.” We’re planning to down-size and move to a smaller house, and my biggest fear is what to do with all this stuff.

Fans well remember Carlin’s famous riff:
That’s all your house is: a place to keep your stuff. If you didn’t have so much stuff, you wouldn’t need a house. A house is just a pile of stuff with a cover on it.

I’m going to skip any of the sentimental attachments that develop when you’ve lived in a house for 20 years. The memories come with you, I keep telling myself.

But OY, the stuff. Consider:

I have my stuff in several boxes marked memorabilia, and includes every drawing made by son number one because after all, he was first born. A few scribbles from son number two, because kids drawings were still a novelty. Apparently son number three and daughter never picked up a pencil because there is nada from them. Plus all their report cards, mother’s day cards, letters from my parents and sister, and probably my high school yearbook, although I haven’t seen it since the last move. There are also cartons of photographs which include duplicates because the drugstore gave you two prints of each photo when they printed them out for you. (Note the archaic concepts in that one sentence: that you didn’t have the photos on a digital memory card, that there was someplace called a drugstore, and that someone other than yourself was printing them out). See, getting rid of stuff means getting rid of the old ways of thinking too.

There are separate boxes of my husband’s memorabilia, although he’s not quite the sniveling ball of sentiment that I am.

There is memorabilia accumulated by each of the kid. For example, I have playbills from the sixth grade production of My Fair Lady. Keep in mind that I sat through all six performances, plus two dress rehearsals, of this musical. Son number one had exactly one line (which I can still repeat): “Mr. Doolittle to see you, sir.” How many copies of that playbill does he need? Also in these boxes are complete collections of all soccer, baseball, hockey, baseketball, “you didn’t win, but you still get a tiny trophy because everyone’s a winner in our town,” fake brass awards times four.

But let’s move beyond my stuff, hubby’s stuff, kids stuff. When parents downsize their homes, you inherit their stuff. When my mother-in-law moved from her home of 40 years to an apartment, she couldn’t bear to donate her late husband’s fishing equipment. There probably isn’t a charity dedicated to underprivileged fly fishermen. On the other hand, these ancient rods and reels have now taken on mythic proportions in my not so-sentimental husband’s memories, so we could move to a studio apartment and in one corner would be three fishing rods and a tackle box. This from the man who hasn’t gone fishing in 10 years – and didn’t use his Dad’s stuff then.

And sadly, when your parents die, and you have to break up their homes, you make snap decisions on their “stuff,” that you then have to live with. For example, consumed by grief when our mother died, my sister took Mom’s pink hairnet. Three months later, with a little clearer perspective, she asked me what the heck she should do with it. It certainly wasn’t the essence of our mother, but it now seemed tacky to discard it. As my sister pointed out, “now that I’ve taken it, I’ve got it,” followed by a heavy sigh.

I admire those who can pare down their belongings to two sets of clean underwear and a change of shirts. I understand their world view that they can more clearly see what’s important and what’s not without stuff weighing them down. I can’t pare it down that much for a weekend trip, let alone a move. I know the concept of dumping all this “stuff” might be liberating, but it’s also exhausting.

What are you doing with your stuff?

Evelyn David