"Why Do I Write" Blog-Hop!

Welcome to the "Why Do I Write" Blog-Hop! A Blog-hop is a fun way for a bunch of writers to get together and all blog about a set topic. I was invited to this one by Diana Rose, a romance writer I know from social media. Today's topic involves craft and process, which is always fun to talk about!

Clearly a stock photo. Note the lack of children.

1) What am I working on?

I'm currently working on my third fiction novel, all stand alone. It doesn't have a title so I call it Book #3, or sometimes "WIP". It's about a woman in Witness Protection who longs for roots, so she tries to find her birth mother. As she closes in on her search, it becomes obvious that someone will stop at nothing to keep her from the truth. It's a bit more thriller than my previous books, Thought I Knew You and Binds That Tie.

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I feel as though all my work is fairly genre bending. My first novel, Thought I Knew You, fit pretty squarely in the women's fiction category, although there was an underlying mystery. My second novel is a weird combination of thriller, courtroom drama, but still retains some women's fiction elements: character arc, introspection, romance as well as complicated sister and mother relationships. It's hard to speculate about my third novel because it's early drafting stages yet. I suspect it will be more firmly planted in the thriller genre. But I enjoy blending genres, both in my writing and reading.

3) Why do I write what I do?

I write what I like to read. I like complicated, flawed characters. I like plots with twists and turns and not-so-happy endings. I like justice, but even the bad guy can be good and the good guy can be bad, so to me, justice isn't black and white. I like forgiving the terrible traits in some of my characters. I like turning the idea of clearly drawn "evil" on its head. 

4) How does my writing process work?

It works? Just kidding. I feel like I start fresh every time. I'm a systems person by nature, so I keep evolving my "process" to refine it for me. For Thought I Knew You, I pantsed the whole thing. Every time I sat down to write, I started with a blank page and no idea what would happen next. That was fun. Stressful and kind of exhausting but fun in its own way. For Binds That Tie, I outlined most of it, and in place of the actual ending outline I wrote "Insert something brilliant here". And I waited for something brilliant to hit me. Again, kind of fun, but mostly terrifying. For my WIP, I have a very detailed outline, including an ending. This is my most complicated, fun book to write so far. I'm in love with it. I think about it constantly, ways to turn up the heat, ways to torture poor Zoe. I can't wait to get it out of me!

Thanks Diana for the invite. I'm a day late with this blog, due to being sick and the snow, and also being sick of the snow. 

About Diana:
Diana Rose is a Russian native who lives in New York. Her stories transport readers to the fantasy filled worlds where she brings royalty and magical beings to life, with colorful romantic scenes and characters that her imagination creates. She fuels her creativity while reading romantic novel. When Diana is not writing, she enjoys spending her time with her family and friends. You can find her on her blog:  http://thewritersdreamworld.wordpress.com/

Who's up next on the hop?

Erica Lucke Dean

Erica Lucke Dean is the author of To Katie With Love and Suddenly Sorceress, both from Red Adept Publishing. 

After walking away from her career as a business banker to pursue writing full-time, Erica moved from the hustle and bustle of the big city to a small tourist town in the North Georgia Mountains where she lives in a 90-year-old haunted farmhouse with her workaholic husband, her 180lb lap dog, and at least one ghost.

When she’s not busy writing or tending to her collection of crazy chickens, diabolical ducks, and a quintet of piglets, hell bent on having her for dinner, she’s either reading bad fan fiction or singing karaoke in the local pub. Much like the characters in her books, Erica is a magnet for disaster, and has been known to trip on air while walking across flat surfaces.
How she’s managed to survive this long is one of life’s great mysteries.Erica can be found hanging out, writing about her farm and fluffy romance on her blog.

Stephen Kozeniewski
Stephen Kozeniewski is the author of Braineater Jones and The Ghoul Archipelago.

Stephen lives with his wife and two cats in Pennsylvania, the birthplace of the modern zombie. He was born to the soothing strains of "Boogie With Stu" even though The Who are far superior to Zep, for reasons that he doesn't even really want to get into right now.

During his time as a Field Artillery officer, he served for three years in Oklahoma and one in Iraq, where due to what he assumes was a clerical error, he was awarded the Bronze Star. The depiction of addiction in his fiction is strongly informed by the three years he spent working at a substance abuse clinic, an experience which also ensures that he employs strict moderation when enjoying the occasional highball of Old Crow.

He is also a classically trained linguist, which sounds much more impressive than saying his bachelor's degree is in German.

He can be found critiquing the world's major works of literature on Manuscripts Burn.

New Year, Same Me... And That's Okay.

I used to have a thing for New Year’s Resolutions. To me, it was a time to sit down, reflect on the year and make a list. It was a fresh start, a new beginning, the page was blank. Who would I be this year? What could I accomplish? What could I change? There’s a freedom in that, to allow yourself to believe that all the things you’re unhappy with can change in a year, like gulping down pure oxygen.  

At the end of 2012, I made thirteen resolutions. THIRTEEN. I go big or go home. I figured, the law of averages, right? If you do something enough times, it will work out at least once. Some were shallow and easy (learn how to apply eyeliner) and some were lofty (be a size eight), and even others seemed insurmountable at the time (stop yelling at my kids). In some way, they all revolved around self-improvement. Be a better (fill in the blank). Be more romantic with my husband (be a better wife). Catch up on backlogged paperwork (be a better employee). Write 2-3K a week (be a better writer). Give more money to charity (Be a better human). The overall message from 2012 Me to 2013 Me: You are not good enough.

I didn’t even realize it until almost November, when I went back and reviewed the list. I laughed a little at myself, but at the same time, deep down, I felt like a failure. I had accomplished maybe three of the items on the list (which upped to four when I quickly found an eyeliner tutorial on Youtube).

I tried explaining all this to my husband, who has always insisted that I am ridiculously hard on myself. I have always countered with: self-improvement can never be bad. We can all afford to be better people. To me, it’s always been arrogance to assume you’re perfectly fine the way you are – that you couldn't improve your parenting, or maybe be a better friend to someone, maybe say you’re sorry to someone you should have apologized to years ago? I dismissed him as too self-satisfied. I was clearly the enlightened one.

A few weeks ago, I went to my daughter’s kindergarten classroom for National Education Week. I watched her sit, straight-backed, at the Star table listening to instructions, and then cut out turkey feathers in perfect shapes. I watched her collect all her scraps and throw them away and put away her scissors and pencil in her pencil case and then refold her “quiet hands” and wait patiently for the next instruction. I watched her scan the classroom to make sure she was the first one done. I watched her run a small index finger along the edge of the turkey feather to make sure it was a flawless, clean cut. I watched her get frustrated because the glue on her page was slightly smeared. I watched her write and erase the “L” in her first name probably fifteen times, until I thought the paper would rip. Later that night, I said to my husband, “What kind of five year old demands that level of perfection? Where would she get that from?” He quipped back, “Maybe there’s a thirteen New Year’s resolutions gene.”

I was frustrated. I've never pushed her – her drawings were always hung proudly on the refrigerator, she dresses herself in whatever she wants, and even does her own hair. I don’t fix her crooked ponytails. I don’t tell her that pink doesn't always match pink. I stress that “doing your best” is all I ever ask. I’m conscious of letting her find her own way. How could I have done that to her? I clearly needed to do something different, something better. But what? I started Googling things, how to tame a perfectionist child, how to calm an anxious kindergartner.  I watched her do her homework and erase letter after letter, and I said to my husband, “What did I do wrong? What can I do differently?” And his answer was simple. “You are too hard on yourself.”

With that simple phrase, one he’d said a hundred times in our marriage, I realized he was right. For the first time, I understood what he meant. I wasn't hard on my daughter. I was hard on me. I was loving and forgiving and encouraging to my daughter. To myself, I was critical, unkind, harsh. And it was possible, maybe even likely, that whatever perfectionist trait my daughter had inherited had been nurtured in herself by watching me.

I thought back to every Pinterest project we’d ever tackled, every picture we’d ever colored together, every date night she’d watched me get dressed, trying on outfit after outfit, probably sighing. I wasn't a perfectionist, necessarily. In fact, in the moment I can be frequently very lazy. Only later do I fret, worry, feel guilt, think about what I should have said, or should have done, over-apologize, or stress about how I come off to others. She’d spent her whole life watching me critique myself, and come up short in my own eyes. She wasn't trying to make her “L’s” perfect for me—she knew my love was unconditional. But I had inadvertently taught her that self-love was something to be worked for, to be earned.

This year, I’m making one resolution. It’s one word, and it’s mildly cheesy. Accept. Accept that I will yell. Try again tomorrow. Accept my size 14. Eat healthy choices. Accept my work day ends at 4. Accept that I might disappoint someone someday. Whether it be my husband or my best friend, my boss, my mother or my sister. Accept that giving what I give to charity is better than nothing and maybe just give a little bit more.

 We are teaching our children how to be people. Not just with House Rules charts and Rewards Jars, but with our actions. Not just how we treat our kids, but how we treat others, how we treat ourselves. Some of the greatest lessons aren't sound bites (Hands are not for hitting! Kind words, kind tone!), but choices we make every day, reflected by how we view the world. Maybe if we want our kids to be happy, we should be happy. Maybe if we want our kids to be kind, we should be kind.

Maybe if we want our kids to love themselves, it’s not enough that we simply love them. We must also love ourselves.

 I never said I'd quit drinking

Giveaway Winner!!

Thank you to everyone who entered the THOUGHT I KNEW YOU Book Club giveaway!! The winner has been chosen, and congratulations to Katie and her book club! I can't wait to Skype or call into your meeting!

We had a fantastic turnout - over 600 entries and to celebrate, we've lowered the kindle price of THOUGHT I KNEW YOU to $1.99 for the weekend (click here to download)!

Want to enter another giveaway? My publisher is turning a year old, and they're giving away hundreds of dollars in Amazon gift cards, books, and prizes! Check it out!

My So-Called Writerly Life

One of my New Year’s Resolutions was to blog more frequently. I guess, technically, a resolution can’t be a failure until you start it, right? Okay, so here goes.

This is my first “writing” post. Mostly, I’ve blogged about my weird kids, or observations of family life, but I’ve strategically avoided writing about…well, writing. I don’t know why – can something be unknown and strategic? Not sure, but there it is.

I thought I’d give my five blog readers (waves at Mom, Aunt Mary Jo, Becky and Molly, maybe Megan) a little insight into my writing life. Sometimes my friends and family will ask questions, but always seem a little unsure of what to do with the answer. Did they know that? Are they supposed to understand what that means? Generally, I change the subject back to mom things with a collective sigh of relief – messy houses and screaming kids are solid ground. But my writerly life is usually met with a that’s cool, I guess?

I don’t write every day. I work every day – I commute an hour to a job that I mostly like, but don’t feel passionate about. In that way, writing has ruined my life. The rest of you are just along for the ride. At night, after I get home, and the kids are in bed, instead of folding laundry or cleaning the kitchen like I should be doing, I email bloggers, check my twitter and my facebook, check my Amazon rank, reply to fan mail (that’s a joke. Unless one of you e-mails me)…oh, and try to be a decent wife by paying a little attention to my husband.

Before you all start thinking I’m martyring myself, here’s my secret: It’s so much fun. I love it way more than I thought I would. Or, at least its more fun than folding five loads of kids clothes (oh, cute, you thought I was exaggerating). But this means my kids are mismatched, permission slips are always lost, my dishes are overflowing and my husband is over-houseworked (I’m trying to make up for this by giving him props everywhere. Oh wait, he doesn’t read my blog either. Just...tell him I said so, k?)

On the weekends, while the kids nap (luck, luck, luck, and sheer will play a huge part in having a four-year-old who still takes a nap), I write. This means that if I’m lucky, I write a chapter a week. There are about thirty to forty chapters in my new book. Talk about slow goings. I thought dieting was thankless.

But a few weeks ago, something totally awesome happened. Unexpectedly, I finished the first draft of my second book. Why unexpectedly? Oh, I don’t know, I guess somewhere in the back of my mind, I never know if I’ll abandon something or finish it until I write The End. I spent two weeks smoothing out the issues I knew about, but at sixty-five thousand words, I knew there were more problems. It simply wasn’t long enough to be good, in my mind (*SIGH* disclaimer: there are very good books at that length. I could tell that mine was not one of them). It needed….something. But what? (Side note: the average novel is about eighty-thousand words, roughly.) Enter, beta readers.

Um, what?

A beta reader is an early draft reader. Everyone has different definitions or uses for these readers but to me, they must be the following:

• Tough but fair
• A big reader – I’m talking reads a few books a month
• A decent communicator
• Not afraid to tell me the truth
• Not extraordinarily busy

Beta reading sounds like fun. It’s not. If you’re a beta reader, you’re reading a novel with problems. You’re helping the author identify these problems. You can’t kick up your feet and unwind after a long day, pour a glass of wine, get lost in your kindle. No, you have to pay attention, take notes, answer questions on characterization, consistency, plot holes. It’s work! I appreciate every little note I get back from them, because I know that at least once when they were writing up those notes, they didn’t want to be doing it.

I found six beta readers. I’m still waiting for four of them (patiently, no rush, really…. This isn’t an implied prod. I promise). The notes from the first two overwhelm me. I open them, open my manuscript, stare, stare, stare, close everything, check Twitter, check Facebook.

When I get all my beta reads back, I’ll incorporate as much as I agree with (which will not be everything I should, I can assure you that) and begin my own personal line editing. Getting rid of words like just and about, then, that, had, and eliminating clichés. Hopefully, hopefully, by sometime in March, I’ll be ready to submit my new manuscript to my publisher. If I’m lucky, they’ll like it. Then they’ll edit the heck out of it (tell me that I have to get rid of all the things my beta readers told me to get rid of and I ignored), I’ll repeat all my editing steps from above but with more crying, and I’ll publish it in late 2013. If I’m incredibly lucky! We’ll see.

So, uh, what’s your second book about again? Is it a sequel?

No, I think Claire’s journey is told. My second book is a tiny bit darker, but still involves a troubled marriage. Only this time, the couple accidentally kill a man. Instead of calling the police, they bury the body. The novel is about what that secret does to them, as individuals and as a couple.

Do you want to write for a living?

This is the one question I get asked the most by my family and friends whenever the topic of conversation goes to my new weird life. And the answer is of course.  I would love, love, love, to write for a living. But let me break it down for you, in broad strokes. This year has truly been an eye-opener for me. I sell anywhere between one and five books a day, depending on the day. (As a side note, for a debut nobody, those are great sales!) Hopefully, that number increases? But to make “a living”, let’s just say half my current salary (here’s where I really hope my husband doesn’t read my blog), I’d have to sell close to seventy copies a day. Seventy. That’s not even close to New York Times Bestseller list stuff. I should just buy a lottery ticket – same odds.

So there it is. My writing status, how writing (barely) fits into my life, what I give up to do it and why, and what I’ll never get out of it. Good thing I love it. Somehow, unexpectedly, I’ve become passionate about it. At almost thirty-five, with a house, two young kids, and a hectic life, I’ve learned that feeling passionately about something outside of those things is important. It keeps me happy, sane, grounded, reasonable.

Well, mostly reasonable. I’m still sort of a writer, you know?

She has better hair than me, but you get the idea.

Great Expectations

 It’s that time of year – the lights, the carols, the shopping, the drinking….

I have an image of Christmas in my head. Norman Rockwell painted it and Bing Crosy gave it a soundtrack. It’s been boiled down to a single hazy, childhood memory – a composite of all my young Christmases and it smells like pine, tastes like ham, and sounds like off-key singing.

This weekend was my favorite weekend of the entire year – the one where we get the tree. We hike through the snow, holding hands and singing. No one cries. No one poops. No one yells. We pick out the perfect tree that is effortlessly sawed down, and easily transported home, where it practically uprights itself. Cut to carols and hot cocoa and hanging ornaments and kissing under mistletoe.

The reality is a bit louder. L, 4,  hides in between the trees giving everyone a ten minute heart attack. A, 2, squats and poops so that we must now fast forward the tree hunt because we’re in a race against diaper rash. Both kids cry and I yell. Just get that one, I don’t even care anymore, I’m sure it’s fine. Mr. Beaker grumbles: the saw is too dull, the tree is really heavy this year for some reason, why are we here on the coldest day of the year? We’ve somehow managed to hike about a quarter of a mile from the drop-off point and the hayride looks like a small speck in the distance. I stomp off because…well, because this is supposed to be fun and it’s not and of course that means it’s Mr. B’s fault. 

We haul the behemoth home and it doesn’t fit in the house. It’s Christmas Vacation come to life. When I said I wanted picture perfect Christmas, I wasn’t thinking of Clark Griswold. Literally, we can’t stand it up – we’re off by feet, not inches. It also doesn’t fit in the tree stand. Mr. B. has reached a breaking point and both the kids are crying. Christmas is ruined forever!

I am fed up: this was not the image in my head. This is not how it’s supposed to be.

And right there, that’s the crux of it. I’ve just given Christmas a “D” – failed to meet expectations. In my fuming drive to Home Depot (to purchase a chainsaw and an extra large tree stand), I have some kind of cheesy ephiphany. Like my own self-contained ABC Family holiday special. The problem isn’t the reality. Reality is what it is, I have very little control over it. The problem is the expectation.

I find the tree stand and a fantastic tool called a Sawzall (hey, it saws all! Well, that seems kind of fun, actually), which we needed anyway. Suddenly, things don’t seem that bad.

By the time I get home, I’m the Grinch whose heart grew three sizes that day. My family is sitting on the couch, watching Mickey’s Christmas Carol, and as I peek through the doorway, they are laughing. They’ve been PJ’d and their teeth are brushed and they’re snuggled under a snowflake blanket. The lights are off, and the tree is laying in the middle of the living room, taking up all available space but in my absence, they’ve all somehow become the Hallmark card I’ve been trying to force them into all day.

I think that sometimes, the easiest way to be happy is to let go of your anticipation. To quit forcing everyone to conform to the script in your head. To enjoy the imperfect moments for what they are: real.

Scale: Husband is over six feet tall. What were we thinking?

Tiny Pushes

It is Bullying Prevention Month and yesterday was the anniversary of the death of Matthew Shepard. I’m not even sure if “anniversary” is the right word. I remember when this happened. I was two years out of high school and practically a kid myself. I remember thinking “how horrible” and “those poor parents”. But I went on with my day, I felt sad for them but I didn’t actually feel sad. My reaction to these types of horrors has changed dramatically and most notably, in the last five years. As they say, having a baby changes everything.

I read some of the articles published today on Matthew Shepard and found myself a bit teary eyed. Think Progress had an semi-uplifting take on all that has changed in the last 14 years (http://thinkprogress.org/lgbt/issue/) and how things are improving. In 1998, 53% of the United States believed that gay marriage was wrong, and now it’s down to 42%. So, that’s better, right? Right? Forty-two… still seems like a big number to me, that’s all. Sigh. 

I can’t help but think of the world my kids will live in. Thanks to the tireless efforts of a lot of people, like the Laramie project, the death of Matthew Shepard will not be in vain. With enough time and awareness, we can chip away at bigotry and hate. But is it enough? My fear, as a mother, is that it’s not.

I look at L, my oldest, with her weird little idiosyncrasies that I alternately love and loathe and think: Could she be a bullying target? And of course, the answer is yes. Truthfully, I’m not sure you can forcast hate; it’s an unpredictable tide. That’s the terrifying part. That’s the part that will keep me up at night, and that’s the part of me that wants to chain my children in their rooms until they’re well into their twenties.

I can’t protect them from the haters. I can’t make a whole class of kids not turn on my my kid because maybe she’s different (don’t believe me?). Reading these articles today and feeling powerless, it finally dawned on me that while I couldn’t control everyone else, I could make damn sure that my kid wasn’t one of the bullies. I can, to the best of my ability, make sure that my kids are part of the 58% that believe there’s nothing wrong with love irrespective of gender, race, sexual orientation. Maybe, then, they’ll pass those lessons onto their kids and the 42% from above becomes 32%. I can, and do, teach them kindness and tolerance and to appreciate the differences in all human beings. It was such a lightbulb moment – to go from feeling this overwhelming helplessness to realizing that I was thinking about it all wrong. It's not worth worrying, right now, about how others might treat them in the future. I have no control over that. It is worth thinking about how they will treat others - in some small measure, I can shape that. 

Changing the mentality of a society isn’t done overnight. It’s hard not to be disouraged by what feels sometimes like stagnation. But it’s an empowering position – being a parent. I have the opportunity to directly influence the opinions of two little girls, who will become two grown women, and in a small way hopefully contribute to the good in society. I just need to let them out of their rooms first.

The world is moved along, not only by the mighty shoves of its heroes, but also by the aggregate of tiny pushes of each honest worker. – Helen Keller

If I Were King of the Forest

I belong to an online writing community (www.authonomy.com) and in my “spare time” I peruse the forums. There’s plenty of discussions – some are silly, some are political, and sometimes there’s even some about writing. The other day someone started a thread called “The three things a writer needs.” There were a lot of opinions – craft, voice, point of view, an original idea, a fresh take on an old idea. It was a fun thread to read. Then someone posted “Courage”. I had an epiphany.

In two weeks, I’ll release my first book (Hopefully not my last, but topic for another post). I’m psyched. I’m excited. I’m positively terrified. You might be wondering – what’s so terrifying? Fear of failure? Fear of success? The reviews? No, it’s more basic than that.  In two weeks, most people I know will be reading something I wrote. Sure, it’s been edited. They probably won’t find many (any?) typos. But the characterizations, the plot, the relationships, the interactions are borne from my mind for all my friends and family to question, judge, assign meaning to. Yeah, you need courage to do this. To bring your insides out, and put them on paper forever.  It’s the naked in class dream, realized.

Here’s the thing: I didn’t write anything shocking. I have one semi-glazed over sex scene that gives me hives when I think about it. But I think about truly brave authors: Wally Lamb, Augusten Burroughs, even Gillian Flynn, who write with a boiled down raw emotion that is painful to read, and would be unimaginable to write. I think of She’s Come Undone or I Know This Much is True, and you can’t read either of these books without feeling like your heart has been ripped out.  There are parts of both Running with Scissors and A Wolf at the Table that I read with one hand over my eyes. They are burned into my memory. There’s an audacity there I just do not have (yet).  Even Jennifer Weiner, who is widely regarded as a chick-lit writer, has written scenes that I’ve had to pause to finish another time, possibly another day.

When, and if, you read Thought I Knew You, don’t worry. You won’t cringe at any scene, or read it with one hand over your eyes. You won’t need to stop and take an emotional breather. I hope I entertain you, I really do. Maybe you'll shed a tear (email me and let me know, okay?) And maybe, if I'm lucky, you’ll take something away from the book. I’m already thinking about the next one -- how can I be bolder? Maybe push the envelope a little bit more, put a bigger piece of my inner self out there for the world to see. 

As for you, my fine friend, you're a victim of disorganized thinking. You are under the unfortunate delusion that simply because you run away from danger you have no courage. You're confusing courage with wisdom. --The Wizard of Oz