Tag Archive for: Laura Spinella

Four Very Important (and Sometimes Strange) Things I Learned from My Mother

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By Susan McBride

I feel a little like a copycat after Laura Spinella wrote that wonderful post about her mother last Friday.  Not only was it Friday the 13th, but it was her mom’s 83rd birthday (hope it was a happy one!).  Tomorrow is my mom’s 75th birthday.  So that she doesn’t feel left out, I figured I’d pen a piece in her honor, all about some very important life lessons I’ve learned from her.  Let’s just say, they’re invaluable (or at least chuckle-worthy).  Here goes!
Lesson #1:  Threats Don’t Work
I remember one particular time in my young life when I was furious with my mother…for what, I can’t remember.  I was about 10 or 11, and I recall very clearly telling her how she’d pissed me off and then letting her know I was running away.  Not only did she basically say, “Terrific,” I think she offered to help me pack.  I ended up leaving the house, racing across the lawn and down to the grassy triangle up the street, and climbing a tree so I could see the house.  I was certain she’d run outside crying hysterically and shouting at the top of her lungs, “Susan!  Sweetheart, I’m so sorry!  Please, come back!”  I don’t know how long I sat in that tree, waiting and watching for her, but it had to be at least an hour (which felt like days).  My pride wounded and stomach growling, I finally slunk inside and found her in the kitchen.  “I see you’re back in time for dinner,” she said. “It would’ve been a shame to give the dog your meatloaf.”
Lesson #2:  Don’t Troll Mom’s Bathroom for Empty Boxes
I bought what was surely a fabulous present for my mother one Christmas long ago but I needed an empty box in which to stuff and wrap it.  So, of course, I poked around my parents’ master bathroom (this was before The Container Store, you see).  Lo and behold, on a shelf in the linen closet, I found a cardboard box that was light blue with tiny white flowers all over it. Gorgeous!  It wasn’t until Mom unwrapped the box and began laughing that I learned the box once contained Tampax tampons. Not sure at that point I even knew what that meant. But she said that next time I needed an empty box, I should just ask.
Lesson #3:  When it’s Dad versus a Kitten, the Kitten Wins
We always had at least one dog in the house.  When I was really little, it was a cocker spaniel named Cindy.  As I got older, we had a couple of golden retrievers and a giant mutt named Puppy.  At some point after my sister and I were in grade school, we started asking for a kitten.  My mom thought that was a grand idea.  My dad was not so keen.  “It’s either me or a cat,” he very sternly told us all one night at family dinner.  My mom replied, “You’re going to lose there, buster,” then asked us, “So is it a kitten or your father?”  My sister and I looked at each other, grinned, and squealed, “Hooray, we’re getting a kitten!”  And we did.
Lesson #4:  Don’t Dump a Guy Just Because He Wears Weird Shoes
When I was a sophomore in high school, I dated a senior who was brilliant (he went to the Air Force Academy), talented (he played piano like a pro), athletic (he was a star on the soccer team), and hunky.  He also wore desert boots when no one else was wearing desert boots.  For some reason, that bothered me enormously. Superficial, I know. But then again, I was 15. My mom kept saying, “Don’t break up with this wonderful boy over a pair of shoes.”  But I did anyway.  Fast forward 26 years to when I met Ed. He used to wear this motorcycle jacket—a real one, with hard pads that made the shoulders stand out like a linebacker—only he didn’t ride a motorcycle.  (Oh, he had one. It was just not drivable and still resides in his parents’ garage because he won’t get rid of it.) My friends teased him about it unmercifully.  The meanies. But Ed wore it anyway.  He also had a neon-green striped shirt he donned for Christmas Eve dinner at my folks’ the first time they met him. The next morning, Mom asked, “So, what about that green shirt?”  I felt the same way about it as I did the motorcycle jacket.  Yuck.  But thank goodness I wasn’t 15 any more.  I recognized and appreciated all the wonderfulness of Ed that had nothing to do with his clothes.  To this day, I’m so glad I didn’t dump Ed over something as superficial as a silly jacket or a fluorescent green shirt.  I would have missed out on the best thing in my life.

  

Not sure what the moral is to any of this except that moms are sly creatures.  They know things—sometimes strange things—and we can learn from them if we pay attention.  Seeing as how I’m going to be a mom myself, maybe I really need to write more of this stuff down.  Or make up some new stuff. 

I Owe, I Owe, So Off to Blog I Go!

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By Laura Spinella
Panic mode. I owe a blog. It’s two plus weeks until Christmas; I haven’t bought a single gift, and I owe a blog. My regular part-time job at the newspaper stops for no one. Ever work at a newspaper? News staffs endure worse hours than the ER at Cook County Hospital. My beat, while a tad tamer, isn’t much different with two front-burner stories slated for my byline. News stops for nothing, certainly not holidays, and definitely not a blog. But never mind that, I still owe one.

A couple of weeks ago, a dream job that is a dotted line to the publishing world fell into my lap. I’m not at liberty to spill the details, but let’s just say you couldn’t make it up. Hopefully, it will replace the newspaper gig, but in the meantime, I get to do both. Oh, yay! That and I also get to write a blog. So far, the new job is crazy hectic with bizarro hours and fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants directives. I’m okay with that. While I wait for the Lifetime people to call, I can busy myself with a cash-in-hand challenge. The perks are kind of cool. Just this week, I spoke with two bestselling authors! Very nice peeps, those mega bestsellers. I get to do the new job from home, which you’d also think would be a plus. Actually, it’s been the bump in the road. Book writing and newspaper work moves at my pace, meaning I deal with interruptions as they pop up. There’s something about a six-month old kitten flying across your keyboard while taking copious author notes that isn’t quite as cute as it sounds. Well, like anything new, glitches are to be expected. In between working the insane and fascinating new job, I owe a blog.

Add to this the endless treadmill of promoting BEAUTIFUL DISASTER. (makes a great holiday gift!)I went on a binge a few weeks back and sent copies to bloggers we’d missed during its debut. I haven’t heard back from all of them, but one did manage to put it on her radar. Happily, luckily, gleefully, she found favor with the book. And while I could have spent a good chunk of this week trading complimentary emails with her, I had zero time penciled in for self-adoration. Two, “I need it yesterday,” jobs, plus, you guessed it, I owe a blog. Of course, strategically woven into the psychedelic tapestry of my day is a WIP. This past Tuesday, I started feeling the stress of my Ringling Brothers juggling act. I was tearing through a late chapter revision, having changed the name of a minor character. I’d decided too many characters’ names started with a vowel. A seared-to-my-mind memory from a book club reader prompted this fear: “I would have enjoyed your book more, but so many of the characters names started with an M, I got confused.” (I’m sure as an author you eventually reach a place where crap like this doesn’t stick. I’m not there yet.) So along with banning the letter M from my WIP, at least concerning names, I launched a preemptive strike to keep complaints about vowel sounds to a minimum. Only after completing the change did I realize I’d given both the character and Isabel’s cat the same name. What a mess. But I couldn’t fix it, as the alarm had sounded announcing the afternoon session of musical jobs. No worries, I’ll get back to my WIP soon. There I’ll spend a chunk of coveted writing time with a 377 page, one-by-one search and replace. In fact, I’ll relish it, because despite cash flow or an incredible opportunity, that WIP is what gets me moving. It’s important not to lose sight of that. A little stressed, slightly overwhelmed, wishing Rudolph would postpone until Valentine’s Day, I’ll still be excited to sit down with it. And I’m going to do just that… You got it, as soon as I don’t owe a blog. 
Happy Holidays to my fellow Stiletto Gang and all our wonderful readers!

The Beast of Chapter One

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By Laura Spinella



Original Draft from Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind



I had a different five letter B-word in mind for the title of this blog, but I heard Susan McBride whisper in my ear, “Hey, Miss Laura, try to keep it civil and polite…” I defer to her impeccable manners. I think first chapters will do that, more so than any other part of a book, bring out the worst in you. This first chapter wasn’t an inception, but a revision, which I firmly believe to be more riddled with landmines than any initial attack. Sure, there’s the daunting prospect of blank pages and zero word count when you begin something new. But there’s also gutsy intuition and the promise of unabashed wordsmithing. This just looked like work. The initial first chapter of any book is a sketch. It has to be, unless you’re a writer who outlines every chapter on index cards, tacking them sequentially to a corkboard before turning on your computer. It’s the same methodology used by people who alphabetize condiments or coordinate their closet by color and season. It’s something Patrick Bourne would do, a character in my novel, who I happen to be in love with and also happens to be gay. But I assure you, along with Patrick, that organizational skill set escapes me.



Me at work



When I first considered the revisions for this book, I almost trashed the entire thing: switch from first to third person, rewrite the main character’s motivation, and match the tone in BEAUTIFUL DISASTER, which, apparently, I failed to do. But like BD, this book, these characters, convinced me to hang on, saving their lives and story in the process. So after I committed (or was committed, the insane never know they are) the first thing I did was chop off Chapter One. There was no point to it, not until I’d coerced and cajoled the other 375 pages into submission. Fast forward three months and I was there, ready to rewrite the first chapter. I will give myself credit; it was the right move, as those other countless changes left me a detailed blueprint. Of course, there’s a reason draftsmen get a flat fee while contractors get an inflatable check. Execution is everything, and if the foundation sucks, well, the rest of the project is essentially a house of cards.



Night and day for the past two weeks this is where I’ve lived, inside Chapter One. During that time, I made a whirlwind trip to Athens, Georgia, taught a community class on writing/publishing, and banished a 14-year old boy to house arrest after seeing his interim progress report. None of these were simple tasks, but none were as daunting as that chapter. I thought I knew these characters, I really did. But like a weak eyeglass prescription, you’re awed by the clarity when the proper adjustments are made. What I had was that sketch, the one to which I’ve already confessed. Now I have a hand slamming against my forehead, a voice (not Susan McBride’s) saying, “You idiot, why didn’t you see this the first time around!” I suspect it takes me longer than the average author to get to know my characters. I’ve no idea why—I’m slow to peel back layers or simply slow out of the gate. I often envision the entire writing community receiving an old fashioned telegram, complete with character instructions: Single woman, STOP. Tumultuous childhood, STOP. Fearful of her own sexuality,STOP. Lingering denial reaches impasse, STOP. There are a hundred more directives and stops, but you get the idea. Fluidly connect the stops and you’ve got a first chapter. A telegram is an antiquated analogy, but I like the idea of vital information being hand-delivered in a sealed envelope.
Fortunately, I appear to be on the downside of the first chapter mountain, my stinky pack mule having finally lumbered into camp with the goods. I am satisfied, to the extent any neurotic writer can be, that this Chapter One has its house in order. But in the end, we’ll see, because as we all know, the writer’s word is hardly the last one.

Stroking the Muse

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By Laura Spinella

Dear Inner Muse,

It’s been a rough month. The cat died, and those pesky kids, as you refer to them, do require an occasional glance on my part. I know how much you loathe reality writing, (aka cash in exchange for the F-word… freelance writing) but I don’t see much choice in the matter. I understand that you’re currently annoyed with me. But do you think you could ease up and cut me some slack?

It all goes back to that nasty confrontation. You know, when I asked you to get on board flipping THE IT FACTOR, our 114,000 word creation, from an alternating first/third-person narrative to strictly third-person. I appreciated your hesitation: you are in charge. I get it. Since when do I take massive third-party advice and go against the Muse? But, seriously, she is our agent. You’re right, I’ve no idea if she possesses an Inner Muse, but I can tell you that she does have missile-like radar when it comes to what works and what doesn’t. Frankly, I think we’d be idiots not to listen.

I know; I heard your warning, not to mention the persnickety mirth when I explained what we needed to do. Quote: “Are you insane? Do you have any idea how much effort it took to coerce and cajole your sad little prose into a viable story? Most of that book is written in first-person. You might as well start translating War and Peace into Pig Latin, because that’s pretty much what you’re asking.”

If I can say, I think you were overstating just a tad. Granted, it’s not been a breeze. The shift from first to third is a domino effect, changing sentence structure and voice. Simple words that fit in first-person are left lost and out of place when read in third. Of course, matters were further complicated when you suggested kicking the plot up a notch. Don’t deny it; I was there. “Gosh, while we have the thing wide open here, wouldn’t it be great if Isabel’s feelings were less obvious from the beginning? And if Aidan and Anne had a past, well, that would heighten the conflict.” These, dear Muse, were not my ideas but yours. I’m not saying they weren’t good. I’m only asking if we can see our way clear to wrapping things up soon. Like, say, before technology figures out how to imprint books directly onto readers’ brains, thus subjugating the need for printed words. I know nothing as pedestrian as profit interests you, but certainly my take on that format would be about –12 cents a copy. BTW, Muse, did you know there’s no cent sign on this keyboard?

I digress. The bottom line is we’ve been going at it full throttle for weeks. I hear it. I feel it, that same rhythm we had while writing BEAUTIFUL DISASTER. You remember, you tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Hey, I know a guy. He’s got a hell of a story if you’re interested…” We’re doing that again. We’re almost there. So if you could loosen the reins a bit, I’d appreciate it. I fear if this keeps up, one of us won’t make it out alive, and I’d really hate for it to be me.

Your Ardent & Faithful Servant,

Laura Spinella

PS–Love you, Ted! Best cat that ever lived to toss a hairball!

Fingers crossed if you can, BEAUTIFUL DISASTER is a finalist for NJRWA Golden Leaf Contest, winners announced next week! You can always find me on FB  http://www.facebook.com/BeautifulDisasterANovel or at http://www.laurapsinella.net/  Have you read BEAUTIFUL DISASTER yet?

Those Scenes…

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By Laura Spinella


Whatever the genre of a book, I’m sure the writer has an interesting post publication story to tell. Author is a curious job that leads to people you would not otherwise meet and questions you wouldn’t ordinarily be asked. Some of the more common queries being: Where do you get your ideas and how long does it take to write a book? Depending on the person’s knowledge of the publishing industry, they’re impressed by your imprint credentials or simply by the fact that you have a book in print. Either way, it’s flattering. When you write a novel that includes love scenes, fairly detailed love scenes, invariably, always, eventually the question comes around. And here, at The Stiletto Gang, I’m guessing I own that one.

Those scenes, those scenes, those scenes… Truth be told, I didn’t think much about them while I was writing the book. Well, not their reader impact. But from book club gatherings to library chats to emails from readers, clearly, my love scenes are on their minds. I was a bit dense to it at first. It wasn’t until I attended a library event, where I was the guest and BEAUTIFUL DISASTER the book du jour, when I finally got a clue. People were gracious and polite, some having read the book, some not. However, there was a woman who sat in the back row, very silent, very sober. Now, sober is bad for me at given event, and I can tell you that they don’t serve wine at library functions, so my senses were sharp, absorbing her penetrating stare. Finally, toward the end of the chat portion, she raised her hand.

“Yes?” I said, suspecting I was about to receive a verbal flogging.

“Your book, I read it. All of it. And, well, I want to know something. Did your publisher demand that you include those scenes… embellish them like that? You know what scenes I mean…”

While the urge to play dumb was overwhelming, I have no angst over my love scenes so I answered, “Yes! In fact, they said they’d double the advance if I agreed to double the page count on those scenes.”
NOT

But I wasn’t about to justify any part of my book to her, especially not for the express purpose of gauging publisher influence versus something I obviously felt passionate about while writing the book. I will not be judged, not to my face anyway, on those scenes because that, to me, sounds a whole lot like censorship.

Not every email mentions Mia and Flynn’s steamier moments, but some do. My favorite is from a young man who, apparently, found BEAUTIFUL DISASTER a profound and stirring read. It was really a beautiful letter, telling me how the book graduated him from the world of YA into adult fiction. He went on at length, conveying how those scenes resonated, explaining that my book was a first for him in fiction. Okay, if you’re feeling a blush come on, don’t feel bad, I did too. I wrote back, thanking him for the lovely note and signing my name: Mrs. Robinson. Well, I suppose we all have to learn somewhere.

Book clubs have been the most fun when it comes to the discussion of BEAUTIFUL DISASTER’S love scenes. About an hour or so into each gathering, as the wine flows, so does the conversation. After discussing Roxanne’s motives and if Mia will salvage their friendship, moving onto Flynn’s psyche and how he was pushed to the brink of redemption, we get around to those scenes. I think my reaction to their reaction is my most profound moment from this side of published author. While I believe my love scenes are an integral part of the story, I don’t take them so seriously that I can’t have fun with them. And we do have fun. In addition to playing an important role in the story, they provide an invigorating indulgent escape for the reader. At least that’s been the majority of opinions to come my way. Some readers want to know how I go about the process of writing a love scene, and for that I have a very simple answer. I’ve never intentionally set out to write one. It has to grow organically out of the characters and plot. Any other scenario would be forcing it, and I suspect it would show. I get that sex in a book is a matter of personal preference; some people seek it out while others like to leave it at the bedroom door. Whatever floats your boat, I’m okay with that. Personally, I think the best romantic scenes are those that exist because they’re a natural part of the story. Overall, it’s nice to know, that in many circles, in addition to telling a good story, I’ve been able to provide a little escapism. Call me crazy, but I thought it’s why we read.

Come visit me at www.lauraspinella.net. BEAUTIFUL DISASTER was recently chosen by the University of Georgia for their annual Alumni Author Showcase. If you’re in Athens, GA November 3rd, see you there!

Laura Spinella

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SIGNS OF THE SEASON

Every season has its cues. Not necessarily the weather ones, though when you live in the Northeast they’re hard to ignore. Just when we’ve acclimated to leaves on trees and short-wearing weather, things start to change. Yesterday, in barely mid-August, I saw a maple tree with a tint of red while an evening chill had me digging in a drawer for sweatpants. The North, maybe New England in particular, also comes with strong sporting cues. It’s definitely a sign of the season when the Fenway Faithful prepare to make way for a rush of fall football, due to arrive in full Patriots gear. In the North, we also like to combine history with sports, mixing it into metaphors whenever possible.

Without a doubt, school is the big signal that the times they are a changin’. The South is known for its wicked early starts. My sister, who teaches first grade, has been back to class for a week. I suppose it evens out, as she’s sipping wine coolers poolside before Memorial Day weekend. But being Northern bred, I’ve never been able to adapt to the notion. It’s not unlike the like the holidays. I love the South, I truly do, but palm trees will never inspire me to break out the mistletoe or even the first verse of White Christmas—though I believe that’s in reference to the L.A. variety, but you get the idea. Regular school doesn’t start here for a few weeks, but yesterday I sent a kid packing back to college. She, of course, attends a Southern university. Having her around for another week or two would have been okay with me, though she did remark that good writing was just around the corner. “You know, Mom, you always do your best writing after Labor Day.”

I thought about that for a while, and I think she’s right. Early fall brings lots of inspiration; maybe it’s the chill in the air or a guaranteed rainy day each week. I drag in the summer, never really craving that umbilical cord attachment to a laptop that I do during other times of the year. So I suppose I’ll be reading the signs before long, revving up for lots of cool weather writing. However, it’s not completely without distractions. My Sox are looking pretty hot, which could mean being waylaid by a World Series. An incredible sacrifice, but one I’d happily make. And, oh, there is the aftermath of the kid who left the building, though she certainly had no qualms about leaving her mess behind. Real writing will be delayed as I transform her bedroom into something habitable, spending at least half a day finding the floor. Over the summer, she’d gotten into a habit of lying on her bed with her feet pressed to the wall. The day before she left, I asked if she planned on cleaning the footprints that marked her presence. I got the cursory shrug and a rolling of eyes. Not long after she and her father headed south, car packed to gills, I poked my head inside her room. I still couldn’t find the floor. Adding insult to injury, her brother decided to drag his mattress in and have a sleepover the night before. A pile of clothes and pocketbooks, things she deemed too last year to make the trip were everywhere. But taped to the wall, right by the footprints, was a scrap of paper. It read: JAMIE WAS HERE. See you on Turkey Day Jay, when the leaves are guaranteed to be gone and you might even be treated to a few flakes of snow. And who knows, by then I might have written something wonderful.

My Theme to A Summer Place

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By Laura Spinella
Recently, I read a post by Alice Hoffman. It said she was going away for the summer to write. It’s seems like an appropriate time of year to escape and change venues, a seaside locale full of sunshine and inspiration, surrendering that off day to the beach if need be. It must be good to be Alice. I also read a blog where another writer, not quite as famous as Alice, decided to move to Paris for the summer. I’m sure the atmosphere there is equally divine, and, clearly, her pockets full of cash.
Things work a little differently around here. As writing time goes, summer means intruders and disruption. Granted, they are the other people who live here. But I prefer the nine months of the year when public education and college demands their attendance, thereby facilitating their absence from here. During the summer months, these people are exclusively mine, blasting reruns of Saved by the Bell three feet from my sunroom, where I write, and wanting to know if this is the last of the Gatorade. Apparently, I am the only person in my house capable of peering in the pantry and solving this burning question. This summer, we have a new distraction. When the school-is-out flag dropped, I noticed that the TV watching was limited compared to the past. I breathed a sigh of relief as Boy Meets World met with the off button at a reasonable 9:30 a.m. But it was false hope as a distinct and steady swishing sound—kind of like a mini rollercoaster—rumbled at that back of my head. It seems my fourteen-year old son, and his band of skateboarding cohorts, have seized the driveway, which, naturally, borders the sunroom. Here they have created a valley of ramps and runs where no flip or grab shall go unmastered. (What this kid could accomplish if he put half that much effort into his schoolwork) I admit, it’s good to know where he is. Grant Robert and his sweaty, tick past the tock of puberty, friends are happy to spend their summer in the safe haven of my driveway. Something tells me their parents are even happier.
My daughter, who goes to faraway college, is home too. She doesn’t skateboard. Mostly, she lets me know how unjust the world of retail is. How dare they insist that everyone show up for a staff meeting before the store opens? And do you have any idea as to the number of people willing to shop on a Saturday in July, hell bent on dismantling the wall of jeans she just folded…Let me tell you, it’s appalling. On these occasions, I look up from the sticky plot point I’m on the verge of rectifying and nod in sympathetic agreement. I smile as she stomps off and mumble, “Maybe come fall you’ll study that much harder in microbiology.”

Yesterday, the whole kit and caboodle, husband and kids, went to the beach in Rhode Island. I’m holding out for the beach in Paris, so I declined. At 9:45 in the morning there was complete silence. Well, silence except for the one boy who didn’t get the message. I spied him meandering up our driveway, skateboard in hand. Auggie, our golden-doodle who loves to put the fear of God in teenage boys, ran him off in short order. Again, I was alone. I was going to sit in my sunroom and write. Like other summers, however, I was soon reminded that once your schedule is disrupted, it’s not easily reacquired. I wasn’t in the mood; I wasn’t particularly inspired. The sunroom was too sunny, not to mention sauna-like. I took a break, went to the kitchen and discovered that we were, in fact, low on Gatorade. I put the writing aside and went to the grocery store. Hours later, the kit and caboodle returned from the beach, sandy and full of sunburn. Televisions turned on and complaining commenced, “Why did they schedule me for Sunday? I hate working Sundays!” I smiled as higher education earned another point. In between, there was surprise expressed over the Steak Salad feast I’d prepared. “When did you have time for this?” asked my eldest daughter, who is brilliant, aside from the fact that she can’t boil water. “Oh, I just felt like making it,” I replied. “After all, it is a family favorite.”
I’ve got a twin billing at the moment! Catch my 5 Do’s & Do-Over at Chick Lit Is Not Dead, where I tell you what you should do naked. Lisa and Liz are giving away 5 copies of BEAUTIFUL DISASTER. Also, the Book Club Queen is running a fun Q&A and a fabulous review, declaring it a five-crown book club read!

If you’re hungry, Steak Salad:


1lb flank steak, marinated
1lb shrimp, peeled (I marinade the shrimp in butter & lemon)
2 roasted red peppers
3 ears roasted corn, shucked
1 red onion, grilled
1 small eggplant (or any other veggie you like roasted)
1 can mandarin oranges

Feta cheese

Roast all your veggies together ahead of time, grill steak & shrimp. On a LARGE platter, arrange a bed of lettuce, sliced steak & shrimp, top with grilled veggies. Add oranges and top with cheese. Everybody here like to top it with their favorite dressing, but you can top the whole thing with one kind. Enjoy!

A Few Good Men… Can Have a Questionable Past

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By Laura Spinella

I have a thing for men. Good to know… is probably your reaction to that. Fair enough, but I was referring to male characters, the ones I cast in books. Arguably, the female character is at the heart of most romantic fiction. Her job is to drive the story and fan the flames, be someone worthy of the reader’s investment. It makes sense. The majority of novels within the genre are written by women, readers of romantic fiction are, by and large, women. So it’s a safe bet that strong women with whom the reader can identify will be at the forefront of romantic fiction.

That said, enter me. Maybe it’s because I feel the contemporary capable female protagonist is a given, especially since swooning is passé and obey falls to the category of offensive four-letter words. While it’s interesting to see a female character evolve, overcome if need be, I take it for granted that she will get there. The guy, on the other hand, him I’m not so sure about. And I do my damnedest, starting on page one, to have the reader wondering right along with me. Give me a guy who’s a challenge—a tattered past with a touch of mental anguish… precarious future with questionable motives… geez, make him an alcoholic and let me pull him out of the gutter—I’ve got his back. In my book, literally, there’s no hero like a fallen one. And I’ll take my best shot at turning him into someone deserving of your attention and/or $15.00 retail.

It took years to recognize this pattern in my writing, longer still to embrace it. In fact, I remember the moment the obvious dawned on me—kind of like getting smacked upside the head by the wayward crew from a boys’ correctional facility. Anyway, I’d attended a high-end (aka snooty) writing workshop where the instructor was a well-known author I’d never heard of and the room filled with people bearing card-carrying writing credentials. Of course, my blank resume and I were scheduled to go last. As expected, they ripped my story up one side and down the other. Afterward, in a one-on-one with the well-known author, he said, “You create very sympathetic male characters—mystifying, really.” Still stinging from my trip to the whipping post, I took this as a criticism. I asked if he had a suggestion as to how I might cure this grievous writing blunder. In reply, he looked at me queerly and shook his head. “Why would you do that? You have much to work on, but the man in your story… Well, let’s just say I fell for him—and I don’t go that way.” Viva the downtrodden man.

How about you? Are you all about female characters who win the day or do flawed men stand a chance on your bookshelf?

Laura Spinella

Black Cats, Voodoo Dolls & Friday the 13th Blogs

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By Laura Spinella

**This blog was suppose to post earlier, but the Friday the 13th Blogger gremlins decided to add to my debut blog fun!! Enjoy!!

Today is my first day as a regular at The Stiletto Gang. I’ve known my post date for a while now; on my May calendar there’s a giant red circle around FRIDAY THE 13TH. Maybe the gang wanted me to have plenty of time to think about it. I’d like to tell you I’m not the superstitious type, but that would be a lie. And it’s probably best not to lie your first day on the blog. I’m sure the ominous date is a coincidence. In fact, I’m almost positive. But being more paranoid than superstitious, I can’t say I’m convinced. After all, stiletto wearing women convey a certain image, and it’s not like they try to hide their hooligan status. But since I’ve openly joined a gang, I shall take my solemn oath and any date-hazing in stride.

In an effort to counteract my inauspicious debut, and perhaps prove that I’m tougher than any calendar date, I did some checking into Friday the 13th. In numerology, 12 is considered the number of completeness. It defines the tribes of Israel, the apostles of Jesus and the gods of Olympus. It’s the hands on a clock completing a day. But number 13, a sad indivisible digit, is considered a sign of irregularity, violating the splendor of completeness. Hmm, maybe I do belong here… I digress. In any case, apparently all religions plus Greek mythology have a hang up with the number 13. Furthermore, the Stress Management Center and Phobia Institute (seriously, I’m not making this up) estimates that 21 million people are affected by Friday the 13th. That said, I suppose I’m in good company and my angst is not without merit.

My mother and husband celebrate their birthdays on the 13th. It doesn’t seem to bother them. On the other hand, they are also the only two people I know who could sleep in a cemetery with a Ouija board tucked under their head and get a good night’s rest. Neither one is susceptible to rabbit’s foot ideologies or theories about broken ladders, black cats, and voodoo dolls. Being a writer, however, I succumb easily to these phobias. Frankly, I think it’s a genetic predisposition: the creative are prone to irrational fears.

Perhaps it’s best demonstrated by the obsessive compulsive traits of a writer, which can almost always be linked to superstition. For example, I’d never start a day’s work without hot tea served in my black UGA

(University of Georgia, which you’ll hear me squawk about a lot) mug. We own a dozen UGA mugs, but it has to be the black one with the fat rim. Well, the black one with the fat rim until the day I dropped it in the sink and cracked the bottom. I swear, my writing hasn’t been the same since. After the mug come the ever inspirational Red Sox pajama pants. (I’m region flexible, team specific) They’re so worn Good Will would be insulted, but I’m convinced there’s a direct link between uninspired writing and pajama pants in the wash. I’m also computer specific and superstitious. My laptop is dedicated to book writing while the desktop is for freelance work and rewriting my children’s essays, book reports, etc. It’s an untidy place, littered with coffee stained papers and dust. Recently, we had a shift in activity at our house and I was banished to the desktop computer. Three quarters through my new manuscript, this was not the time to upset my rituals or test superstition. At first, I bitched and panicked. I was sure three quarters of this book was written to the best of my genius—which might not be saying much—and the rest was doomed. I’m pleased to report that I’ve rounded the corner to the finish, amazed that the bulky HP had little effect on my writing. Granted, I am wearing the pajama pants, so I’m not completely without a vice. But I believe it was a good lesson, proving that superstition is, perhaps, just that. So here I am, delivering my Friday the 13th blog to The Stiletto Gang. I look forward to being a part of this fine group of women writers and my June 10 blog. It happens to be the same date that the Salem witch trials began. By all means, ladies, bring it on.

Winner of BEAUTIFUL DISASTER by Laura Spinella!

/in /by

Laura has drawn a name from the list of commenters on her Friday post, and it’s Carol M! Carol, you’ve won a copy of Laura’s debut, Beautiful Disaster. We’ll try to get in touch with you to get your mailing address for her. If you see this first, please email sueauthor@aol.com. Congratulations!