Tag Archive for: Kimberly Jayne

When Novelists Aren’t Being Novelists

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By Kimberly Jayne

As a novelist, I know how important it is to write regularly—daily, in fact. One reason is that you have to keep the creative chops from getting rusty; the more you write, the easier it is. But the bigger arguments are that the more you write, the richer your writing becomes and the faster your next novel meets its big-finish line.
But what happens when life gets in the way of creative pursuits, and writing every day just isn’t possible?

Well, for one thing, guilt sets in. When you know writing is your calling, being unable to meet expectations for daily output can induce nagging bouts of guilt at any point during your waking hours. Priorities are not much fun for an author when they don’t include writing. Over time, the absence of writing leads to frustration, which only mounts with each passing week. Not to mention that if you have a good network of other authors in your corner, they’ll know you’re doing diddly squat too. So let’s add shame and self-flagellation to the mix.

Thence comes the whining. This is why the life of an author is not for sissies. It’s hard enough to get respect from the masses for the difficulties involved in bleeding out an entire novel in the middle of life’s little chaoses; but when you, as a writer, can’t keep your top priority in its place as the top priority, you know something drastic has to happen. Things must change, if only for the sake of sanity.

I’ve been experiencing this very thing for the past several months due to business and pleasure travels, housing searches for the day-job transfer from Austin to Plano, day-job overtime, and family obligations, not to mention a few other unpleasant things life has thrown at me. So, I’m heavy into the guilt-and-frustration-and shame phase of the author who’s not writing—hence, this admittedly whiny post.

Thankfully, I’ve stricken several of the obstacles from my list, as of this weekend (long-distance apartment hunting is not for the faint-hearted either), and I’m happy to say I’m feeling much more optimistic about how much writing I’m going to get done—er, soon. Right after I finish packing and moving in two weeks, and unpacking, and adjusting to the new day-job conditions. Yeah, I’m going to kick this guilt-and-frustration-and-shame thing real soon.
__________________________________________
Kimberly Jayne writes humor, romantic comedy, suspense, erotica, and dark fantasy. You can check her out on Amazon. Find out more about her at ReadKimberly.com.

Planting the Seeds of Reading and Writing

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By Kimberly Jayne

When I was eight, I was a third-grade student at Desert View Elementary. My teacher was a tiny elderly woman in her eighties. Mrs. Hawkins was sweet and welcoming and, because of her, I looked forward to going to school. I adored her.

It was 1963, a year that changed America, and a year that Mrs. Hawkins changed me.

I remember to this day her announcement that she was going to teach us fractions, and we were going to absolutely love it because fractions are so much fun. Whether by the power of suggestion or her teaching methods, she was right. Fractions were fun. Multiplication tables were fun too. I digress and give her a C on division. Because of division I received the only “2” (B) in an entire year of report cards decorated in “1s”
(A’s).


Mrs. Hawkins holds a very special place in my heart for not only getting me to appreciate math and school in general, she taught me to love reading. She read to the class first from E.B. White’s Stuart Little and then from The Pink Motel by Carol Ryrie Brink, and then another book whose name I don’t recall. Every day we’d hear a chapter, and I couldn’t wait for reading time. When I was home, I would think about Mrs. Hawkins and what wonderful things might happen next in the story.

More than anything she read, it was The Pink Motel that transformed me from a kid who liked books into a kid
with an avid love of storytelling. Mrs. Hawkins kept me spellbound with a book that pulled me in and made me feel like I was right there with Kirby and Bitsy in that Pink Motel with a menagerie of quirky characters.

And from those stories, I became a storyteller in my own right.

At the end of the school year, I was happy for summer, but I missed Mrs. Hawkins. I went to say hello when I entered the fourth grade, but she wasn’t there. She didn’t return to teach because during the summer, she had passed away. Even now, I get a lump in my throat when I think of her and what a tremendous affect she had on me.

Do you have someone from your early life who instilled in you a love of reading and writing?

__________________________________________
Kimberly Jayne writes humor, romantic comedy, suspense, erotica, and dark fantasy. You can check her out on Amazon. Find out more about her at ReadKimberly.





Working Through It: Motivation in Backstory

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By Kimberly Jayne

The last three
months, I’ve felt like I’ve been stuck on Survivor.
I don’t know about you, but from my perspective, with the election won by the
most disagreeable guy on the island (who should have been easily voted off)—and
a death in my family—I’ve been grieving. And it’s affected my writing.

But like everything
else that tests my sanity, I’m confident this too shall pass. It’s worth noting,
though, that when the Fates point our heads in one direction, their sleights of
hand point us in another without our recognizing it until after the fact.

Case in point…
Instead of actually writing, I’ve had a lot of time to think—some of it even
deliberately. While I’m not able to boast productivity in word counts, I am
able to count lots of behind-the-scenes progress on premise, backstory,
character motivation, truths, lies, and arc.
 
In my dark fantasy, the mystery
aspect of the plot concerns where the protagonist comes from and the secret nature
of her existence, which informs the trajectory of her arc and will ultimately
make an enormous impact on her world. Shocking, actually. Some of this was
already sketched out but just vague enough to roadblock my forward momentum.

So, back to thinking,
or rather, creative hashing out. For the story engine, the “why”
aspect of the character’s motivation is the jet fuel that can turn a book into
a page-turner—or a disorganized snoozefest, if you’re always running on empty.
It’s also the kind of epic behind-the-scenes battle that writers frequently
avoid because it’s just not easy. And until writers resolve these “why”
elements, they’ll torture themselves with “how it should all go—this way,
not that way—wait, that other way, because what if…” until it’s perfect. Until
it’s perfect, procrastination is the well-spring of writer’s block.

So while I’ve been
alternately moping and becoming a better activist, my brain has been
percolating on “why” story elements that are making my book
better—far better. I didn’t realize the extent of this percolation until a
series of light-bulb moments culminated in giddy, hand-rubbing, Mr. Hyde-like
epiphanies.
 
And all it took was staring off in deep thought, scribbling notes
on napkins, texting plot fragments to myself, talking it out with my cats, and forcing
a series of writing sessions where my progress was measured by how many minutes
my butt stayed in my chair. Of course, it helps to have writing buddies who
will brainstorm and pro-and-con ideas with me.

What all this means
is that I’ve created a stronger spine on which to hang my story. I know the
truths, and I know the lies. And now I have to wield them with precision. I’m
beginning to enjoy the writing again and celebrate the return of a terrific
adventure I enjoy diving into in each day—in a place where I can ignore all the
hijinks happening on the island.

__________________________________________

Kimberly Jayne writes humor, romantic comedy, suspense, erotica, and dark fantasy. Her latest foray into a dark fantasy released in episodes is as much an adventure as the writing itself. You can check her out on Amazon. Find out more about her at ReadKimberly.

Books by Kimberly Jayne:

Take My Husband, Please: An Unconventional Romantic ComedyDemonesse: Avarus, Episode 1
Demonesse: Avarus, Episode 2
Demonesse: Avarus, Episode 3
All the Innuendo, Half the Fact: Reflections of a Fragrant Liar

 

The Perfect Holiday Gift of Unconventional Romantic Comedy

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By Kimberly Jayne


Happy holidays to all! This month, with Take My Husband, Please! on sale for the holidays, I’d like to give you a taste of what reviewers and critics are saying:



From Publisher’s Weekly’s BookLife Prize in Fiction: “Slightly madcap, suddenly sweet, this novel combines the best of female friendship with soulful exploration of passion in its many forms. The dialog-heavy, elegant writing style pulls readers into a world that is difficult to leave.”



From the Midwest Book Review: “A delightfully quirky yet all-too-human cast of supporting characters rounds out this genre-busting tragi-sexy-drama-comedy. Highly recommended!”



From Readers’ Favorite: “Take My Husband, Please by Kimberly Jayne was a wonderful romance and a complete delight to read. I really enjoyed this book and I recommend it to anyone who likes a good combination of comedy and romance.



From Self-Publishing Review: “A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy. Will and Sophie are wonderfully flawed characters who find themselves in one absurd situation after another that’ll have you in stitches. In addition, the quirky supporting cast really brings this novel to life, and the author was able to throw in several hilarious and suspenseful twists and turns.


And if that doesn’t entice you to gift this delightful romantic comedy to someone you love—including yourself—here’s the opening excerpt:



CHAPTER ONE


Mitch Houdini clung to Sophie’s shoulders like the week’s dry cleaning as she led him inside. Loud enough to scare off intruders, her strappy stilettos click-clack-click-clacked across the hardwoods and echoed off the walls, giving her foyer a deserted feel. She reached for the lights but thought better of it because, in the dark, a few stubborn extra pounds and some baby-birthing stretch marks don’t exist. Right?


Mitch kicked the door shut and twirled Sophie around, painting a wet trail of kisses along her neck that fueled her long-suppressed yearning to be touched and adored—worshipped even—by a man. This man. From the moment he’d whisked her away in his Lamborghini convertible for a happy hour that had lingered to midnight, Mitch had been a heat-seeking missile she could not deflect. Not that she wanted to after all those Mexican martinis.


She reached behind, dropped her keys on a wood console table cluttered with framed photos and a warming pot of orange blossom-scented wax, and discreetly flipped a family portrait on its face. After the date she’d had, prying eyes need not sabotage her mission.


“Sophie.”


His voice vibrated the hair on her neck like plucked violin strings. He caressed her face in his hands and let his brazen tongue probe one ear, exploring every hill and cranny like he polished the chrome wheels of his cherished Lamborghini—cleaning and buffing and shining—and shooting chills right to her marrow. He followed with an invitation for dueling tongues, and by then she figured there wasn’t much that tongue of his couldn’t do. Still, she had imagined he would taste more like Don Juan instead of Cuban cigars and Stolichnaya.


Mitch took a breath and shrugged out of his sports coat, revealing a wedge-shaped torso that strained against the fabric of his tailored shirt. She stood in the shadow of his six-four frame, the ceiling vents blasting cold air on her skin, while his hands ventured where no man had gone for nearly two years. He thumbed her breasts through her little black dress and a pushup bra with its work cut out for it, igniting a white-hot desire between her legs. Every millimeter of her womanhood begged for the point of no return. Begged.


That’s when he crushed himself against her.


Whoa. So the rumors were true. His manhood was the stuff of local legend, regaled in water cooler jokes about some hocus pocus that had to be kept under wraps—an industrial-length Mr. Slinky. Uncompressed, it could be dangerous. His massive hardness rolled against her bellybutton and his soft moans set her on fire.


Teasing him with a gentle bite on his lower lip, she drew him into the shadowy living room, around the sofa. He pulled her closer, his hands disappearing under her dress and searing his fingerprints into her bare skin. She felt her lacy panties shift and roll down until they stretched around her thighs. As his fingers explored the terrain between her legs, her breath caught and she could no longer wait.


She pushed him onto the sofa and pounced on top of him. But in less time than it took to say, Wheeee! Sophie felt herself flying backward. She landed on the coffee table with her feet in the air and her bottom winking at the ceiling.


“What the hell?” Mitch said, scrambling to his feet.


“What the hell?” came another man’s voice.


“What the hell?” Sophie echoed, clapping her hands to turn on the lamp.


A man in a black T-shirt and sweats rolled off the sofa, fast-blinking and squinting as if he’d just woken up, his salt-and-pepper mullet spiked in all directions.


Sophie gasped and gaped. “Why the hell are you in my house?”


Mitch launched into a fighting stance with his fists up. “Who is this?”


“He’s my— he’s my—” She blew out an exasperated sigh. “Husband.”


“Your husband?” Mitch’s face turned the same shade as the Sultry Summer Spice lip color smudged around his bruised mouth.


“Ex-husband, actually.”


“Not ex yet,” the mullet-headed man said.


Sophie huffed and rolled her eyes, gesturing at each man by way of introduction. “Will Camden, Mitchell Houdini.”


They made no move to shake hands, and a hot rash of embarrassment spread across her skin. Will had never seen her with another man before. Had he heard her mouth kissing Mitch’s? Her sighs escaping? Her primal need for fulfillment screaming?


The hot rash began to itch then, and she wiped her swollen lips. Her hair clip fell out and bounced on the hardwoods, and that’s when she noticed her push-up pads had dislodged themselves and wiggled up to her neck. Great. Now she had no boobs, an up-don’t, and her dignity bunched around her ankles. It was official. She was a slut.


“I don’t feel well.” She held her stomach and wavered on her heels, reaching down to pull up her panties when the martinis went to her head, her eyes crossed, and the room swirled. Down she went like a felled redwood.


Will extricated the panties from her heels and dangled them from his fingertips. “You wear a G-string now?”


Mitch hauled her up by the armpits. “Something you want to tell me?”


Sophie snatched back her panties and squeezed her eyes shut to quell the dizziness. “There’s not much to tell. We’ve been separated for more than a year, and now we’re getting divorced. The papers have been filed. Speaking of divorce, Will, did you forget you don’t live here anymore?”


“I’m here because somebody had to pick up the kids from the slumber party. They’re upstairs, sick.”


“What? Both of them?”


“Too much sugar would be my guess. And omigod, the projectile barfing was epic. I’m talking some serious industrial-strength chum. First, one would blow and then the other. I think they were tag-teaming me. I divvied out the Pepto-Bismol, and at least that didn’t come back up.”


Mitch’s mouth contorted through various incarnations of horror.


“Exactly,” Will said. “Regurgitated strawberry shortcake is something you don’t want to miss in your lifetime.”


“Good god.” Sophie dug her fingers into her forehead. A lifelong bachelor like Mitch Houdini had to be eased into the dark side of childrearing. Will could play tough, but he had his less-than-shining moments too; he was the king of squeamish stomachs. “You gave up a sympathy barf, didn’t you?”


Will screwed up his face, not bothering to deny it. “Point is, I was here for the kids. I handled it. The kitchen, the staircase, even the big wet spot on your bed.” Before she could ask, he waved it off. “They’re fine now, I’m telling you. It’s just that Keely had to see for herself that you weren’t in there, and—”


Mitch backed into the foyer. “Look, I don’t know who’s interrupting here, me or your—er, husband. So I should go and let you two work this out.”


Dammit. This was her one night. She’d been crushing on this man for months; and after a handful of dates, they’d passed the hardest part, broken the slab of ice that had encased her libido for so long.


She thrust her palm flat toward him. “Please don’t go. Will is leaving, aren’t you? Because, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, you don’t live here anymore.”


“Ah, yes,” Will said, his mouth an intractable slash. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your…” finger quotes, “big date. Can’t put a kink in Sophie’s plans with the—” quotes again, “big date, now can we?”


“You know,” Mitch said from the foyer, forming finger quotes of his own, “the big date is still here.”


Will squinted at him. “Yeah, why is that, Mitchell?”


The way he said Mitchell was equivalent to verbal spitting. They both stood with eyes narrowed, chins high, and chests puffed out. A cockfight waiting to happen.


Mitch towered over Will by six inches with shoulders and arms to match. He extended a hand. “It’s Mitch. Mitch Houdini. We’re all adults here. Why don’t we start over?”


Will grudgingly shook Mitch’s hand, and each man’s arm tensed in the protracted squeezing of Olympic wrestlers, jaws clenching and nostrils flaring. Mitch’s biceps bulged through his dress shirt, and his face contorted with the effort. Will scrunched up his face like he might have been on the crapper.


Sophie planted herself between them and peeled their hands apart. “There we go,” she said, as if breaking up two first graders. “There we go. All civil again. Isn’t that better?”


Will pointed a wavering finger. “Houdini. Houdini Real Estate? Where We Make the Home of Your Dreams Appear Like Magic? Aren’t you Sophie’s boss?”


Sophie crossed her arms over her chest. “He’s not my boss.”


“I’m her sponsoring broker,” Mitch said. “Sophie is her own boss.”


The cuckoo lurched in and out of a tiny cubbyhole in the clock, crowing twelve times in a thick, gelatinous quiet, when Will turned a wary gaze on Sophie.


She opened the front door, tamping down the creeping swell of guilt. “We’re past the judging phase, Will.” The cool night air swirled around her bare legs, and she guided him with a scooping hand gesture toward the exit. “Thanks for getting the kids.”


He got nose to nose with her. “Just one more thing.”


She tapped her foot while he readied himself to say just one more thing. “Well?”


“Sophie,” he said, with some apparent mental wrangling and a sidelong glance at Mitch. And then he muttered, “I’m staying in the studio for a while.”


Sophie leaned closer. “What? The shed?”


“The studio, the shed, whatever. I’m staying in it for a while.”


“Ohhellno, you’re not.”


“Ohhellyes, I am.” He turned and headed straight for the back door.


She ran ahead and blocked the door with her body. “What’s going on? You’re not staying here unless I know why.”


His voice dropped to a whisper. “I got… laid off.”


“Laid off?” she shouted. “When?”


“Shhh.” He peered over his shoulder. “Could we not yell it to the world?”


“You’re a director of product development. You have products to develop.”


He shook his head. “Whole division is gone. Three months ago. It makes business sense. They’re reorganizing, and—”
“Are you kidding?” Sophie could feel her temper building to an ugly pitch. “You waited till now to tell me? What about your condo?”


“Sold it. Buyers wanted in early. They’re leasing it back from me till the closing, which is three or four weeks from this morning. So…”


“Will Camden! You seriously can’t—”


He placed one hand over her mouth. “Now, don’t say something you’ll regret. I know this seems like a good time to lay into me, but I just need the studio temporarily, till my money’s freed up.”


Her resolve to not speak wavered until he removed his hand. “There’s no place to sleep down there. Junk’s everywhere. You still haven’t cleaned out all your stuff. The electricity isn’t even connected. Not to mention the black widows and fat, flying, disgusting cockroaches.”


“Come on, your cockroaches are not fat.”


“It’s got a padlock on it, and the door is all wonky and—”


“I have been here before, and I do have a key.”


Sophie’s lips pressed into a scowl, which was hard to maintain given that he was still mourning his father. It had only been a few months since Gus Camden passed. How could she be heartless and not help his grieving son? Still, a night in the shed for anyone, much less Will, was nonsensical. His eyes looked tired and red, and those broad shoulders she’d once leaned on with such unwavering trust now sagged. Had he lost weight?


She tilted her chin. “I want you out of my life, Will.”


“Yeah? Well, I wouldn’t take you back if you begged me.”


“Good. Because I would never beg.”


It was an exchange they’d volleyed back and forth since he moved out and always resulted in a Camden Standoff, two ex-lovers, ex-confidants, ex-family, ex-everything glaring until somebody blinked.


Sophie raised a finger and opened the door. “One night. Do you understand? One night.”


Will gave a withering last glance before he flipped on the porch light, crossed the deck, and descended three steps to the flagstone pavers that led to the erstwhile-music-studio-turned-dilapidated-shed at the far corner of an oversized yard. Head hanging, he looked back, affecting a weird, tight-lipped smile that did nothing to reassure her that he was all right.


But the massive oak trees cast opaque shadows across the yard; he tripped over Keely’s pink Schwinn and landed on the chrome handlebars with dangling neon ribbons. His elbow thumped the rubber horn, and a clownish honk echoed through the air. He bounced up as if it had never happened and disappeared into the night with a slight limp.


Sophie shut the door, awash with questions. How bad were things that Will Camden would sleep in a bug-infested junk room?
_____________________________________

Want to get your copy? Find it here on Amazon: Take My Husband, Please.

Kimberly Jayne is the author of the dark fantasy series Demonesse: Avarus and the hilarious romantic comedy Take My Husband, Please. She has been making up stories since she was five, when she scribbled on her grandfather’s notepads her first tall tale about pigs flying. Yes, she started that shtick. Since then, she’s written just about everything and for various websites and clients, including humor features for Playgirl Magazine. She also performed her work in the 2011 Listen to Your Mother Show in Austin, Texas. Visit her at ReadKimberly.com.  

The Four Fs of November

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By Kimberly Jayne

November is my favorite color. And it’s also the combination of family,
fun, football, and the Frustration 50. Let me explain.

Family, of course, because of Thanksgiving gatherings; there’s
nothing I love more than being with my family members and feasting and fullness—usually
too-fullness. Fun because it’s my favorite season, and while the painted canopies
flicker in the sunlight and blanket the ground with fall magnificence, I can
rejoice in jeans, boots, and sweaters—what I call finery. November is also for
football. Woot! And FF for Fantasy Football, fall’s double whammy.

Finally, there’s the Frustration 50, because NaNoWriMo. If
you know what that is, I feel your shuddering from here. If not, let me fill
you in. NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month, and it dares us to write a
novel of 50,000 words November 1–30. That’s 1,667 words a day for 30 days, yo.

Close to half a million people are participating in
NaNoWriMo this year, and across America people are gathering in coffee shops
and online to discuss words and stories—and their frustrations at trying to
meet this demanding word count in so little time. And I’m one of them.

It’s haaaaaard! After the first week, I’m reluctant to
announce how behind I am in words and how overflowing I am in caffeine. I knew
I would be (and as the saying goes, if you think you will, you’re right!). Hey,
I have the complications of a day job that eats up 10 hours of my day,
including travel, and the foils of after-hours fatigue because of said day job,
so achieving the daily 1,667 word count precisely defines “challenge”
in the dictionary. Feeling my Frustration 50 reference now?

As of today, I should have written 11,669 words. I’m not
even close. I’m at about 4,000. But they are 4,000 words I didn’t have before, so
I’m not a complete failure. If I keep at it, I surely will finish in record
time the last two episodes of my dark fantasy Demonesse: Avarus. And I’m determined to finish because it’s my
favorite time of year, I’m happiest and most motivated in November, and I’m up
for a dare.

November is also for foolish, but that’s a whole other post.

What about you? Are you braving the challenge of NaNoWriMo?
__________________________________________

Kimberly Jayne writes humor, romantic comedy, suspense, erotica,
and dark fantasy. Her latest foray into a dark fantasy released in episodes is
as much an adventure as the writing itself. You can check her out on Amazon. Find
out more about her at ReadKimberly.

Books by Kimberly Jayne:


Take My Husband, Please: An Unconventional Romantic Comedy
Demonesse:
Avarus, Episode 1
Demonesse:
Avarus, Episode 2
Demonesse: Avarus, Episode 3
All the Innuendo, Half the Fact: Reflections of a
Fragrant Liar

 

Too Perfect

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By
Kimberly Jayne

I
love journals. I request them for birthdays and other gift-giving opportunities
where I can actually tell people what they can buy me. They’re going to buy me
something, so it may as well be what I want, right? Journals are beautiful
inside and out, and I must have them. Plus, I have never found a reason to
re-gift a journal. Ever. Because that would be wrong. 

But
here’s the problem. You knew there would be one, right? Yes, there’s a problem.
It’s the girdle of perfection that squeezes the daring out of me. See, my
beloved journals are perfect. I adore them. I fondle their smooth edges and
bindings and dream of the worthy thoughts and ideas that only I can pour
inside. I covet them like Scrooge covets his bags of gold, all for myself. The
one thing I don’t do is write in them. They are simply too perfect. 

I
currently have a collection of a dozen beautiful journals that now serve only
to taunt me because they’re gathering dust and slowly disintegrating, as all
things do with the passage of time, without the glory of someone’s pen (mine)
scrawling and jotting and doodling and masterpiecing across their pages. I
know. This could be the very definition of sad. *Sheds pitiful writer’s tears.*

So,
obviously, this is a bit of a conundrum because the reason I ask for journals
in the first place is precisely because they’re beautiful, and I really do want
to write in them. One would be perfect for recounting my life so my children
would actually learn who I am after I’m dead. One would be perfect for writing my
innermost thoughts about men and relationships and sex—but, er, what if someone
finds it after I’m dead? And still another without lines would be perfect for
drawing and sketching and arting, except that I’m no Michelangelo. I’m not even
a Southpark Trey Parker. And there I’d be, embarrassing my children from the
grave. *Pauses. Considers the merits of this one.*

I
have intended to change this situation for a long time, coaxing and finagling,
and bribing myself into writing something in each journal. So far, I
have inscribed my name. I do have nice handwriting. Meanwhile, I keep adding
more journals. Every time I walk into a book store, I walk out with a perfect,
hoardworthy journal that remains as I received it: empty and deprived.

So I
mentioned this little “problem” to some writer friends at a retreat last
weekend. One of them is not only a writer and a longtime friend but a life and
creativity coach. A wise and delightful woman, she immediately identified a
solution. Wabi-sabi. 

Wabi-sabi
represents Japanese aesthetics and a world view centered on the acceptance of
transience and imperfection. A concept derived from Buddhism, the aesthetic is
described as beauty that is imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete. Like my
journals. Characteristics of the wabi-sabi aesthetic include asymmetry,
roughness, and the ingenuous integrity of natural objects and processes. In
other words, Wabi-sabi says the beauty of an object is in its flaws. In a
pretty but cracked vase, wabi-sabi is the flaw where the gift of light pours
in. And whose broken heart isn’t the personification of wabi-sabi?

In
short, wabi-sabi struck me right between the brain lobes, creating a fissure in
my thinking—and how very wabi-sabi that there the light shined in. It was so
simple. So illuminating. So right in front of me all along. By writing in my
journals, I’m not sullying their pages with my existential drivel. I’m not
destroying the beauty and perfection of their craftsmanship. I’m not wasting
the trees that gave their lives to be tattooed by my brain matter. In fact, I’m
making my journals more beautiful, more valuable, more worthwhile—if to no one
else but me. And any family that survives me. 

To make sure I won’t slide back into [absurd] old habits, I invited two of my nanababies to color on the first few pages. And guess what? The journals have become even more precious to me and, far from perfect, I’m free to fill them up with abandon—and writer stuff.

What
about you? What can wabi-sabi do for you? How can it break the girdle of
perfection that binds you? Can it free you, as it has freed me?
 
_____________________
Kimberly Jayne is the author of the dark fantasy series Demonesse: Avarus and the hilarious romantic comedy Take My Husband, Please. She has been making up stories since she was five, when she scribbled on her grandfather’s notepads her first tall tale about pigs flying. Yes, she started that shtick. Since then, she’s written just about everything and for various websites and clients, including humor features for Playgirl Magazine. She also performed her work in the 2011 Listen to Your Mother Show in Austin, Texas. Visit her at ReadKimberly.com.  
 

Celebrated by Americans since 1884

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By Kimberly
Jayne
“All
other holidays are in a more or less degree connected with conflicts and
battles of man’s prowess over man, of strife and discord for greed and power,
of glories achieved by one nation over another. Labor Day… is devoted to no
man, living or dead, to no sect, race, or nation.”
~
Samuel Gompers
Founder
of the American Federation of Labor
Happy Labor Day! It’s
not just for traditional American workers — those 8-to-5’ers who bring home a
regular paycheck and enjoy the benefits of paid vacations, sick days, and
coworker relationships. It’s for everyone who works hard at their craft too,
alone in their struggle, like writers.
I always wonder if the broadest section
of society that does not write books understands the labor that goes into it.
Countless people remark, when they learn I’m a writer, that they could or want
to write a book too. Or they offer me a great idea for a book, which is not
such a good idea because it’s something that doesn’t fit me; it fits them.
The truth is most people will never write
a book. I think on some level, they must have an inkling of the time, energy,
persistence, dedication, and honed talent it takes to finish a project of that
size and scope. And for most writers, the ROI for our hard work is abysmal. It truly is a labor of love.
I think we all have a book within
us — certainly, we all have stories within us. But it’s those who do the work, who
push beyond the self-doubt, who churn out the paragraphs and pages and plots
that make magical worlds come to life inside the reader, who can be most proud
of their achievements.
This holiday weekend alone, I’ve written about 2,500 words, which is hard to accomplish during the regular work week where I am a writer and editor for a trade publication and where I enjoy all the perks of more “traditional” workers. 
So to all you writers out there who toil in the spare
hours of your day, the weekend warriors who fast-write while they have free
time away from the J.O.B., those who overcome the obstacles and blast through
the blocks, and those midnight-oil-burners who punch those keys long after everyone else is asleep, I celebrate you! I hope you’re celebrating your successes on this Labor Day too. 
________________ 
Kimberly Jayne writes in multiple genres including humor, romantic comedy, suspense, erotica, and dark fantasy. Her latest foray into a dark fantasy released in episodes is as much an adventure as the writing itself. You can check her out on Amazon. Find out more about her at ReadKimberly.

Books by Kimberly Jayne:


Take My Husband, Please! A Romantic Comedy
Watch for Episode 4, coming soon!

Literary Sadist: Make Them Suffer

/in , /by

By Kimberly Jayne 


If there’s one thing I relish about writing, it’s making my characters suffer. Happy people with no challenges don’t inspire page turning. Movies operate on the same premise. When I watch Far from the Madding Crowd, based on Thomas Hardy’s 1874 novel of the same name, the most fascinating thing about it is that I can always ask, What bad thing could happen next? And after that, what bad thing could happen now? The story is fraught with suffering and disappointments and love unrequited times three. Exactly why I liked it. I try to do the same thing with my stories.


Does that make me a literary sadist? Probably, but I also enjoy seeing flawed characters reap the rewards derived from their most
agonizing struggles and spring from the ashes of their misery into some sort of transformative happy dance. The farther they fall, the more gratifying their rise.


Of course, making them suffer requires we hurl betrayals and terror and shock and shame and all manner of bad juju at them. Muuu-ah-ah-ah. I’m getting excited just thinking about it. And then, we make them survive. What that survival looks like is one of the most rewarding aspects of telling stories. It calls on us to look inside ourselves and imagine what we would think and do in those situations, how we would feel and act if we were brave or desperate determined enough. 


In my dark fantasy, Demonesse:
Avarus, my protagonist is the virtuous, empathic daughter of an excommunicated nun. After months of erotic fantasies, she awakens into her new life as a seductive killer powerless to resist the moon’s calling. This is everything she was raised not to be. Her idyll is shattered and she is thrust into a life-altering journey that will challenge everything she knows and mold her into the person she was born to be. It won’t be easy. The rubber bands of tension are consistently stretched and tested so this character’s story arc will be dramatic and, I hope, as gratifying to read as it was for me to write.


________________ 
Kimberly Jayne writes in multiple genres including humor, romantic comedy, suspense, erotica, and dark fantasy. Her latest foray into a dark fantasy released in episodes is as much an adventure as the writing itself. You can check her out on Amazon. Find out more about her at ReadKimberly.


Books by Kimberly Jayne:





Take My Husband, Please! A Romantic Comedy
Demonesse: Avarus, Episode 1
Demonesse: Avarus, Episode 2
Demonesse: Avarus, Episode 3
All the Innuendo, Half the Fact: Reflections of a Fragrant Liar






Let Freedom Ring!

/in /by

By Kimberly Jayne


It’s the 4th of July, and a proper day to feel grateful for all the freedoms our forefathers and mothers granted us. As an American, I’m most grateful for the First Amendment, giving me freedom of speech. As an American writer, I can speak whatever my heart desires in my chosen artistic form, be it fanciful fiction, a memoir of my life experience, erotica, or protests against my government. 


Certainly, the United States isn’t perfect, and it’s all too easy to take our freedoms for granted because we’ve never lived without them. But we all recognize that there are people around the world who wouldn’t dare put their thoughts into words or on paper for fear of reprisal or imprisonment by their hostile governments. 


So today, I’m feeling especially grateful for my freedoms. I hope, like me, you will enjoy your holiday with friends and family and celebrate being an American. 


__________________________________


Take My Husband, Please!
By Kimberly Jayne

If you could teach your ex-husband a lesson, would you?

After Sophie files for divorce from Will, his unexpected financial apocalypse brings him back under her roof. Awkward! And if that’s not bad enough, Sophie’s new guy—a sexy and successful entrepreneur—is not keen on dating her without proof that Will is truly out of the picture. Sophie and her best friend concoct a brilliant bet to keep Will “occupied,” but things take a surprise turn for the crazy when Sophie gets roped into sending her ex on five blind dates!

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry. You might even want to Take My Husband, Please! Available on Amazon in ebook and paperback.

For more about Kimberly Jayne, please visit www.readkimberly.com.

An Impassioned Kiss-Off

/in /by

By Kimberly Jayne

To My Darling,

It pains me to tell you that I’ve been plotting your demise. I admit, I had trouble imagining life without you as I reveled in your magnificence. You were sexy, intelligent, and witty once upon a time, as if you jumped right out of a Conroy novel. Indeed, I adored everything about you, even your spelling.

But you were immune to conflict, and every tweak I gave you was for naught. When I finally critiqued you constructively, I wondered if you were really even necessary. Could you still be relevant after all the changes we’d gone through? Or were you simply cluttering my life?

I admit, I had to ask myself, what part did my ego play in keeping you around?

Darling, all words are important. Except yours. Repetitive and passive, you lack the elements of style. You are hyperbole to the succinct snappiness I long for. When others gasped (reading you far better than I), I knew it was time to drop you like a clichéd hot potato. We all make sacrifices, darling. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one. So said Mr. Spock once. Besides, you are not tight. And I like tight. Everybody likes tight.

Oh, I could keep you around, try to modify your behavior, juxtapose your more salient points, or even attempt to resurrect you to glory. But my trust in you would be misplaced. I see that now, and I can quit you. When you’re gone, you’ll leave a space. But only one. And I’m determined to make a scene, so get ready.

Farewell, my darling. It’s a dark and stormy night for you. Time for me to cut you and bury you in my garden where no one will find you. With the proper point of view, I’ll transition and move on. As of now, you are dead to me.

Never more,

Your Creator

Author’s note: All good writers must do this thing known as “killing your darlings”—so called because of how hard it is to delete words, sentences, paragraphs, and even entire chapters when you’ve put so much creative energy into them and they seem so perfect, so darling. But killing off what no longer works is a must to maintain the integrity of the story, and sometimes it requires nothing less than an impassioned kiss-off.
__________________________________

Take My Husband, Please!
By Kimberly Jayne

If you could teach your ex-husband a lesson, would you?

After Sophie files for divorce from Will, his unexpected financial apocalypse brings him back under her roof. Awkward! And if that’s not bad enough, Sophie’s new guy—a sexy and successful entrepreneur—is not keen on dating her without proof that Will is truly out of the picture. Sophie and her best friend concoct a brilliant bet to keep Will “occupied,” but things take a surprise turn for the crazy when Sophie gets roped into sending her ex on five blind dates!

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry. You might even want to Take My Husband, Please! Available on Amazon in ebook and paperback.

For more about Kimberly Jayne, please visit www.readkimberly.com.