Monday, April 30, 2012

REALIZING A DREAM AND BUILDING ON IT



Teresa Reasor was born in Southeastern Kentucky, but grew up a Marine Corps brat. The love of reading was instilled in her when she first learned to read in Kindergarten at Paris Island, South Carolina. Books were the friends who traveled with her during the many transfers dictated by her father's military career.
She says when she grew older, it was a natural transition for the love of reading to become a love for writing. Though she's been an art teacher and an artist for over twenty years, writing has always been her first love and her passion..Please leave Teresa a comment at the end of the post.



Realizing A Dream and Building On It
In May of 2010 I boarded a plane with a friend and we flew to Scotland. I’d saved for five years to go. I worked two jobs and most of the money I made went to pay tuition and living expenses for the two children I still had in college. But every two weeks I put fifty dollars back and added any money I got for birthdays and Christmases and some of the royalty checks I got from my publisher. And in five years time I had the money to pay for my air travel roundtrip, my room and board, and my half of the rental car. (A brand new Mercedes—We definitely got the insurance.)


The hardest part of the whole experience was committing to it. Saving the money was difficult when most of my pay was going out for other things. But I bought no new clothes, only bought books I absolutely needed for research, and earmarked every royalty check I got from my publisher for my Scotland fund.
I had about half what I needed for the trip when something major occurred to me. Committing to this trip was about more than just seeing a foreign country I’d dreamed of since seeing my first book, Highland Moonlight, in print. It was about living a dream. And even more than that, I was committing to a dream that fed a bigger one. My desire to become a full time writer. That realization gave me the impetuous to tighten my belt and get the funding I needed for the trip. I squeezed every nickel so tightly Jefferson screamed and the buffalos on some of them left a manure deposit behind. Poor things.

The next part of the commitment was planning the whole thing a year in advance. It took us nearly three months to make our decisions on where we were going to stay and for how long. You can’t just drop in and expect to have a place to sleep because lodgings get booked up pretty quickly.

 Gight Farm House in Aberdeenshire

As writers we’re told to write what we know. And if you can’t travel to the setting you’re writing about, you immerse yourself in research so detailed you know the place in your sleep and the reader will swear you’ve been there. With my historical romances, Highland Moonlight and Captive Hearts, I did just that. I read histories, poetry, books about geography, looked at every website available, took classes, and saturated myself in every detail I could discover about England and Scotland, its castles, its history, and its culture. And I wrote.







With this next book, TIMELESS—this epic I had plotted in my head a hundred times—I needed to see the setting up close and personal. I needed to breath the air, touch the plants, hike across the hills and valleys and dangle my toes in the loch.



The view from Scots Walk so named because Sir Walter Scott walked this route every day.

Because it was set in contemporary times, I needed to see what Scotland was like today, not in the distant past. And I needed to meet her people and discover, what beer they drank, what and how they ate, how they spoke, and every other cultural thing I could absorb about them.




One of the tour guides at

Eileen Donnan Castle

And once there I observed, took notes, took photos, talked to as many people as I could and drove the countryside with my friend Mitsi. And had an absolute blast. We both did.

The Scottish people are wonderful. Warm and welcoming, helpful and generous. I will never forget any of the families with whom we stayed.



     Ann our hostess at Orchard House  just outside of Edinburgh.


Because of the trip, I learned that in order to live your dreams you have to commit to your dreams. I committed to mine when I went to Scotland and later when I released my third book in June of last year, Breaking Free, a military romance.









Breaking Free



In October I said good-bye to twenty-two years of teaching Elementary Art to pursue writing as a career. I haven’t stopped teaching completely. This spring I started my ninth year as a part time instructor for Eastern Kentucky University at a satellite college where I live. But my main job now is writing.










TIMELESS was released in January. Another dream fulfilled. It took a trip to Scotland and months of research to write it, but it’s out in both print and ebook format. And it’s filled with all the wonderful things I learned from my trip and with some of the people I met along the way.



So, despite whatever struggles you may face, pursue your dreams. Start early while you’re young. Make them a priority. Plot and plan for them with as much determination as you do your books and make them happen. If I can do it, anyone can.



Write on,

Teresa J. Reasor

Teresa Reasor is the author of Highland Moonlight, Captive Hearts, Breaking Free, and Timeless. Buy Here
Come back on Friday for an excerpt of Timeless.

Friday, April 27, 2012

JILLIAN HUNTER: THE DUCHESS DIARIES


Jillian Hunter


If you haven't read regency romance, this is an opportunity to read a really unique   love story and get a glimpse at the regency period of history.

Jillian Hunter is back to share an excerpt from her newest book.  Please share your thoughts by leaving Jillian a comment.

 Jillian is the New York Times bestselling author of nineteen critically acclaimed novels, among them the bestselling Boscastle series. She has received several awards, including the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. She lives in Southern California with her family. Contact Jillian at http://www.jillianhunter.com/ and friend her on facebook at facebook.com/JillianHunterBooks

~~~~

The Duchess Diaries
Book Three in The Bridal Pleasures Series

As headmistress of the Scarfield Academy for Young Ladies, Miss Charlotte Boscastle is tasked with keeping her charges free from notoriety. But when Charlotte's diary goes missing, she can't imagine having her most intimate secrets fall into the wrong hands.
Although the confessions in the diary he found spark his interest, the Duke of Wynfield has every intention of returning the journal. But when Gideon's encounter with Charlotte takes on an unexpectedly passionate nature, his indiscretion causes a scandal that only marriage can cure...

EXCERPT...

Chapter 1

Mayfair, London
1819

It was the best of balls; it was the worst of balls. It was the annual graduation ball honoring the Scarfield Academy for Young Ladies in London. It was an evening of hope, which Miss Charlotte Boscastle had resolved would not end in disgrace. It was an evening of beginnings and farewells.

As the academy’s head schoolmistress, Charlotte would receive accolades for her efforts in training another class of young ladies to enter society. She would be praised for any marriage proposals offered to her students as a result of their elite schooling.

She would also be blamed for any scandals she allowed to besmirch the academy’s name. Her archenemy, Lady Clipstone, the owner of a competitive although lesser school, had predicted to the newspapers that some social misfortune was bound to occur during the event. Charlotte could take little comfort in the knowledge that she was surrounded by members of her own family—everyone in the ton knew how controversy tended to follow the Boscastles. It was said that whenever more than two Boscastles were gathered in one place, the devil came into active play.

Still, she was grateful that her cousin, the Marquess of Sedgecroft, had agreed to host the affair at his Park Lane mansion. She appreciated the fact that he had invited his battalion of friends to fill the ballroom and impress the girls.

The social futures of this group of young ladies were in Charlotte’s hands for one last evening. It fell upon her to put out any flames of attraction to the opposite sex before they could blaze into an impropriety.

“Miss Boscastle, may I go out into the garden?”

“No, Amy, you may not, as I have told you a thousand and one times. Not without an approved escort.”

“But it’s stifling in here.”

“Drink another lemonade.”

“Verity drank champagne.”

“Verity,” Charlotte said, searching the room for her most trouble-prone pupil, “will be restricted to her room tomorrow. I knew I shouldn’t have allowed the younger girls to attend. How will they concentrate on class tomorrow? Miss Peppertree was right. Only the graduates should be invited to the ball.”

“Miss Boscastle, I broke my slipper. What should I do? May I ask the marchioness if I could borrow a pair of hers?”

Charlotte frowned. “If you can find her—without leaving the room.”

“Verity is standing on the terrace, miss.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “Where is the Duchess of Glenmorgan? She promised she would stay close enough for me to call.”

Perhaps, after tonight, Charlotte might be able to draw a breath. For good or for evil, the graduates would venture forth into the world and assume the responsibility of their reputations upon their own shoulders. If it were possible she would have drawn out a complete map of pitfalls that a young lady might encounter after she left the academy. It would depict a narrow road intersected with various pathways marked, Avenues of Forbidden Affairs, Dark Forays into Decadence—or Ruined Reputations. Until dawn broke over the occasion, however, she was obligated to stand guard against any rogues who thought to take advantage of an inexperienced girl. She had her eye on one rogue in particular. He had looked at her only once. The Duke of Wynfield was without question the most elegant and hard-edged guest at the ball, and Charlotte wasn’t about to let him tempt one of her graduates or detract her from her duty. She wondered whether he even remembered the last time they had seen each other, at the emporium in the Strand. They hadn’t exchanged a single word. Charlotte had been shopping for the academy that day. He had been shopping for a pair of strumpets, one draped over either elbow.He had kissed one of the tarts on the neck—and merely smiled when Charlotte, at the opposite end of the counter, had gasped in shock.

She had returned to the academy hours later to record the incident in her diary, as was her wont, changing a detail here and there until, en fin, the actual event bore little resemblance to her fabricated but far more satisfying version. She had been keeping a journal ever since she could hold a pen and she enjoyed the art of exaggerating commonplace events.

When her Boscastle cousins had first invited her to London five years ago, she had been so enthralled by their amorous exploits that she had undertaken the task of recording the family history in her diary. Soon the pages needed no enhancement. It was a challenge to follow the family’s constant scandals. It seemed that every one in the brood had led a secret life as a spy or someone’s lover. She had to face a painful fact -- as much as she admired her relatives, it was obvious that she led a dreary life in comparison.

It took her a month to overcome her inhibitions and let her pen wander where it would. Soon her diaries simmered with illicit truths and vicarious pleasures. In the pages of her intimate musings the duke not only adored her, but he had been pursuing her for months. In actual life he was domineering, indecent, and inexcusably taken with disgraceful women. In his fictional encounters with Charlotte he was domineering, indecent, and inexplicably taken with her alone.
In Charlotte’s version of the incident in the emporium, the duke had noticed her across the counter and had immediately dismissed the other women. He had walked straight up to Charlotte and, without a word, grasped her hand.

“My carriage is outside,” he said, his sinful smile mesmerizing her. “May I take you away?”

His face receded. Another voice, breathy and excited, was whispering in her ear. “That’s the Duke of Wynfield you’re staring at, Miss Boscastle. Do be careful. Everyone is saying that he’s in the market for a mistress.”

Charlotte gripped her fan and turned to regard her favorite student in dismay. “Lydia Butterfield, reassure me that he has not found one in you.”

Lydia gave her a wistful grin. “Dear Miss Boscastle, I shall miss you with all my heart.”

“You shall miss my guidance; that is clear.”

“I won’t need it any longer,” Lydia said in regret. “But I will miss your history lessons.”

“All the battles and beheadings?” Charlotte asked, stepping to the side to stop Lydia from staring at the duke. Or him from noticing her. “But don’t be so melodramatic or I shall start to cry. Your family still lives in London. You may visit the academy whenever you wish.”

“My family—well, my betrothed family’s lives in Dorset, and he is eager to start a family—”

“Your betrothed?” Charlotte said faintly.

Lydia bit her lip, nodding toward the short gentleman standing a few feet behind her. “Sir Adam Richardson, the architect.”

“Lydia, I am so—”

Envious? Yes, to her shame, she envied Lydia a little. But she was also filled with happiness for a girl whose sweetness Charlotte had feared would render her vulnerable or undesirable on the marriage mart. “I am proud,” she said firmly. “He appears to be a fine gentleman.”

Lydia laughed, her gaze drifting to the duke, who was not known to be a gentleman at all. “I was told that he is a wildly jealous lover.”

“Your fiancé?”

“The duke,” Lydia said, laughing again. “He has a reputation for being a possessive suitor.”

“Lydia.” Charlotte attempted to look shocked, although the same rumors had not escaped her attention. Such gossip should have stamped the duke as an unacceptable person instead of engendering wicked daydreams about him in Charlotte’s imagination. Why did it feel so pleasant to picture him tearing off his long-tailed evening coat to defend her from . . . Oh, since it was her flight of fancy, the other man might as well be Phillip Moreland, the cad who had broken her heart years ago.

She could picture it so clearly. The ballroom would be cleared for a duel; the duke studied sword fighting at Fenton’s School of Arms. Charlotte had watched him perform at a benefit ball in this very mansion. She’d had nothing to do with him on that past night, and it was doubtful that she would capture his interest in the future.

“I don’t think that either of us need worry about the duke’s amorous proclivities,” she assured Lydia, thus uttering the fateful words that would come back to mock her before morning came. . . .


 To Read  Chapter 2 continue here. and don't forget to leave a comment for Jillian.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

BECKY MARTINEZ CRITIQUES THE FIRST FIVE PAGES


                                          The First Five Pages Critique- Part II
Becky Martinez and Sue Viders


Last week Sue Viders did Part I of Kimberly Packard's critique and this week Becky Martinez does Part II of the critique.

Becky Martinez is an award-winning former broadcast journalist and published author. Her newest romantic suspense novella, Shadows from the Past, a modern gothic, will soon be released by The Wild Rose Press. Her suspense, Deadly Messages was also published by TWRO and was an Aspen Gold finalist. 

She was also one of the co-authors of Ten Steps to Creating Memorable Characters, a workbook for writers. For the past six years she has been teaching writing classes, both online and in person. She lives in Littleton, Co. 


Chapter 1
            The acid shot up from David Stephen’s stomach so quickly he barely had time to pull his government issued (not necessary here and slows things down) truck off the road and sprint across the hot asphalt.  As he heaved the last bits of tequila mixed with coffee and eggs, he reminded himself not to reach out for the spindly ocotillo beside him.  He made that mistake the first time he found himself hungover in the desert.and delete and add He’d pulled thorns out of his palm for days.  The coarse hair of his beard scraped against the back of his palm as he swiped away any remnants. 
            When the wave of nausea passed, David took a moment to walk the desert floor. (this makes it sound like he is getting back into the truck right here and you show him doing it in the next paragraph where it works better)  Not that he really looked for drug runners, he wanted to look like he had a legitimate reason for the sudden stop and sprint from his truck in case another Border Patrol agent saw him. 
            “Shit,” he cursed as he walked back to his truck.  It wasn’t mid-morning yet and the heat rose from the ground in watery waves.  David knew better than to blast his truck’s air conditioning.  Being acclimated to the heat would prevent that all-too-familiar floaty, light-headed feeling the next time he stepped outside.  But he didn’t care and zipped the switch on his console to high.  He took a swig of warm Gatorade. Tthe syrupy liquid curdled in his stomach forcing David to swallow the rising acid. 
            (new paragraph) “I can’t do this anymore.  It’s not worth it.” He hoped saying those words aloud changed what he was thinking.  It really is worth it, he thought as he put his truck into drive (not necessary if you use italics on his thoughts)It’s worth it to spend a few precious hours blissfully unaware that the last year happened.  It’s worth the hangovers to not see her face when I go to sleep.  It’s worth the blinding headaches to forget what I did to Shiloh. But it's also the only way he can  But it was also the only way he could  (watch tenses here -- present tense if he is directly thinking which is italiczed but once you go back out of his thoughts, you need to go to back to past tense) remember the smell of her hair, the way her smile lit up her whole face and the feel of her body next to his.  Drinking was the only way he could both forget Shiloh and remember Mandy. 
            David pulled back onto the highway without checking behind him.  No one ever came down this stretch of road in far south Texas.  Unaware tourists crashing through a herd of javelina at night, not other drivers, caused most car accidents.  As he continued south, he tried to see his surroundings as the thousands of tourists did who flocked to the national park.  The pancake-flat ground swelled to a towering rock formation only to deflate back to the stark earth and then rise again to a mountain, like ocean waves coming to shore. 
            He pulled onto an unmarked dirt road and parked in a makeshift lot on a bluff overlooking the Rio Grande.  The hazy layer cake of the Sierra de Carmen mountain range blocked his view too far into Mexico.  Movement on the riverbank caught his eye and he began to make his way down a rocky footpath. 
            “Hola, Fernando,” David called out to a man on horseback who led a small herd of cattle down to the river for a drink.  Como esta?” 
            “Good morning, Dah-veed,” the man answered in heavily accented English.  He walked guided  his horse to the opposite bank and reached down to shake David’s hand.  The horse wanted to come out of the water, but Fernando held him steady, keeping him from crossing into Texas.  “I’m good, friend, how are you?”
            David nodded his answer.  “Not bad.  Going to be another hot one today.”  The late summer heat wave dotted his shirt with perspiration before the sun barely made it over the mountains in the east. 
            Fernando laughed.  “My friend, it’s going to be a hot one for many more months.”
            “How are things?  Quiet?”  Since joining the U.S. Border Patrol nearly a year ago he threw himself into his job often working six or seven days straight.  Most of the violence was along the border to the west or further to the east, but David knew it was only a matter of time before it spilled into his little corner of the state.  His job was to protect the U.S. citizens from the Mexican drug lords, but he also felt a responsibility to his Mexican neighbors, those trying to get by in the harsh environment, both political and natural. (as a Border Patrol agent, wouldn’t he also be watching for illegal immigrants trying to cross into the US?)
            “Yes, quiet,” Fernando glanced behind him.  David wondered if the man consciously made that gesture or if it was from years of having to look over his shoulder for the drug lords. 
            David nodded, torn between relief and disappointment.  When he took the job, he requested to be stationed in El Paso, just north of the epicenter of much of the conflict between the U.S. Border Patrol and the drug cartels and where he thought he would find Mandy.  But, despite his years as a police officer, a degree in criminal justice, and a glowing, if not overdone, recommendation from the Phoenix Police Chief, he was assigned to Brewster County, his supervisor citing his lack of experience in border relations and the fact that an old football injury rendered him incapable of running without a heavy knee brace.  If I was in El Paso, I would have a better chance of finding Mandy or getting shotOr, both
            “You haven’t asked about the girl,” Fernando said, shaking David from his thoughts.  “Did you find her?”
            “No, not yet,” his jaw tightened as if he sucked on a post-tequila shot lime.
            “You give up on her?  Because, we have many pretty senoritas in my village.”
            David smiled at the thought of Fernando setting up a blind date for him.  “How’s Carlos?”
            Fernando’s eyes lit up at the sound of his son’s name.  “He’s good.  This week he announced he is going to become un doctór when he grows up.”
            A whirring engine overhead interrupted their conversation.  Both men looked up at the cloudless blue sky, but knew they wouldn’t be able to see the drone above them.  Fernando backed up the horse and a whistle indicated to the dogs to get the cattle back to the Mexican shore.  The man had nothing to worry about since he was with a Border Patrol agent, but David knew his friend took every precaution to keep himself out of trouble. 
            “I must move on, my friend,” Fernando said and turned his horse around in the water. 
            “You call me if you need anything, you hear,” David shouted to the man’s back. 
            Fernando answered with a wave. 

This gets off to a good start. We get a picture of our hero and a foreshadowing of his problem. I think though that as a border agent he would be watching for illegal agents or if he is only looking for drug dealers you might still at least mention the illegal problem because it is so well known that it makes the reader wonder why you don’t . )
 ~~~
If this critique is of value to you, please leave a comment for Becky.



Wednesday, April 25, 2012

IT'S NOT HOW LONG YOU MAKE IT, IT'S HOW YOU MAKE IT LONG

This is the second in a 12-part series “Wrongs To Write: Defying Fiction Conviction” by Fort Worth based novelist Jeff Bacot on challenging conventional literary rules in fiction writing. Jeff Bacot is a freelance fiction writer and blogger of unconventional thought. He has written two novels and 17 short stories. He is an active member of The Greater Fort Worth Writers Group. He graduated from Southern Methodist University with two undergraduate degrees (BA, BBA) and one graduate degree (MA).


It’s not how long you make it, it’s how you make it long

No, that’s not what I’m talking about, sorry, but at least now I have your attention. And no, this is not an advertisement for a new cigarette, my photo notwithstanding. So, please indulge me again on my rebellious journey through common fiction edicts. I have something short to say about another “S” word; sentences (no, not sex or smoking). Just sentences, long ones, frighteningly long A$$ sentences. I promise, it won’t take long.
The famous novelist Don DeLillo was once asked what it means to be a writer. He answered simply, “I construct sentences.” Short, straight, to the point he was, but tense, immense and dense in his meaning. Whether we are reading, writing, talking or listening, no one can disagree: a sentence lives. Words, yes, I agree, are the bricks, but sentences are the walls that make the buildings stand. The sentence is the vehicle that does all the heavy lifting, the toughest jobs. It is the life force through which we transmit our stories, our ideas, our nonsense, our truths and our lies. It moves us forward through time and space. It’s the most important and interesting thing we can do as writers: Write good ones, really good ones, one after another. But the long and short of it is; long and short sentences are very different in effectiveness and efficiency. Yes, it’s not how long you make them, it’s how you make them long.

I liken a good sentence to a good home run in baseball. If a batter barely clears the wall in Fenway Park’s (home of the Boston Red Sox) noted left field ‘Green Monster’, the ball has to be hit just about 230 feet. The distance a ball would have to travel in deep center field in that same park, to have the length enough to be a home run, exceeds 400 feet. Either way, a home run hit 1,000 feet over the center field bleachers into the parking lot or just 230 feet to the short left field wall in that ball park, is still a home run, just one home run. The scoring is the same, you get credit for one run (never mind whether someone is on base, and never mind how many Human Growth Hormones the batter might have injected). However, me personally, I kinda like the long bombs better, in football, in baseball and in sentences. Short sentences can be home runs, but generally long ones give us the “wow” factor we want to see and hear. Long home runs, like long sentences, are more indicative of how skillful a professional hitter hits and how skillful a professional writer writes. They simply pack more emotional punch to fans, to opponents, to readers and to me.

The problem with the sentence, and the sea change in size that has occurred in recent years, is that we are now told constantly to “omit needless words” and “shorter is always better”. This ever decreasing length and density of sentences is a function of many things, but in my estimation, it’s primarily the fault of the rapid advent of modern technology, and the A.D.D. nature of the text messaging world in which we now live. The over use of acronyms like OMG and LOL in virtually every Facebook post and text message, frankly just makes me LMFAO! It also makes me WTFBS (that is, “want to f...ing break something”.) But, there is nothing I, or we, can do about that, except protest quietly with really clean, well-written, longer sentences; or really good short ones, (like my favorite, “FIGHT THE POWER!”)

Dr. Brooks Landon, a noted lecturer on this subject, and the former Head of The English Department at The University of Iowa said this: “Effective writing is writing that anticipates, shapes and satisfies a reader’s need for information. It gives a reader enough of the information necessary for thoughtful consideration of the writer’s purpose. It anticipates the obvious questions a reader will form. It satisfies the readers need for additional information and implicitly assures the reader is in good hands.” This can only be accomplished by smoothly lengthening the information in the sentences we create. The prose packed into a longer single sentence can be used to much greater depth, purpose and effect than when divided into puny little, A.D.D. segments.

The key to satisfying a reader is to anticipate and fulfill his need for information. This is much easier to accomplish in the form of a longer idea that is formed properly in one longer continuum. Sentences that convey more information operate more efficiently than sentences broken up into even more sentences, that collectively are only offering one proposition. One idea smashed into several different sentences slows movement down, drags pacing and lingers momentum. Sentences that convey more information are simply more effective than those that convey less. A sentence that molds images, ideas and thoughts into clearer focus by adding details and clearer explanations are generally more effective than those that bring forth and offer fewer details. The modern does not agree, but that doesn’t make it right.

Being simple and direct are always good methods to tell a story, but “simple” does not mean “simplistic” and “direct” does not mean “brief”. In my novel On The Hole, I was heavily criticized by an editor for a 120-word Babe Ruth-ian bomb I hit out of the zip code. I’ll let you have a quick read and I will explain the purpose for its length afterwards, or shall I say ‘after words’; many of them:

“It was a powerful visual image that could be enjoyed only in the breath of autumn when the sage smell of the wind was cool in the early dawn hours, while standing on the tee box that morning, Jay had gazed at the dew shimmering on the tightly manicured emerald grass, the dampness creating a faint mist rising up from the moist earth, the tall oak trees serving as backdrop, their leaves in autumnal color change, the stark contrast between the offset hues of the lush grass and the color separations of the amber leaves was sublime, he thought, as he stared at the blushing morning sunrise that peeked down, just over the tree line, just under the motionless white clouds, and winked at him.”

This scene was written to convey the beauty of one short moment and its lasting impact on the character. But, in order to properly understand that brief moment, and the massive amount of detail and imagery that had to be crammed into it, required a long A$$ sentence. A really long uninterrupted one. To have broken this up, would have shrunk its importance and diluted the moment.

The red ink notes my editor put next it said “self-indulgent and rhetorically inflated.” Of course it is! With the exception of text messages, everything I write could be categorized as such. Dude, that’s what I do, I said to myself after reading his comment. I make stuff up for a living, lie for effect, spare nothing of importance, gorge it all with details, and then shine the chrome and fatten up the characters even more during the revision process. I inflate and indulge all of my stories, because that’s what people like to read and honestly, that’s what I like to write. (That said, I am a firm believer in the mantra of Stephen King, who said, “Second Draft Equals First Draft Minus 10%.” Sometimes a story diet and an exhausting detail thinning boot camp workout is necessary for a plot to keep moving forward. But I digress, the story diet does not require shortening good sentences. It requires trashing bad ones; trust me, I write a lot of them.)

One of my favorite quotes is by Martin Luther King, Jr. when he said:

“Occasionally in life there are those moments of unutterable fulfillment which cannot be completely explained by those symbols called words; their meanings can only be articulated by the inaudible language of the heart."

I guess I might have rewritten it in about eight words to say something like, “Happiness is spoken from the heart, not words.” But, it just sounds a lot more dignified, powerful and cool in his 35 word beauty.

William Faulkner, in his book Absalom! Absalom! wrote a properly punctuated sentence of 1,287 words. Yes, I said 1,287 words and a sentence with correct grammar and punctuation. Yikes. That’s not what I’m suggesting. A sentence of that length is called…well, I don’t think there is a word for that, at least not a word I want to say here. And, “self-indulgent and rhetorically inflated” would be way too kind. But there are many common literary and writing texts that propose no sentence should exceed 25 words unless necessary, and never ever more than 40 words. I don’t completely disagree with these figures, sentences should be kept to under 15-20 words, for the most part. But never employing a good, long, descriptive, clean, clear, well-crafted sentence just handcuffs potential creativity and density of meaning for any writer. When these arbitrary numbers limit detail in a story that demands MORE not LESS, it weakens the ability to make a clear point and thus, create a good story.

I rewrote the above scene I referenced earlier into four 25-30 word component segments, and it bombed. Badly! I mean it just sucked the oxygen from the room. There was simply no way to effectively segment all that sensory input in that one brief moment into an efficient and focused division of sentences. One long sentence screamed at me to keep adding details in order not to break the momentum or diminish the power of the vision and image for that character in that moment in time.

Many point to Hemingway and his simple and short style. However, some research on the subject uncovered no less than 24 examples of 100 word sentences that he created in a few of his stories. I’m willing to bet that he wrote a bunch of 50 word whoppers as well. And he’s known primarily for his brevity. Really? If he can get away with it, then so can I and so can you.

So, don’t be afraid to add layers to your sentences, add depth to the hollow, interest to the boredom, tenants in the vacancy, width to the expanse, space to the sky, and length to boring brevity. It’s not after all, how long you make it…it’s how you make it long. And if your editor tells you to “omit needless words” and “write shorter sentences”, just smile and give him a long breathy sigh, then respond with the shortest and most beautiful complete sentence ever written. “No.”


Monday, April 23, 2012

JILLIAN HUNTER:LET CHARACTERS REVEAL THEMSELVES


Jillian Hunter
 It's our pleasure to welcome Jillian Hunter a New York Times bestselling author of nineteen critically acclaimed novels, among them the bestselling Boscastle series.  She has received several awards for her writing, including the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award.  She lives in Southern California with her family.

Welcome to Texas, Jillian! Thank you so much for agreeing to an interview.

Thank you, Ruby, and Texas for inviting me!



So here we go…

You’re an award winning author who has written 21 published novels. What galvanizes you to keep writing?
Words fascinate me. I love their nuance and power. Every book I write presents a challenge and another world to conquer. Writing might be hard but it’s never boring.

What inspired you to write regency romances?
The Regency is a brief but delightful interlude in English history that gave birth to an elegance not seen before or since.


Could you share a bit about your book and characters in The Bridal Pleasures Series, The Duchess Diaries?
The hero of the first book in the trilogy, A Duke’s Temptation, is a complex character who keeps his true self a secret until he meets Lily Boscastle. It was during the swordplay scenes between Samuel and Liy that I decided to make Kit, the hero of the next book, A Bride Unveiled, a swordsman and master-at-arms to the Boscastle family. In the last book of the series, Charlotte Boscastle loses her heart (and her diary) to the Duke of Wynfield, who is Kit’s best friend.


Your novels about the Boscastle family feature such accurate historical detail and your characters seem like real people. Do you have a secret for developing characters?
The only thing I know for certain is that I have to be patient and let the characters reveal themselves. Usually it takes writing the entire book before I can pin them down. When I go back to rewrite, I have a deeper understanding of who they are.

What challenge or struggle do you face when you try to build emotional bonds between the characters. How do you, then, go about addressing the part you struggle with.
The challenge in building emotional bonds between characters comes when I haven’t established a strong enough conflict for them to overcome. When this happens I have to stop writing and again, wait for insight. This has to evolve organically. I am not a fan of artificial conflicts.

Which is more important in your stories, character or plot?
Character, always.

Do you outline before you write?

Yes. An outline gives me the structure to start the story and a timeline to follow.

You’ve written many novels featuring the Boscastle family with many storylines. Do you maintain a story bible or file to keep them straight?

I do have files on the family which are helpful for reference purposes, and I have several storyboards to keep track of main events and general descriptions.

If you could give writers one small piece of advice, what would it be?
Read. Practice your craft. Surround yourself with positive people and persist. I don’t think there has been a better time to be a writer.

What’s next for you?
Next up is Colin Boscastle’s book in which our hero returns to England for revenge only to find romance in his enemy’s house.

Finally, where can we find you on the web?
I’m on Facebook and my website is jillianhunterauthor.com

Question to readers.  If you've read regencies and like them, what attracts you to the period?

Friday, April 20, 2012

Rebecca Hamilton's "The Forever Girl"

The familiar jingle-jangle of the ice-cream truck that you've been hearing in the background?  Yeah, that's us.  Today, we have a special treat for your eyes and your mind (you may have to hunt down a REAL ice-cream truck for any other senses)  


Here's a first-glimpse at Rebecca Hamilton's debut novel, "The Forever Girl."  Just a little something to wet your appetite.  Also!  Ms. Hamilton has agreed to give away a free ebook copy of her book to one lucky commenter!  So be sure to read, enjoy, then let everybody know what you think!


(Posted by Matthew Bryant)



EXCERPT....

He rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “Was that a yes or a no to dancing?”
I shook my head, but my smile said ‘yes’. Not to mention Marcus was still staring—and in the least intriguing way. He gave me the creeps. If I was dancing with someone else, that might get the weirdo’s attention off me. I spotted Ivory dancing with another girl, perhaps a friend she’d met here before, and figured one dance without her wouldn’t hurt.
The man across from me stood and offered his hand. My palm warmed as I accepted, and, as I rose to join him, my balance shifted. I wobbled, nearly falling right back into my seat.
He hooked his arm around my waist, supporting me against his body, his breath soft on my ear. “Careful there.”
At his sudden embrace, a small shock flashed through my body. After a moment, my vision steadied. With his biceps behind my back and his forearm against my side, I felt somehow smaller and safer at the same time. I tilted my face up, catching his gaze. The candlelight from the table danced inside his irises and illuminated flecks of amber in his eyes. He cocked one eyebrow slightly, his amused expression also somehow gentle. Perhaps I’d misjudged him.
The moment rapidly becoming too intimate, I tensed. I needed to put some distance between us, to ignore the unwanted fluttering in my stomach. I stepped back. The air in the room lacked the warmth and comfort of his body.
“I’m okay,” I said, which was true depending on what one’s definition of ‘okay’ was.
We wedged into a small opening in the crowd near the speakers. The burning scent of hot electrical wires replaced the fruity aroma of liquored drinks. He tilted his head down toward me as he stepped tentatively closer, then he rested his firm but gentle hands on my hips, his arms bent at the elbow, relaxed.
I was decidedly not so relaxed.
I peered up at him, unsure what he expected. I’d never danced with a guy, not unless relatives at weddings counted.
Awkwardly, I placed my hands on the front of his shoulders, steadying myself as I swayed with him. A shiver flashed down my spine at the firmness of his body. How could he be so solid and still so graceful? His hands easily covered my hipbones, his fingertips pressing just behind my sides, into the muscles of my back. In that moment, I felt another kind of vulnerability.
He leaned forward and pressed his lips to my ear. “You okay?”
I nodded, stepping closer and sliding my hands around to the back of his shoulders. I buried my face against his chest, safe from his imploring gaze. He smelled like vanilla and musk and sandalwood, and I tried to commit the intoxicating scent to memory.
What the hell was I doing? I hesitated backward, away from him, but he easily guided me right back, and I had to bite my lip not to gasp as an unexpected shudder ran through my body. The heat radiating from his flesh burned through my dress, the warmth igniting in my stomach and snaking outward in an involuntary arousal. An arousal I needed to dismiss, even if only out of the irrational fear I’d become the kind of woman Mother would damn to Hell. Of course, Mother already thought that’s where I was going.

Author-Editor Sue Viders Critiques The First 5 Pages


GFW Writer member Kimberly Packard won the Editor Critique contest for the first 5 pages of her manuscript, Pardon Falls, from Sue Viders.
Sue Viders offers writing classes and editing services, as well as co-authored The Complete Writer's Guide to Heroes and Heroines- Sixteen Master Archetypes, and Ten Steps to Creating Memorable Characters. She is also the author of twenty non-fiction books for artists on marketing and developed a helpful advice site for writers, www.writethatnovel.com.

Please read along her comments below for the first 5 pages of Kimberly Packard's, Pardon Falls.

~~~~~~~~~~

The acid shot up from David Stephen’s stomach so quickly he barely had time to pull his government-issued truck off the road and sprint across the hot asphalt. (Cut) As David heaved the last bits of tequila mixed with coffee and eggs on the side of the hot, asphalt road, he reminded himself not to reach out for the spindly ocotillo beside him. He made that mistake the first time he found himself hung-over in the desert and pulled thorns out of his palm for days. The coarse hair of his beard scraped against the back of his palm as he swiped away any remnants. (Cut) When the wave of nausea passed, David took a moment to walk the desert floor before getting back into his truck. Not that he really looked for drug runners, he wanted to look like he had a legitimate reason for the sudden stop and sprint from his truck in case another Border Patrol agent saw him. (Not sure why this is even here. It does nothing to move the story along.)“Shit,” he cursed as he walked back to his truck (cut). It wasn’t mid-morning yet and the heat rose from the ground in watery waves. David knew better than to blast his truck’s air conditioning. Being acclimated to the heat would prevent that all-too-familiar floaty, light-headed feeling the next time he stepped outside. But, he didn’t care and zipped the switch on his console to high (cut). Back in his truck, he took a swig of warm Gatorade, the syrupy liquid curdled in his stomach forcing David to swallow the rising acid. “I can’t do this anymore. It’s not worth it.” (He can't do what?)
He hoped saying those words aloud changed what he was thinking (Cut. We don't need this first sentence at all). It really is worth it, he thought (cut). He put his truck into drive and took off. It’s worth it to spend a few precious hours blissfully unaware that the last year happened. It’s worth the hangovers to not see her face when I go to sleep. It’s worth the blinding headaches to forget what I did to Shiloh. (Okay, but still I don't see any action... lots of background.) But it’s also the only way he can remember; remember the smell of her hair, the way her smile lit up her whole face and the feel of her body next to his. Drinking was the only way he could both forget Shiloh and remember Mandy. (Telling... you are telling us, the reader, how he feels. Show us or leave this out and put it in later. You've introduced two characters that we have no idea who they are, what their relationship to David might be. Are they dead, alive, his wife, his girlfriend, his sister, lover... are they both equally important to the story?)


David pulled back onto the highway without checking behind him. No one ever came down this stretch of road in far south Texas. Unaware tourists crashing through a herd of javelina at night, not other drivers, caused most car accidents. As he continued south, he tried to see his surroundings as the thousands of tourists who flock to the national park do. The pancake-flat ground swelled to a towering rock formation only to deflate back to the stark earth and then rise again to a mountain, like ocean waves coming in to shore.

He pulled (repetitive) onto an unmarked dirt road and parked in a makeshift lot on a bluff overlooking the Rio Grande. The hazy layer cake of the Sierra de Carmen mountain range blocked his view too far into Mexico. Movement on the far side of the riverbank caught his eye. Getting out of the truck, he began to make his way down a rocky footpath.
“Hola Fernando,” David called out (cut) to a man on horseback who led a small herd of cattle down to the river for a drink. “Como esta?”
“Good morning, Dah-veed,” the man answered in heavily accented English. He walked his horse to the opposite bank and reached down to shake David’s hand. (So let me get this straight... Fernando is on the Mexican side of the border and David is on this side, and they are separated by a river, yet they shake hands. So do they wade into the water?? Exactly why would the man cross the river? This doesn't make sense.) The horse wanted to come out of the water, (telling... show us) but Fernando held him steady, keeping him from crossing into Texas. (but he had crossed??) “I’m good, friend, how are you?”
David nodded his answer (cut). “Not bad. Going to be another hot one today.” The late summer heat wave dotted his shirt with perspiration before the sun barely made it over the mountains in the east. (More telling)
Fernando laughed. “My friend, it’s going to be a hot one for many more months.”
“How are things? Quiet?” Since joining the U.S. Border Patrol nearly a year ago he threw himself into his job often working six or seven days straight. Most of the violence was along the border to the west or further to the east, but David knew it was only a matter of time before it spilled into his little corner of the state. His job was to protect the U.S. citizens from the Mexican drug lords, but he also felt a responsibility to his Mexican neighbors, those trying to get by in the harsh environment, both political and natural. (Although this is also an info dump, it's not too bad as it gives us insight into what David does. But I think it could be shortened a bit.)
“Yes, quiet,” Fernando glanced behind him. David wondered if the man consciously made that gesture or if it was from years of having to look over his shoulder for the drug lords. (Another bit of telling. Perhaps 'David searched the landscape. No one. Just restless cattle.')
David nodded, torn between relief and disappointment. When he took the job (cut), He'd requested to be stationed in El Paso, just north of the epicenter of much of the conflict between the U.S. Border Patrol and the drug cartels and where he thought he would find Mandy. (A perfect place to drop a few words on who Mandy is and why he's looking for her) But, despite his years as a police officer, a degree in criminal justice, and a glowing, if not overdone, recommendation from the Phoenix Police Chief, he was assigned to Brewster County, his supervisor citing his lack of experience in border relations and the fact that an old football injury rendered him incapable of running without a heavy knee brace. (Now this info dump works.) If I was in El Paso, I would have a better chance of finding Mandy, or getting shot. Or, both. (Once again, a few words about who Mandy is and why he's looking for her.)
“You haven’t asked about the girl,” Fernando said, shaking David from his thoughts (cut). “Did you find her?”
“No, not yet,” David's jaw tightened as if he sucked on a post-tequila shot lime.
“You give up on her? Because, we have many pretty senoritas in my village.”
David smiled at the thought of Fernando setting up a blind date for him. “How’s Carlos?”
Fernando’s eyes lit up at the sound of his son’s name. “He’s good. This week he announced he is going to become un doctór when he grows up.”
A whirring engine overhead interrupted their conversation. Both men looked up at the cloudless blue sky, but knew they wouldn’t be able to see the drone above them (cut). Nothing. David knew the drone was overhead, but so small it was invisible. Fernando backed up the horse (ah, so he is in the middle of the river) and a whistle indicated to the dogs to get the cattle back to the Mexican shore. (so they were either still in the water, or in Texas... unclear) The man had nothing to worry about since he was with a Border Patrol agent, (so are you telling us that Fernando is also a Border Agent but in Mexico??) but David knew his friend took every precaution to keep himself out of trouble. (what kind of trouble?)
“I must move on, my friend,” Fernando said and turned his horse around in the water (cut- You've already told us this). “You call me if you need anything, you hear,” David shouted to the man’s back.
Fernando answered with a wave. ~~~
 Overall thoughts, the writing is great, however way too much background stuff crammed into these first few pages. We call it an “info dump”... and most of this can be weaved into the story later on. Let’s get to the action, the reason for the story, the PROBLEM that our hero is going to have to face...the PROBLEM that will change his life... I don’t see it.
He’s trying to forget someone...a woman...So what? How is that going to change the direction of his life? Has she been murdered? Is he trying to find her killer... maybe she is still alive... and she has run off, but why?
Also I have a problem with him throwing up. If he has been with the Border Control group, he is well aware of the heat, the food, etc. By now, if we are to believe he has been there for a bit, he would know better. However he may have been poisoned... that would be interesting.
Be careful of the word “said” when used with a tag. Usually you don’t need both.
The biggest problem that I see is way too much telling... show us.
Thanks so much for your valuable critique, Sue!
Sue Viders and Becky Martinez
 In addition to being the co-author of The Complete Writer’s Guide to HEROES AND HEROINES -Sixteen Master Archetypes and Ten Steps to CREATING MEMORABLE CHARACTERS, she  developed and created Deal A Story card game. She is also author  of twenty non-fiction books for artists on marketing, several audio tapes and charts, former columnist for The Artist’s Magazine, ‘Strictly Business’, a column on marketing, former columnist for a newspaper, The Voice, reviewing movies with a column called His and Hers (co-authored with husband) Sue Viders can be contacted at the following: sueviders.com and http://www.writethatnovel.com/.

Kimberly also received a critique from , Becky Martinez.. We'll post  it next week. Becky Martinez is an award-winning former broadcast journalist and published author writing as Rebecca Grace.. Her latest work, Shadows from the Past, is a gothic novella being published by The Wild Rose Press in early 2012. Her romantic suspense, Deadly Messages, was an Aspen Gold finalist and received 4 stars from RT Book Reviews. She has also had several romance novels and short stories published, including “Trouble in the Rockies,” which appeared in the anthology, The Trouble with Romance, a New Mexico Award finalist. Contact her at http://www.rebeccagrace.com/ 

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Rebecca Hamilton Talks Forever Girl

 Rebecca Hamilton was kind enough to give me a few moments of her time and discuss some of the inner workings of her first book, The Forever Girl. 

First of all, your first book, The Forever Girl, deals with a rather unique twist on traditional paranormal creatures.  Would you care to explain a little more about them and their origins?
Thanks for asking! I had a lot of fun with the paranormal creatures in my novel. I’ve tied them to the elements (earth, water, air, fire, spirit). I’ve mixed classic origins with modern ones and added a few of my own twists—this is true of all the paranormal creatures in my novels. In book one, however, the focus is mostly on the world and on witches. Other books in the series will more deeply explore the other elements.

Aside from fascinating characters, Forever Girl has several memorable locations, especially 'Club Flesh'.  What were some of the inspirations for these places?

I’ve been told I’m a bit atmospheric and descriptive in my writing style. I attach a lot of emotion and vibe to a person’s surroundings. Whenever I choose a setting, I try to select details for those locations that will evoke what I’m going for. That said, there’s something to be said of juxtaposition as well; sometimes I prefer a cheery setting for dreary emotions to provide contract and empower the emotion that way. My inspirations really just come from within in that way, or perhaps it’s subconscious.

What was your motivation behind placing the setting in a smaller town?
I wanted a modern-day story, but I wanted to emphasize some of the not-so-modern thinking that occurs in our society today. So you could say the small-town setting met a thematic need in this story. For example, you expect a bit more tolerance toward differences in New York, because it’s already such a diverse community. When you have a community that is smaller as well as less diverse, those who are different go through more struggles. Sophia struggles with prejudices against her just as the paranormal world she discovers struggles with prejudices of their own.


You have an absolutely stellar voice for creating immediate suspense
and terror for the main character that the readers can completely
relate to.  Do you draw from personal experiences?
Absolutely I do. As they say, write what you know. I may not know what it’s like to be a vampire or a witch, but I know what it’s like to be different, to be an outcast. I don’t think it’s so much as needing to relate the surface of one experience to another. Look at the emotions beneath. I don’t know what it is like to have my fingertips burned off, for example, but I know what it’s like to experience great pain, physically or emotionally, and I know how pain can sometimes drive you to consider things you wouldn’t. So I connect based on similar emotional experiences. I also try to put myself completely in the characters shoes. How would my point of view character experience something? It’s a little bit different from the inside out, as opposed to the outside looking in!


One of the things that I love in Forever Girl is that Sophia is a
truly terrible judge of character, despite her intuitions.  Was this
intentional or did these aspects come out as you were writing her?
I see Sophia as intelligent, but her mind gets in the way sometimes. I also think that no matter how smart a person is, they are going to make a mistake. Sometimes they are too close to the problem, too emotionally involved, to see a situation as objectively as someone else. This is something that definitely developed as I was writing her. Basically, I was trying to connect to Sophia’s emotions, but I found that to do that I had to address that she sometimes ignored her gut feelings. Because of what she’s been through, she doesn’t trust her heart when she should. I guess what I’ve learned through Sophia is that sometimes you can try so hard to do the right things, to make logical decisions, that you end up making all the wrong choices. Part of her journey is learning to trust herself.

Outside of placing a lot of personality into your main characters,
each individual encountered in the story seems to be fully fleshed out
and well-written.  How do you go about creating these individuals in
such detail?
With character, a lot starts of intuitive. They “come to me”. Yes, that’s a cliché answer, but I don’t have a better one. Once they come to me, though, I can start asking them questions and learning more about them, and that is how they flesh out.


Finally, for those who haven't had an opportunity to check out your
book yet, are there any other tidbits you would like to share with the
group?
Wow. Well, I guess sometimes I wish there were more genre tags to select for my books. I really want my book to fall into the right hands. Sales are nice, but what is more rewarding is when those who read enjoy what they are reading.
I’ve always found it hard to say who would love my book. A lot of the tension in the novel, especially early on, comes from mystery. But this isn’t a Mystery novel. A good portion of the book deals with a romance and the conflict that stops two people in love from fully giving themselves to one another. But I wouldn’t call the book a romance, either. There’s some action and adventure, but anyone who read this would tell you it’s not an action novel. It’s not literary fiction, though the themes are expressed using many literary devices. There’s nothing “urban” about the fantasy, either. Contemporary Fantasy works okay … but as you know, there’s segments of the story that just wouldn’t fit into that.
If a reader can go into my book with no expectation, or perhaps as a reader who likes a good story, no matter the genre, I think they might find something they enjoy. So if I could share one thing, it would be not to expect it to be just another genre book.

Thanks so much for your time and I'm looking forward to the next one!
Thank you for having me! And I’m just tickled you enjoyed the book as much as you did.

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