Defining Literary?

A friend of mine met author Jodi Picoult. I'd never heard fo her, but then again, there are thousand of authors I've never heard of, so...

The next time I browsed books, however, I saw several of her books. I chose this one, THE TENTH CIRCLE, out of the lot for my first experience in reading Picoult.

As most of the readers of this blog know, I tend to read only my lines, which consist of romantic suspense and comedy. So needless to say, this was quite a different experience for me. Overall, I did enjoy it. My only issues were the following:

1) The writing is beautifully done. The story is excellently told. However, if you remove all names and pronouns from any page, you don't know whose POV you're in. I did not get a distinct voice for each of the three main characters, and given that one is a mother, one is a father (different sexes think different ways) and one a teenage daughter of 14 (and let's face is, teenage girls are an entirely different species all together...), there should have been clearer voice for each.

2) I really disliked the ending. It felt too abrupt. Not bad, but I wish there had been more closure to all the various situations presented in the book.

It this book literary? I wrote the Brilliant One, but Evil Editor was buried in Novel Deviations II. I don't read literary, so I have no comparison. I think it is, but I'm just not sure. I've heard agents and editors both say it's hard to define but they know it when they see it. I don't know it, I'm not sure I've seen it, but I'm thinking this may be it.

By the way, I do recommend this book. I liked it enough to stay up and read it in just two days.

All in a Mother's Day

I have to say, I really dislike holidays like Mother's Day, Valentine's Day, etc. They seriously serve no purpose except to get people to spend money, and usually out of guilt. Labor Day, Memorial Day - those are good. People get the day off, usually, to be with friends and family. These other holidays of "appreciation" just seem... lame. I mean, c'mon. Buy me a gift any day of the year, tell me you love me just because. Don't do it because it's written on a calendar.

Anyway, rant off.

My children are getting older, and regardless of my denial, that means I am too. Every year is interesting though. Cooper, kindergarten and age 5, is still in that "usual school created" Mother's Day theme. He came home Friday with a flower he'd grown from a seed, and a flower-shaped blue cardstock with his photo attached to it. And of course, I had to unwrap it RIGHT THEN. Sydney's 1st grade class made a thing to hang on the refrigerator.

Carly, the mini-me and ever the practical one, got me two pens I really like to use. Love this gift. And they're always stealing MY pens, so I needed them as well. Not that I believe for an instant that these pens will remain on my desk for long, but I digress...
She also made me this really neat braided ankle bracelet that is really well done, and I plan to wear it starting the day school is out, and keep it on until the hemp just wears out. Perfect for summer. The best gift from Car, though, was she cleaned the kitchen for me. THAT'S what I'm talkin' about!

Shandie. Oh, my freaky sixteen year old. Two years ago, for you long-time readers of the blog, you'll remember she drew me a picture and it read, "If mothers were flowers, I'd smash you in a book." This year, being older and so much more mature, she bought me several little things: A book from the NEXT line of Harlequin called LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER (But in a Good Way) with three stories in it by Jennifer Greene, Nancy Robards Thompson and Peggy Webb. She also got me two of my favorite candies: A Skor bar and a box of Wonka Bottle Caps. Syd stole the Skor bar, and all of them have raided the Bottle Caps. She got us matching silver rings, hers says DAUGHTER and mine says MOTHER, but neither of us can wear silver well, so we've put them on our keychains. And she got me a silver heart that says PATRICIA.

Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy does it say PATRICIA? I'm so glad you asked. After almost 17 years of "Mom Mom Moooooooooooooooom MOM MOMOMOMOMOM", I've learned to block it from my hearing. So several months ago, Shandie started calling me Patricia. Ugh. Even at her school, she'll say something like, "Thanks, Patricia!" and I'll yell "Don't call me PATRICIA!" and her friends are like, "I thought your mom's name is Brenda." And she nods and says, "It is."

Seriously, explain that mentality to others. Not an easy task.

So, I now have a PATRICIA silver heart that goes on a necklace. Not quite sure what to do with THAT yet. But she cooked dinner for us too, so that delayed her beating on general principle.

And the homemade cards. Let's not forget those. Remember Shandie's "smash you in a book"? Well, remember the deballing of Santa from the blonde child named Sydney? Hmm. Remember my post about YOE DAY? (Some of you may have some back-reading to do to get caught up here.) I'll summarize though: Yoe Day is an official school holiday here. I actually heard the reading of the will this year, and Ms. Yoe, before donating all the money to the ISD, declared a day off where the presidents of the different school organizations will go to the graves of Mr. and Mrs. Yoe and put flowers on them. I kid you not: Official No School Day here for that. Very odd. Well, apparently this had an impact on Sydney, ever the literal thinker. Her cards to me reads:

"Happy Mother's Day. I love you. You are kind. So when you die, I'll have everyone put flowers on your grave. From: Sydney"

And ya know, I just had no reply to that, other than, I love you too, Syd Vicious, you little freaky darling.

Happy Mother's Day to to you too - and may you have someone in your life who loves you enough to smash you in a book, or have everyone put flowers on your grave when you die.

First

First Look
Seeing him there, the light in his eyes, the height and strength of him, the surity of how he carries himself. The king of his domain, regardless of what domain he happens to be in at the time. The world falls back into shadows, and only he glistens there in the reality that instantly becomes your world.The first words. The realization of his voice, sure, confident, spoken into the very air you inhale, becoming a part of you as your breathe deeply. Despite the chaos that tumbles through your mind, the current drama life has flung at you, he lured you there as a confidante, just to talk, just to listen but there he is and you're hearing his voice, watching his expressions, seeing that little dimple he has when you say something funny - that dimple you never noticed before in a photo.

These are the moments this life is about.

Watching his expressions, the tone of his voice matching the movement of his body. Instantly he has changed, after a year of random back-and-forth emails, he is finally real. So very, very real.

The first touch
That nervousness of his hand on you, even platonically, because he knows you're distracted with thoughts of something else. He knew when he called, but he beckoned anyway, and you went. And that calm settles over you. There's a peace found with him that you hadn't experienced before. You'd read about it, you'd written about, and God knows you've heard about it, but now you KNOW about it, and you want more of it.

The first good-bye
That time when you have to leave, even if you don't want to. The time when you gather every ounce of sass and bravado your body can muster and start to walk away. Alone. A teasing grin, a promise of plans, your damn heart still betraying you with reactions you never dreamed would happen as you fight to contain it, not let it show.His voice saying to wait but your heart, the coward that it is, pleads with you to run. You don't turn back until he demands it, but you continue walking, looking back at him, still grinning, still hoping, your heart begging you to hit your knees and crawl to him if you must, but you deny it all and continue walking backward, keeping him in sight as he follows, never realzing at the time that he'd never follow you again.

The first real touch
He strips away any idea of platonic. He pulls you close, so close, holding you to him, pressing his body against yours, and that strength you saw, now you feel it, the curve of a bicep under your fingers, the span of his chest against your breasts, his thighs aligned with yours, the perfect sizes, the perfect fit. You inhale him, his scent, his heat molding your body, your hands on his neck, memorizing the feel of him, just in case there's never a second change. Then more, his hands on are you, under the jacket, fingers spread widely against your back, dancing along your ribs, the outter curve of your breasts, the strength if his fingers as they skim your body, along your sides, down the flair of your hips, to the roundness of your bottom and you know he's feeling you, really feeling you, the shape of you under all those clothes you wore as a sense of false protection. His mouth, that delicious mouth, just inches from your ear, whispering, "Close your eyes."And you do. For him, you do.

That first kiss
Soft, pliable lips, ever so talented, barely grazing your cheek. The music of the room fades away, the sounds of clinking glasses turn to windchimes in your mind. Magical sounds. With your eyes closed, every other sense sharpens, concentrates, focus, is magnified a thousand times stronger now that you can't see, can't see his face, can't see his movements. Your heart falls into your belly and you shake. Your entire body trembles as his mouth ever so softly kisses your check. His voice, next to your ear. So close. So there, but this time, no phone invades the space. It's just you. It's just him. It's just you two together and nothing else. And you can feel his breath now, and his promise of, "Next time I won't kiss you on the cheek."

I Dream of Linda

I had the strangest dream today. I know dreams in general are strange, but this was super strange. Ya know when you dream and you're in your own house, but it doesn't look remotely like your house, so you kind of know it's a dream? (Okay, I admit I'm a lucid dreamer, so others may not know what I'm talking about, but anyway...) This dream had my house as my house. Made it seem super real. My room, my desk, the usual mess of books and papers all over it. Black leather chair.

Linda Howard sitting at my desk.

(Very NOT the norm, in case you're wondering...)

She's one of my absolute favorite writers. I never stopped to ask WHY she was at my house, but she was. I was all kinds of stoked as I had a new hard copy, first edition no less, of my favorite book of hers, KILL AND TELL, and she signed it for me. Her signature was super elaborate, and I asked when she started signing her books like that. She said she always did. Um, no. She's on the top of my list of authors to visit at Nationals, and she's signed my books before, and never like she did then (in the dream). But it's Linda Howard, and who's gonna argue, ya know? And since I met her, my dream had her personality and accent down pat. In my real room. It felt REAL.

So then, in the ways of great authors, she asked what I was working on. And again, I got all excited because I happen to really be writing again, so I showed her, and she liked it! I said I wasn't happy with how this chapter is ending (I'm really not) and asked her what she advised on how to get from this point to this point. Ya know, tap the brain of a brilliant chica. I said, "I've read McKee's STORY and Volger's JOURNEY, but neither really seems to be helping me much."

She replied: "Change your font to Times New Roman 11pt."

I stared. HUH?!?!

I wasn't talking fonts! But ya know, it's Linda Howard, so I said: "Well, I'm using Courier New 12pt. But I was actually wondering about..."

And a kid walked into my room (it's Spring Break, so the four heathens are constantly attacking) and woke me up! ARGH!

And there stood my desk in its glorious mess.

My leather chair.

But no Linda Howard.

(Photo: Nationals in Atlanta, 2006. EE, if you're reading this, I had on my Evil Editor t-shirt!)

Again and again

So every excuse I've ever had about why I'm not writing has been met, down to a new (refurbed but new to me) laptop. I eagerly open up a manuscript I'd started and proceeded to stare.

Ugh.

I forced myself to write. It sucked. I backspaced. I wrote some more. It blew chunks. I backspaced again. And again. Then I made myself stop thinking and simply DO it, knowing I could remove it later if I needed to (which, without a doubt, I would), and got to the end of the scene.

And then I realized that since I wrote that little beginning with just an idea of the story, I knew next to nothing about my character. Well, you can't write without knowing the character, so I started on a character worksheet to try to get into her head. My own head is confusing enough. We can only imagine how hard it is to get into a character's head that comes from my head. Kind of as confusing as that last sentence, but I think you know what I mean.

So tonight I'm whipping out craft books on characterization. This is just like anything else: You have to retrain your mind to do it. Flex those muscles and get them limber enough to work with ease.

And try not to get a brain cramp in the process.

More Satan, Please, and a Side of Minion.

Blog, Brenda, Blog! Ya know, you can always help out by sending me ideas and topics on what to blog about when you write to tell me to blog. *hint*

It's very strange to me that people don't use the comment section here as much as they used to and now send me emails instead. Not sure what's up with that, but...

Anyway, Satan.

If you're a reader of my blog for the last two years, you'll remember that I refer to Janet Evanovich as Satan. She tempts and teases and sucks hours of sleep away from you as she creates more of Trenton in your mind. I knew she had #13 of the Plum series coming out this summer, but what I did NOT know was that there's another book, PLUM LOVIN' ("A Stephanie Plum Between-the-Numbers Novel") already out there. I almost cried in pure joy when I saw it at the store, and then did a small little dance because my hands were not only holding a new Evanovich, but because it's a first edition too. I read it, in one night, of course, and it's great. It has Deisel in it again, and if you recall how I felt about her Sugarplum Christmas novel (go midget elf attacks!), it's kind of the same thing. These odd supernatural powers that aren't really explained. Whereas Stephanie, Ranger and Joe could be real (and especially Grandma!), when these novels toss in this supernatural stuff, it simply takes out an element of reality for me. Still though - I loved it, and this time, I was better prepared for the supernatural stuff anyway, since we'd met Deisel before.

In other news, after quite awhile away from all things writing, I've re-entered the world of Evil Editor and Miss Snark. I even ponied-up a New Beginning of one of my novels to be posted on EE's. Yeah, I was in the hospital a couple of weeks ago, and they assured me the high fever was over, but with me taking such a drastic action on his blog, I have to doubt those doctors. Anyway, I love these two to bits, between their witty ways and learning something in the process. If you want to know about writing, read ON WRITING by King and be a faithful Snarkling and Minion, and you're set. Doesn't get much better than that.

EE could use some queries, I believe, so go and visit him and find out what being a minion is all about.

Hmm.

Satan.

Minions.

That works.

Sympathies to Evil Editor

Many of you here in the writing world know Evil Editor: the anonymous editor out there blogging - everyone aching to know his identity and yet more than satisfied in simply having him out here, even though we don't know his name or his face. He thrills us, teaches us, entertains us, and makes us have hope instead of angst at the two words: "query letter". He's our own real life hero. I happen to adore him and proudly claim myself as one of his minions.

His mother passed away on New Year's Day. As another minion said on EE's blog, what an amazing woman she must have been to raise such a strong and stunningly intelligent man. I whole-heartedly agree.

We mourn with you, EE. You're in our thoughts and prayers.

Have a Rockin' Merry Christmas

We're leaving tomorrow for DFW to spend Christmas at "home" aka my parents. I hope you have a fabulous day, relish in your traditions, make new ones, laugh and hug your friends and family and be forever grateful for them. Eat, drink, and be merry. From my family to yours, have a rockin' Merry Christmas!

Dear Santa: Define "good"

We were at my parents in DFW for Thanksgiving, and my oldest, Shandie, was playing around with my mom's rockin' cool digital at the park with the smaller two.

Shandie: So say Santa decides you weren't good this year...
Syd: Define good.
Shandie: Let me see what faces you'd make if you wake up to only coal this year.

This is the result.

Note that Cooper looks like a broken-hearted little boy. Sydney, however, looks like she's considering Jingle Bell Castration.

I sound like my mother.

Not really. Not that it's a bad thing if I did. My mom is one of my best friends. We're just VASTLY different. And besides, that's really not the point. The point is I said a "motherly" thing. Ugh.

I had lunch with Sydney and Cooper. Syd leaves after lunch to go to recess and it was kinda cold out. And I kid you not, the words came outta my mouth: "Where's your jacket?"

Before *I* had a chance to cringe at my own words, Little Miss Six Year Old piped up with, "Mom, it's not THAT cold out."

Well yeah, I knew that. She didn't have to roll her eyes to get the point across either. Needless to say I felt decidedly old. Major suckage.

In other kid news, Syd's also at that age where she's constantly losing teeth. I remember thinking it was super cool when I was little, but man oh man, it squicks me out when she walks up and wiggles a floppin' tooth with her tongue. Worse yet is the laughter she emits at my reaction. A couple of nights ago she came up to me with tissue in her mouth and her tooth held triuphantly in her hand.

"Did you pull it by yourself?"

"No, Cooper punched me in the mouth and it fell out."

Oh. Well, okay - whatever works.

Then she had the audicity to say that the $2 she received from the Tooth Fairy was fake. FAKE!

I said, "Well give it back then!"
She said, "Why would I give it BACK to you when it's FROM the Tooth Fairy."

Uhhh.
Right.
Oops.
Nevermind!

Sassy little thing. And we wonder why her five year old little brother smacked her in the mouth? I think not.