Tag Archive for: Laura Spinella

Title Me This

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By Laura Spinella
Titles are interesting things. Often, they grow organically out of a work
in progress, popping up on a dusty, finger-smudged screen, the author shouting,
“Eureka! That’s it, that’s the title!” At least, that’s how it usually plays
out for me.  I don’t think much about the
title going in. Compared to the angst of getting a whole book on paper, the given
name for any blood, sweat and tears of mine seems like well-earned dessert for
eating all my peas. I’m partial to titles that play out in the narrative, so
much the better if it shows up in a pivotal segment of dialogue. In BEAUTIFUL DISASTER, my protagonist gets the cue. He poses the phrase as an inner
thought on the precipice of an intense romantic scene:
Flynn realized he’d said the last part with his eyes closed. When he
opened them he was startled to find Mia two steps from his face. What the hell
was she doing there, so close to him? She was so goddamn beautiful, and this…
This showed all the signs of a beautiful disaster. He repeats it out loud
near the book’s climax, as he leaves Mia for what appears to be the last time,
saying, “I shouldn’t have come back here.
Let it go, sweetheart. It… it was never anything more than a beautiful
disaster.”  
I remember
typing those words, unsure if my novel would ever find a publisher. I did know,
however, that I’d found my title. I had similar experiences with my trunk
novels, as well as the novel that comes out next year. THE IT FACTOR is a phrase
that personifies the idea of possessing every element necessary to succeed. It’s
spoken first by the novel’s antagonist, and later used by the protagonist in
what I saw as a clever play on words.
Turns out it’s not as
clever as I thought. A few weeks ago my editor emailed, asking if I would
consider changing the title. This came as no shock; publishers change titles
all the time. In many cases, contracts stipulate that the publisher gets final
say. It’s simply the way it works. I was lucky with BD, the title fit like a
glove. And while my publisher toyed with the idea of changing it, everyone
ultimately agreed that it was most representative of the story. Apparently, for
the new book, THE IT FACTOR wasn’t quite the complement they had in mind.

So this was new for me,
having to replace a title that was familiar and set. Without exaggerating, the
feeling wasn’t too terribly different from someone asking me to change one of
my kids’ names. Sometimes, I’d like to change their last name and address, but
that’s a different blog. The point is I had few options other than to do this,
to change THE IT FACTOR to… WHAT?
 This is where the real problem came in.  For a person who claims a fairly fluid imagination,
I was embarrassingly stumped. Editor and agent alike offered numerous
suggestions while my friends, boss, relatives and next-door-neighbor chimed in
with theirs. It became the center of every discussion and an ugly argument at Thanksgiving
dinner. But no, nothing was right. Nothing sounded like the book I wrote or the
point I wanted to convey. I was ready to give up, ready to give in to a sorta title. Honestly? I didn’t think I
was off to a very good start with book number two.

Disappointed, I mentally
abandoned the problem, though I couldn’t shake the wise words of my agent. As
we weeded through and rejected title after title, she kept one thought at the
forefront, “Does it speak clearly about the novel… or to the audience?” Well,
certainly nothing I’d dreamt up did. But then I began to think about the
message, the story my protagonist was trying to tell. Well, Aidan Royce was a
musician. Everything he conveys is set to music. He’s in love with a girl named
Isabel, lyrical enough in its own right. From there I Googled musical
terms until I stumbled across the word rhapsody,
narrowing it down to its dictionary definition: a highly emotional work. And there was my Eureka! ISABEL’S
RHAPSHODY. While it was methodical and meticulous—hardly the romantic
process I would prefer—the title, ISABEL’S RHAPSODY, seems to fit like a
glove.     
Laura Spinella is the author of the award-winning novel, BEAUTIFUL DISASTER and the upcoming novel, ISABEL’S RHAPSODY. Visit her at lauraspinella.net            
           
           
    
  

The Places We Will Go, So Call Me Maybe

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Boston Skyline

By Laura Spinella
It’s been a curious couple of weeks. Not only from a writing perspective but from an everyday, tie your shoes, change of season point of view. Fall does that in New England, Maine to Connecticut selling the scenery with everything living up to the hype and gloss of a travel brochure. It’s quick and it’s bright, and you have to hurry if you want to bask in a Robert Frost moment. If you live here you notice the trees, but mostly you anticipate all the raking.  Unlike spring, a season that meanders in like royalty arriving, fall is more of an abrupt nudge to the shoulder, “Hey, I’m here—enjoy the foliage on that road not taken. When I leave, old man winter settles in for the long haul.”
In addition to crisp air and apples, a few things have made this fall different than the others I’ve spent in Massachusetts. I’ve had a friend visiting from the South. At my age, as friends go, suffice it to say she’s one of my oldest. We met under circumstances that still leave me, the writer, chagrinned. Kimberly and I were both being considered for the same job at the Union Recorder newspaper in Milledgeville, Georgia. The position wasn’t even in the editorial department, though I felt my shiny journalism degree should have easily won me the job. Not so fast. Kimberly, admittedly a more vivacious soul than I could manage if I underwent serotonin injections, got the job. Weeks later, the newspaper hired me for a different position, and after some wound licking, a friendship was forged that has lasted longer than either of us cares to note. I like the serendipity of it all, especially when you consider that we only lived in the same state for a year. Minus serendipity, we would have stopped exchanging Christmas cards decades ago.
Before
It’s fun when Kimberly visits. After her short career in newspapers, she discovered her real passion, living the word entrepreneur by becoming the most enterprising female contractor in North Carolina. The photos here show the little mountain house she rehabbed before arriving on my doorstep. Basically, when she visits we feed her well and pick her brain about what project we should tackle next in our 112-year old Arts & Crafts rehab. Tomorrow, she heads home, though clutched in my greedy grip is a plan for a customized master bedroom closet. It’s been low on our to-do list, though her brilliant design is sure to make the California Closet folks look like casket assemblers.
While I’m tickled by state-of-the-art storage, that’s a small bonus to a Kimberly visit. Having her around is more like a direct line of adrenalin to the vein. Kimberly is a doer of the highest order, making you think thoughts that seem too adventurous for an ordinary Tuesday and go places that would normally fall—well, somewhere below the urgency for a customized closet. She has a can-do attitude that, frankly, makes me want to tie her to a chair, though because she will laugh at that idea it also makes her one of my favorite people on the planet.
When considering the cathartic aspects of a visit with an old friend, I’m not entirely sure what Kimberly gained. We did tune her into Gilmore Girls and turned her onto those Harvard baseball boys—trivial pastimes for us, a fresh note of fascination for someone who doesn’t dabble in pop culture. For me, however, two things occurred that made this visit memorable. The first is completely selfish in that she insisted on, and I allowed, a cold read of THE IT FACTOR. The fragile writer ego lives for that validation, and this stamp could not have come at a more critical juncture. It’s a long road from here to next fall’s publication, and when someone sits in your chilly sunroom, demanding more tea and silence, it will make you nod with relief and say, “It’s going to be all right.” Even better is when you overhear—okay, outright eavesdrop—on a conversation that said reader has with another friend, someone you don’t even know, and is heard saying, “It was so good! I think I loved it more than BEAUTIFUL DISASTER…” As any author will tell you, this is necessary friendship fairy dust tamping down unavoidable doubts.
In addition to the places we will go when Kimberly visits, which does leave you with a slight Dr. Seuss rhythm ringing in your ears, there’s the pay-it-forward effect. Yesterday, we took the cursory trip into Boston. I enjoy this when out-of-town friends’ visit.  Mostly because it reminds me there is a beautiful city that is as much meant for residents as it is tourists. During a stop at Faneuil Hall, Kimberly hunted for the mandatory Boston sweatshirt. A bundle of energy in most regards, she is also a scrupulous shopper. I’ve learned it’s best to let her peruse at her own pace. A decision will be rendered only if and when she finds exactly what she wants. On the other hand, I like to think she uses this same careful attention to detail when choosing her friends. That or I’ve just had a lot of time to stand and think while Kimberly shops.
My point is this: I’d wandered in another direction, where my son was admiring a Berklee College of Music sweatshirt. Now, I understand what it takes to get into a place like Berklee, the bestseller kind of sales I’d have to achieve to afford this pinnacle of music education. I know that Grant is a 15-year old boy, who while talented, does not currently possess a Justin Bieber work ethic. He quietly admired the sweatshirt, only commenting on a price tag that even he construed as tourist gouging. I said, “I think we should get it.” He shook his head, tossing the remainder of his equally exorbitant Panini into the trash. “Nah, I don’t need it. Besides, I have as much chance of going there as I do Harvard.” He motioned to a rack of crimson embroidered sweatshirts, and I hesitated. While he could give the Call Me Maybe baseball boys a rhythmic run for their money, Ivy League is probably not in his future.  Instead, I took a Kimberly stance with him. “No, we’re definitely getting it. Berklee College of Music no crazier than, ‘Hey, I think I’ll write a book…’” He tugged it over his head, asked the clerk to cut the tag, practically wearing it to bed and again to school this morning. For anyone who doesn’t have a Kimberly, you’ve no idea what you’re missing. She is the road less traveled, and it does make a wicked cool difference.
Laura Spinella is the author of THE IT FACTOR, fall 2013, Penguin, and the award winning novel, BEAUTIFUL DISASTER. Visit her at lauraspinella.net 

Great Expectations

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 By Laura Spinella 
Best Graphic Available Under Pressure
I’ve never been a fan of the phrase, “book pregnant.” Maybe that’s
because I wasn’t particularly good at “real pregnant.” Years removed and my
memories still rouse a hazy sea of green swells, my stomach rolling on the
thought, not to mention the cumulative 27 months of my life spent on my knees
at the porcelain altar. I didn’t glow, I didn’t nest.  I didn’t do much of anything but puke. Friends
and family, not to mention my husband, are amazed that we have three
children.  I attribute them to the same you-never-know audacity that makes
writers’ write book two, after book one fails to sell.  Granted, in some circles this might be perceived
as stupidity.  The first pregnancy was
the worst. We were in the midst of building a house, traveling back and forth
between Long Island and Maryland. By the time there was drywall, I’d tossed it
up in every rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike.
            I say the first
pregnancy was the worst, and it was. The other two weren’t a terrific
improvement, but I knew what to expect, so in some regards it made for slightly
smoother sailing. I’m hoping the same holds true for books as I find myself “in
a novel-way” again.  THE IT FACTOR is in its
first trimester, with the father-bird, Penguin, settling in to roost.  As you can see from my bright blue
mock-cover, I’ve already decided it’s a boy. 
Like a real pregnancy, a book sale draws a huge round of congratulations,
the big difference being you can indulge in the champagne.
            We’re off and running (using the term loosely here) on
a journey of edits and cover concerns, wondering if they’ll let me keep the
name I’ve chosen.  Who knows?  I am sure, however, that there will be a word-by-word
dissection over the back cover blurb, which can be critical in terms of readership.  I’m already wringing my hands over this part,
separating information that readers will find intriguing from a passage that gives too much away. It looks like THE IT FACTOR will be a late fall
book and this can be tricky in New England. 
But I have solid experience here, having had four babies in raw weather
months—November, December, March and January, BEAUTIFUL DISASTER’S pub
date.  To be honest, that part feels
rather fitting; a sunny day in June would just seem strange.  When the calendar finally gets around to next
fall—which, admittedly, seems light years from now—I’ll fret over Aidan and
Isabel like I did Megan, Jamie and Grant on their first day at school.  Will people like them? Did I do enough before
pushing them out the door?  Will they be resilient
when labeled a frothy romp? Okay, so I wasn’t thinking about my kids on that one. Regardless, there will be no
turning back. Of course, I do have an advantage with the book. I can always ignore my Amazon page.  Live children
make this a tad more difficult. 
         So let the countdown begin—Aidan Royce, my rock
star protagonist, waits calmly in the wings for his cue. His elusive love
interest, Isabel, is probably not as anxious—but isn’t this what we strive for in
a complex character?  I’m still  not fond of the phrase, “book pregnant,” though I can’t deny the
similarities, right down to that queasy feeling of expectation.    
Laura Spinella is the author of the award winning novel, BEAUTIFUL DISASTER and the upcoming novel, THE IT FACTOR!  YAY!! Visit her at lauraspinella.net.       
             

The Highlight Reel

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By Laura Spinella
So here’s the first thing you should know: I didn’t win. Hey, it’s okay.
I was the true newbie in RITA’s Best First Book category. In my case, it really
was just an honor to be nominated. Overall, my trip to the annual Romance
Writers of America conference and subsequent RITA Awards was a success. I didn’t
know what to expect going in. RWA has about 13,000 members, of which 2,000
attend the annual convention. If you’ve never been, I highly recommend it.  However, go prepared for a whirlwind of
activity.  
Authors Shelley Coriell, me & Erin Quinn
      The workshops are inspiring
and the authors in attendance more than friendly. I had a chance to meet my good FB friend Barbara Claypole White whose debut novel, THE UNFINISHED GARDEN is out later this month.  She was kind enough to ask me to blurb her beautifully written gentle romance. I made several new acquaintances
along the way and rubbed chair legs with Nora Roberts. If anyone is curious,
she’s very gracious and genuine—even if your chair leg comes within inches of
her toes.  Each year RWA gives out the
Nora Roberts Lifetime Achievement Award. 
It gave me pause, her chair leg wickedly close to mine, that she was
there to witness the bestowment of an award named for her.  How many people have an award named for them
while, they’re not only living, but still very much in the game?  I think it gives new meaning to the word “successful.”
Recipient Beverly Jackson, who has penned more than 90 novels, gave a warm and
insightful acceptance speech. 
Other highlights included Stephanie Laurens keynote
address. Granted, I don’t attend too many packed banquet rooms gatherings, but
I’d say her message is what good speeches are all about.  Her topic: weathering the future of
publishing and what that means to us as writers.  As mentioned, the workshops were top shelf, a
vast array of topics that anyone with a keyboard and an idea could use to help
channel those bare bone thoughts into paragraphs and pages. While I didn’t
attend the History of Contraception workshop, I did stop and take picture of the sign. I
sent it to my BFF, who happens to be an OB-GYN. She’s thinking of submitting
her own workshop pitch for the 2013 RWA convention. My newest WIP includes a psychic
element, so I made sure to attend a workshop on the paranormal. Foot-in-mouth
as the workshop leader quickly corrected my faulty assumption that paranormal
and psychic were related. Clearly one is werewolves while the other just
channels them. On the whole, the workshops were Red Bull lecture style,
designed to make you want to run back to your room, shut out the activity, and
get busy writing. In that regard, it was wholly well worth the price of
admission.
Onto the lady in question, the RITA Awards.  Beforehand, I had dinner with my Berkley editor,
Leis Pederson. We’d never met in person, so I was nervous in a curious way.  I was anxious to put a face to the person who took
a chance on me and the characters I cast in BEATUIFUL DISASTER.  I think it went well, particularly for someone
who spends an inordinate amount of time scripting both sides of the dialogue. I
didn’t spill anything and managed to keep the conversation going until the
lights dimmed at the awards, all eyes turned to the clever romantic movie
montages on the big screens.  
Winners came and went; my table filled with RITA
finalists, but alas not a winner among us.  By evening’s end we were all in very good
company.  I’m not sure if I’ll get to
another RWA conference soon.  During their
annual meeting, RWA decided that my category, Novel with Strong Romantic
Elements, will be eliminated after 2013. Thinking about that now, it’s really too bad. I was just
starting to feel at home.     
Laura Spinella is the author of BEAUTIFUL DISASTER, a 2012 RITA finalist, NJRWA Golden Leaf Winner, Best First Book; Desert Rose RWA Golden Quill winner, Best First Book and Wisconsin RWA finalist for Best Mainstream Novel.  Visit her at lauraspinella.net.  
     

I’m Glad You Asked…

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By Laura Spinella

My original thought was to do a post about the upcoming RWA conference
and RITA awards. I’ll be on my way to Anaheim at the end of the month for their
annual gathering of romantic-minded authors and accompanying soiree where the
RITAs are bestowed.  However, I realized that
a dress, shoes and an airline ticket do not for a blog make.
Then, yesterday, I heard from a reader. Derek first
wrote me about a year ago, and we’ve been chummy ever since. He’s a voracious
reader, who visits Goodreads more often than I frequent my liquor cabinet. In
fact, he reads so much, I worry about his vitamin D consumption and terminal
paper cuts. Derek sent me this link to an article in Publishers Weekly. For the
full effect, please give it a read.  The main gist of the article is Goodreads
dialogue, and not necessarily pleasant dialogue, between readers and authors. Whether you are an author, editor, agent or the most important component: a reader, the article is thought provoking.
Direct from Facebook, the other social media Kool-Aid, is my conversation with
Derek.  I would however, love to hear
your thoughts on the Publisher’s Weekly article. If you’re a reader/reviewer, is
it license to say whatever you want?  If
you’re an author, how do respond, if you respond? 
            Oh, BTW, about that RWA RITA thing…
If you could all keep fingers and toes crossed on the 28th, it would be very much appreciated! 
           Derek: I know we haven’t
talked in awhile but I stumbled upon this article about reviewers and authors
and backlash on Goodreads, and was wondering what your thoughts on it?

Me: Derek, it’s
always great to hear from you! And you sure picked an interesting question for
me… I feel like a Miss Universe contestant in the dreaded question round!
Interpreter, please! Well, interpreter if one is going to spend a lot of time
dissecting reviews anywhere, including Goodreads. 

Here’s my take for
whatever it is worth: I don’t read them. I don’t read reviews anywhere,
Goodreads, Amazon…  I don’t read them
if they’re glowing or a one-star kick in the teeth. I made that rule right after
BD came out. It just struck me as “awkward” to sit around reading
judgments about something that could never mean as much to someone else as it
does to me. I spent six years of my life with that book. It’s like toting your
kindergartner to school, shoving him/her in front of the student body and
saying, “OK, tell me what you think?” Reading is SO subjective, and
no two opinions are going to be the same. To say that an author reads a
negative review looking for ways to improve their writing, I wish them luck with
that. What happens when the next reviewer says the exact opposite? I don’t read
the good ones b/c there’s always a risk I might believe what they’re saying.
Seems like slippery slope to me.  

Lastly, I’d never
get into a dialogue with a reviewer. To what end? If they disliked my book (and
I’m sure some have), is a word war with me going to change their opinion? Maybe
I’m just not any good at dealing with negativity, or maybe i just think life is
too short. I do what I do. I love my book/s. Are they perfect? Heck no. But they’re
mine. Part of the job involves putting yourself out there for the masses to
comment on, like it or not. It’s a strange caveat you learn as you go. 

Well, I hope that
answers your question to some extent. Ask the next author and you’ll probably
get a completely different answer! I hope you’re having a wonderful summer!!
I’m off to CA in a couple of weeks… Again, I’d probably be happier alone in
my sunroom with my laptop. Writers are strange people (-;


Laura


Laura Spinella is the author of the RITA nominated novel BEAUTIFUL DISASTER. Visit her at lauraspinella.net. 

Novel Writing & the Food Network

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 By Laura Spinella
            I’ve
been on novel hiatus for a few weeks—okay, maybe closer to a month. Savvy writing
advice suggests novelists start another project immediately after finishing
one.  Unfortunately, this strategy is not
in my author DNA.  I need a break. Novel
writing is hard work, and my muse is a lazy soul.  With this mindset in motion, it’s not long
before a writing sabbatical lulls me into a Haagen-Daz, what’s my purpose in life, mode. It’s a slippery slope, though I
slide willingly—onto my living room sofa. 
From here I drift, like a garbage barge on the ocean, toward the oasis of
reality TV.  
I retreat to the Food Network where distraction is a
staple menu item. This is low-maintenance reality TV.  There are no dysfunctional families to sort
through; no convoluted backstories to grasp, meaning you can pull into Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives anytime.  Here, bleach blond, spiked-haired host Guy
Fieri travels the country, visiting quirky road-kill um, roadside
restaurants. At a glance, one can presume that lax sanitary conditions are meant
to be a metaphor for atmosphere. During these visits, Fieri ingests enough
lard-based house specials to be on prepayment plan for his future triple bypass.  Sadly, one can only stomach so much of Fieri’s
orgasmic reaction to pork parts slathered in Jimmy-Joe’s volcanic hot sauce,
and I move onto Chopped.
I am amused by this post-Julia Child generation effort,
a program that is not so much about cooking as it is about the $10,000 prize.
The money is poised to transform any one of the competitors’ lives. Seriously?
Ten-thousand bucks is all it’s gonna take to turn your life around?  Most contestants want to open a restaurant. Unless
the plan is to open a restaurant in their basement, ten-grand isn’t enough to
keep a diner in doughnuts, never mind using it as venture capital. Regardless,
you have to love the show’s energy. Four wannabe Emerils put their creative and
cooking moxie to the test by using secret basket ingredients such as tree bark,
goat urine, and Japanese jellyfish to prepare their dishes. Sometimes I feel
for the contestants, but mostly I sympathize with the judges who have taste
test the results.

I am restless, needing something with more substance. I
stick with the Food Network and tune into Restaurant Rehab.  This is boot camp hell for wayward
restaurateurs. Have the ’80s called asking for their mauve drapes and mirrored
walls? Do you employ your toothless, recently paroled cousin as your chef?  Is your staff under the impression that they
are indentured servants, too stupid to quit, trapped like rats on a sinking
ship? Well then, enter iron-armed, drill sergeant chef Robert Irvine.  This guy looks like he bench presses Viking
stoves for fun.  In forty-eight hours Robert
is going to fix everything from the décor to the cousin, perhaps sending him
for dental implants before the grand reopening. Frankly, Robert scares me. But
maybe that’s what it takes to rewire thirty years of learned behavior in thirty
minutes. Assuming he understood the premise of the show before he signed on, Chef
Robert appears oddly outraged to find himself thrust into this hopeless
mess. After berating the widowed proprietor for her inability to get a clue or
at least a functioning carpet sweeper, he tears apart the dining room décor. Usually,
this is cavernous square footage that could seat hundreds. It occurs to me that
the real problem is location. The rehab restaurant is almost always situated in
a pea-size town, bypassed by the bypass a decade earlier. Nevertheless, Robert goes
to work ushering in his design team. Now, if you look closely, you’ll recognize
Taniya Nayak, his go-to designer.  She’s
a decorating refugee from HGTV and saddled with the dilemma of stretching a
$10,000 budget to cover the 100K makeover the place truly needs. She also
appears oblivious to her short of end of the stick. Taniya’s chipper attitude never
wavers. Not even when Chef Robert berates her for taking too long to execute an
overhaul that, in real reality, should take six months. Someday Taniya will
decide she’s had enough, taking kerosene and a match to the sprawling space.  In the meantime, Chef Robert heads into the
kitchen to scream at um, mentor the chef.  As we suspect, this is a doomed
encounter.  In no time, he’s made the ex-con
cousin wish he’d violated parole.  But no
worries, it’s all going to be okay; Chef Robert has a plan. He’ll teach the
unskilled chef how to prepare foolproof dishes, complete with sauces, mastering
each one before the grand reopening—which occurs in about an hour. Of course,
this three-act drama plays out to perfection as Chef Robert saves the day. He
waves goodbye to a restaurant brimming with happy diners and staff, insisting a
call from Zagat is imminent. I flip Chef Robert off and sigh longingly at my
pollen covered laptop. Novel writing would be 
snap if only my next book had a slot on the Food Network.

                 

Laura Spinella is the author of BEAUTIFUL DISASTER. A 2012 RITA finalist, the novel is the recipient of the NJRWA Golden Leaf and Desert Rose RWA Golden Quill awards for Best First Book, as well as a finalist in the Wisconsin RWA Writer’s Touch award for Best Mainstream Novel. Visit her at lauraspinella.net.  
         
      

They Always Ask: What Comes After THE END?

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       By Laura Spinella     
It’s itchy palms and a cold sweat, a compulsive urge
that a team of interventionists couldn’t thwart. That’s what I’m down to.  No, don’t be ridiculous, I haven’t quit
drinking. I said compulsive not insane. But what I have done is turn in a
manuscript. It leaves me with time, a gaping hole from 7 a.m. until noon. Initially,
I’m dazzled by the prospect—think cats and a tinfoil ball. By living in the
mainstream I can get things done, big and small.  I’ll chase time until it lodges itself under my sunroom sofa, moving something like this: Instead of
brushing by old newspapers and dirty toilets, I take the papers to the recycle
bin, scrub the toilets until I’ve drowned the Ty-D-Bol man. I make every bed and vacuum the
floor of my closet. Afterward, I’m surprised but only marginally alarmed to
find that morning has two hours left. 
Not a problem. I have a 30%-off Kohl’s coupon. By noon everyone has new
underwear and I have half-a-dozen potential outfits for a trip that’s three months
away.   On day two, dinner is a planned
event.  My usual incidental dash to the microwave
morphs into a Julia Child effort, one that involves béchamel sauce and a 1,000
calorie French dessert.  By day three, my
real jobs are organized as if they
are my goal. Newspaper stories are booked weeks in advance; my editor is dazed
but delighted.  Normally, I’d segue from my
WIP to my cyber-gig needing a shower and wearing pajama pants with a
hole in the crotch. Not now. Now I show up in makeup and clothing that does not
involve an elastic waist. Day four I surprise my son and pop in at track
practice. I bring brownies for the hardworking boys. From across the field, his
head pivots sharply. It’s as if he smells something repugnant in the air. I
wave. He trots steadily in my direction, glancing right at a gaggle of girls
who, apparently, also stopped by to watch.
            “What are you doing here?
Is someone dead?”
            “I had free time. Can’t
a mother watch her son practice?”
            “Seriously, why are you
here? It’s track practice. I’m perfectly safe.”
I assume he’s alluding to his younger years when I tended to hyper-fret
about things like child abduction. I decide it’s still plausible. “You never
know who’s lurking.”
What happens if you’re not careful with your javelin
              “I have
a black-belt in Taekwondo and a javelin in my hand.  Go home; go write something.”  He darts across the field, taking his
position. Only for a moment do I think he’s considering hurling the javelin at
me.
            And this is where dazzle
turns to disaster. I’m not the mom who goes to practice. The thrill of a
three-course meal can only satisfy for so long. I hate shopping and my day jobs
function fine on the fly.  Twenty-four
hours later, I stare at my sunroom writing chair. It’s wrapped in metaphoric
yellow caution tape.  I may not enter; I
have no business there.  There’s a hard
rule about revisiting a manuscript that’s no longer in my possession. I’d only see
a thousand missteps, unable to change anything. Rationally, I should look
forward to this break. Downtime is supposed to be beneficial, an opportunity to
recharge the muse. Well, clearly, my muse is an addict. I sit and write a blog,
thinking it’s a quick fix.  Two paragraphs
in and I find my knee bouncing like a drunk with a Dixie cup. It’s not enough.
This is not to say the muse has anything remotely brilliant to relay. In fact,
it’s the very reason I equate it to an addiction. A wiser person would seek
help. Besides, what would I write?  The
muse has a suggestion.
            “Remember that idea I spun
a year ago? We were driving. Instead of the license plate game we played the what if game.  What if that girl, the one with the crummy
newspaper job and the psychic gift, landed in your lap top?  Come. Sit. You know you want to.”
            “No I don’t. What I want
is for you to quit delivering half-baked ideas, expecting me to fill in the
blanks.”
            “Sorry, if you wanted a thorough
muse your last name should have been Rowling or Roberts. I work with what
they give me.”
            “Do you have any idea
how much time and commitment your ideas take? Someday I’ll regret it, the
endless hours I’ve wasted on you.”
            “And still, you would have
spent more time sleeping. You’re not getting that time back either. So come, sit. Just try it. One sentence, a character
name, the way he looks at her—focus, you’ll see it.  And I haven’t even told you the best part of my
idea.”
            “Ha! I’ve lived your
ideas, holistic designer, rock star, a rogue man on a motorcycle.  They’re absurd.”  Yet, ruefully, I inch into the room.
“Maybe. But the motorcycle man worked out fine. I heard
he’s up for a few nifty awards.  Besides,
what are your options?  Plant a garden,
take up golf, stalk the high school cafeteria?”
“Shut up.” But as I speak, I’m fighting temptation and
gravity.  I move closer.
“That’s it. Ease your way in. We’ll go slow. We’ll talk.
Hell, maybe I’ll even float you some backstory.”
My fingers move past the cautionary yellow tape. The
leather chair does feel good.  It’s only
been a week, but there’s dust is on the keyboard. We can’t have that.  Okay, I’ll sit—but only for a minute…  

Laura Spinella is the author of Beautiful Disaster, a 2012 RITA Finalist, Best First Book; NJRWA Winner, Best First Book; Wisconsin RWA Write Touch Finalist, Best Mainstream Novel; Desert Rose RWA Finalist, Best First Book and a Favorite Book of 2011 at SheKnows.com. Visit her at www.lauraspinella.net
         
            

For Future Reference

/in /by
By Laura Spinella
Lucy would say to Ethel, “I have an idea!” Ethel’s eyes would bug like moon pies, the idea propelling the two into adventures that had her wearing the back end of a bull or wrapping candy with hysteria induced lightning speed. Of course, there’s the classic Harpo Marx mirror scene, and if Lucy were to get that coveted Richard Widmark grapefruit, it was up to Ethel to help her scale the wall.  Well, we all know none of those brilliant harebrained ideas came from Lucille Ball’s henna rinsed head.  They came from a staff of writers whose job it was to create twenty-two minutes of riveting, if not riotous, television.
            Even in black and white, fifty plus years ago, it was still all about the idea.  I like the concept of a team effort when it comes to television writing. It’s a natural path for a forum that thrives on timing, dialogue and the occasional pratfall.  The medium lends itself to a group effort.  Book writers, on the whole, aren’t of that nature. Of course, there is the exception to the rule, successful trends where big name writers, like Patterson, take on a protégé or sometimes an offspring. But as group, we work alone. It makes the idea portion a precious commodity.  Visualize the stereotypical writer, go ahead.  I bet we all conjure up the same scene: A haphazardly dressed, unshaven writer (man or woman, I’ll leave the hormonal issue up to you) staring willfully at a typewriter.  I don’t care if you don’t even remember typewriters,  It’s like separating Easter from chocolate. The two just go together. Inserted in the typewriter is the proverbial blank page, above the writer’s head an empty bubble. It waits with hemorrhoid like pain for an idea to insert itself.  As I said, a stereotype.
            Personally, the idea of approaching any keyboard with nary an idea scares the hell out of me.  Assuming we’ve replaced the typewriter with a computer, I’d be on Facebook in .03 seconds.  Ideas don’t come as a whole. They don’t even arrive in tasty chunks. For the most part, ideas are snippets and threads that, if I’m clever, weave into fabric.  If the scraps of ideas are good enough, eventually the fabric reveals a pattern that tells a story.
            Along with the blank page comes the proverbial author question: Where do you get your ideas?  When asked this, I tend to squirm, babbling nonsense that amounts to a message in a bottle. In truth, the answer is both so vague and tedious I find it impossible to answer.  I view it as an unfortunate fact, until I ponder people like Patrick Bourne. He’s a character in my WIP, not the main character, but the one whose presence assures me that snippets are where real ideas start.  A few years ago, I was doing a newspaper piece on a beautiful vintage property. The homeowner was there, a svelte gentleman for whom the word dashing was invented. He spoke only about his house, showing me period photographs of the Georgian manor.  He was fascinating, his mannerisms matching his bone structure, distinct and inviting.  I spent no more than five minutes with him.  He had to leave for work—he was an attorney. At least that’s what the housekeeper told me, a woman who left me to peruse the property at my leisure. I admired ornate woodwork, Italian art worth more than I made in a year, Chinese Chippendale chairs and Persian rugs.  I traveled room to room, or continent to continent, unable to get my mind off the man. I know that sounds like instant infatuation, which is plausible, as he was worthy. But that wasn’t it. There was something about him that simply captured my imagination. It intensified in his bedroom, finding his closet clearly divided and completely filled with men’s clothing. There was one photograph in the room, the man I’d met and an equally fetching African American man. I probably looked at the picture longer than I should have; it was hardly the point of my business in his bedroom.
Not long after, I went back to the newspaper and wrote a lovely Sunday feature about the grand manor and its historic ties to the community. Today, I couldn’t tell you what town it was in.  I couldn’t retrace my steps if you told me there was buried treasure in the basement. A few sentences back, I mentioned that the man had captured my imagination. For most people, that’s a disposable phrase. For a writer, it’s future reference. I won’t tell you that Patrick Bourne is the man I met that day. I didn’t learn enough about him to possibly draw that conclusion. Our conversation was not personal; I don’t recall his name. Admittedly, I had privileged information, information that had time to stew and simmer in the back of my brain. All of this led to the snippets of thread that wove into fabric, creating Patrick Bourne.  Is Patrick gay? Yes. Is he an attorney?  Well, he is indeed. Are his mannerisms identical—they’re similar.  But more than anything, the blanks of his past, present and future were completely up to me, custom crafted to fit the man in my book. So while there is no team of writers, there are thousands of random yet cataloged snippets.  With any luck, a few will turn into perfectly wonderful ideas.        
BEAUTIFUL DISASTER is an RWA RITA Finalist for Best First Book, Wisconsin RWA Finalist for Best Mainstream Title and New Jersey RWA Winner, Best First Book, 2011. BEAUTIFUL DISASTER was voted a Favorite Book of 2011 at SheKnows.com. Visit Laura’s site at lauraspinella.net 
         

There’s No Bad Ink

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By Laura Spinella
Not long ago, I happened upon a list of publishing/reviewer buzzwords, clichés and euphemism decoded.  Reprinting them here would be laugh-out-loud funny, but not terribly original. Let me give you an example: “absorbing,” meaning, “makes a great coaster.” “Brilliantly defies categorization,” translating into, “even the author has no clue what he’s turned in,” and so on. From there, I began to wonder if any of these well-veiled expressions had turned up in my reviews. And, if so, what was the reviewer really trying to say? Fortunately, I’m neither narcissistic nor masochistic enough to have looked.  But I was tempted to dip my toe in the idea—only because when one is a writer, slamming your hand in a window is often the less painful and more distracting activity.  This is what I came up with had a few of these reviewer favorites been attached to BEAUTIFUL DISASTER.  For the record, I’ve given due credit below for the wordsmiths of these pithy illuminations.
        “Spinella’s novel captures the times we live in…” To paraphrase, “Captures the times we were living in two years ago.” In other words, she left the best years of her life back in Athens, Georgia, and, clearly, she needs to seek professional help.
        “The plot kaleidoscopes through a stunning turn of events…” Translation: “A major character dies.” Okay, he doesn’t die, but he does spend 275 pages in a coma, same thing.
“Beautiful Disaster lands center stage as a promising debut…” Agent, editor, author and Mother beam triumphantly.  Uh, not so fast. This equates to, “many flaws, but not unforgivably bad.”  While the thought, I’m sure, is arguable from many perspectives, this cliché did give me pause.  Why is it so unthinkable that a debut novel could be the pinnacle? Um, Gone With the Wind, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Bell Jar. It happens.  Besides, pinnacle is a relative term. For some of us it’s Kilimanjaro, for others it’s the bunny slope at Mt. Wachusett.  I digress.
      “With fingers afire, I singed pages, finding the writing unflinching…” What this really tells us—other than the reviewer has Teflon fingertips? “Has a lot of bad words.”  I admit, BD’s main character cusses like an extra from the movie Jarhead (278 f-bombs there according to Wikipedia).  Flynn didn’t broach that standard, but he was a marine and I do believe it came with a certain level of expectation.
      “With a blush and a wink—don’t lend this sensual and frothy romp to your grandma.” This one takes on two hip buzzwords, “sensual,” meaning “soft porn,” and “frothy romp,” meaning “funny book by lady.” I suppose they’re okay as long as they don’t occur in the same scene. I keep envisioning a rotund woman with facial hair and pink feather in hand, confined only by an oozing bustier as she straddles my protagonist.
      And I know for sure the following cliché did not turn up in a Beautiful Disaster review, “A heart rattling tale that will line school library shelves for generations, a classroom-friendly read.” The latter part translating into, “kids won’t read it unless they have to…”  And had the first part been the case, well, those One Million Moms would have really had their knickers in a knot.
      “Beautiful Disaster is a gripping journey into love lost and found.”  Aside from making me want to shove a finger down my throat, this means the reviewer, “turned the pages fast but didn’t read them.”  On the other hand, it would be the upside to being labeled “literary,” or “luminous.” I am so relieved to never have been described as literary or luminous. The aforementioned vernacular respectively means “plotless” and “not much happens.”
      “With her debut novel well in hand, Spinella will be a writer to watch.”  I grazed this phrase in a couple of actual reviews—not that I was paying attention.  (Looks away demurely) Anyway, I was saddened to learn it would be the opposite connotation of, “a writer you are actually going to want to read.” (Head hangs, hits desk and simultaneously slams hand in window).
      In a place where words are our business, it seems the true meaning, like a definitive novel, (one that could have used an editor) sometimes gets muddled between the lines. In the end, this can only translate into that age old advice that there is no bad ink. It doesn’t matter what they say, as long as they spell your name right.
      
Laura Spinella is the author BEAUTIFUL DISASTER, a Southern set novel that asks, “What would you risk for a love that is greater than honor or friendship or the passing of time?” Visit her at lauraspinella.net  Best First Book, NJRWA 2011, Favorite Book of 2011, SheKnows.com
Attributions:
“absorbing” : “make a great coaster” Don Linn, publishing consultant
“brilliantly defies categorization” : “even the author has no clue what he’s turned in” James Meader, publicity director of Picador USA
“captures the times we live in” : “captures the times we were living in two years ago” Mark Athitakis, critic
“classroom-friendly”: “kids won’t read it unless they have to” Linda White, book promoter at Wonder Communications
“definitive” : “could have used an editor” “Book Babe Extraordinaire
“frothy romp” : “funny book by lady” Jenifer Weiner, novelist
“gripping” : “I turned pages fast but didn’t read them” Sarah Weinman, news editor of Publisher Marketplace
“literary” : “plotess” Mark Kohut, writer and consultant
“luminous” : “not much happens” Peter Ginna, publisher, Bloomsbury Press
“sensual” : “soft porn” Peter Ginna, publisher, Bloomsbury Press
“stunning” : “major character dies” Mark Athitakis, critic
“unflinching” : “has a lot of bad words” Isabel Kaplan, novelist
“a writer to watch” : “as opposed to one you are actually going to want to read”  Jan Harayda, novelist
  

For the Love of God, Just Hit Send!

/in /by
Miss Dawn’s room, circa 1991

By Laura Spinella
I never cried when I dropped a kid off at nursery school. I was happy to help them pack for college, happier still to move them into a dorm room and say, “See ya!” You probably think this makes me a bit of a cold fish. But I don’t think so, having logged enough hours and put in enough time to figure out why. I always felt a great sense of accomplishment in my children becoming their own person.  That process began twenty years ago when I dropped Megan off in Miss Dawn’s room, continuing right through her college days and two more kids.  My theory even has proof, not only can she tie her own shoes, she’s also enrolled in a rigorous graduate program. Physically, emotionally, mentally, I know I had something to do with that, so yay for me in that regard. On the other hand, that’s where it ends. Sink or swim on your own.  Maybe I am a little different in that I don’t particularly view them as an extension of myself, but as their own person and I’m okay with that. 
Megan, post Miss Dawn’s room
Children, for me, are NOT like books. I know that’s the opposite of what most writers say, their work invariably summoning the same emotions they feel for their children.  I get that, I really do. But as I prepare to hand off this new manuscript, I feel nothing but throat-clenching angst, hands wringing raw.  I never felt this way about a kid—even the one that had an entire colon removed (A page-turner for another time).  I think most of that boils down to control and responsibility. When it comes to human beings, even if they’re the ones you gave birth to, there are too many outside influences. Yes, it’s my job to oversee those influences, but eventually, whether it’s a temper tantrum over building blocks or the decision to invite a boy to college for the weekend, it’s up to them. I’ve always felt there was a little thing called consequences that should factor in.  You don’t get that luxury with a book.  Sink or swim, the consequences are mine. Children become adults who, if your gene pool isn’t too screwed up going in and you pepper them with enough common sense, in all probability will turn out fine. Try that with a book and you’ll soon discover that a party of one is providing all chromosomes and character traits. So the question becomes, is it enough? Did I do it right?  It will never think for itself; it will never answer the question. Agents and editors and the book buying public get to decide that one. And that’s where I get stuck.  For this manuscript to do anything more, become anything else, I have to let it go. Rationally, I’ve worked too long and hard to shove it in a desk drawer—Okay, so we all know it’s a USB drive, but the imagery of 370 dog-eared, coffee stained pages is far more evocative. I say rationally, but I think I left rational back on page 132, when on a third revision I looked Aidan Royce in the eye and said, “Well, finally, there you are!”
When I dropped Megan off at nursery school, I remember feeling excited for her, excited for the two and one-half hours that I was going to have to myself. As I work up the nerve to detach and send, I know the safety zone of this WIP will be gone. Empty hours will follow with a fair amount of dread, as I suspect I will only sit and wait for somebody else to tell me how it’s going to turn out.
Laura Spinella is the author of BEAUTIFUL DISASTER. What would you risk for a love that is greater than honor or friendship or the passing of time? Best First Book, NJRWA, 2011, SheKnows.com, Favorite Book of 2011.  Visit her at http://www.blogger.com/goog_181986634