Surviving Inertia

Many writers deal with it sooner or later. Writer's block.

I thought Jeremiah Tolbert's piece, Writing is a Sail Boat and I'm Stuck on the Reefs, described what I went through very well. Except perhaps, in my case, my ship was in dire straits of sinking and I don't swim very well.

There are many writers who call their creation their babies, and many online tend to mock them. All you have to do is go on Twitter and search for the hashtag #booksarenotbabies. Sure, some authors do tend to go on and on about their characters and stories like proud mamas, and when they rage against those who dare to point out their flaws and imperfections, especially in a public forum, they become entertainment fodder. That kind of behavior is known on the web as Authors Behaving Badly.

However one looks at it--baby or not--most books are written with a lot of time involved, borne out of the writer's love and need to create that particular story from start to finish. It is a fever very similar to the need to procreate, to make something that comes from oneself, that would perhaps be one's contribution to one's life. Perhaps, writing genre books, an accomplishment on which many already look down, might not be comparable to that Ivy League Baby of Literature that holds everyone's esteem, even if the latter sucked the boringness out of boredom. Those works are treated like fragile babies, come to think of it.

As a reader, I don't know the book I'm reading's particular journey. I can only enjoy it. Or not. Yet, as I continue in my own journey as a writer, I'm too aware of all the things that can make or break a writer's concentration. And in that sense, I understand the "this is my baby" phenomena. When writer's block happens--for me, anyway--there is a sense of panic that is equivalent to seeing a child sick and being unable to take away its pain.

The feeling of helplessness grows and grows to the point that the pages I keep writing don't seem to make sense to me. At the same time, one can't share one's fears and pain while one's writing friends are happily chirping about their pages and creativity for the day/week. It's like Mr. Tolbert's analogy--shipwrecked on an island, alone and depending on oneself for survival.

But talking about the pain of writing is like sharing TMI in a conversation, isn't it? And defending one's work is like the biggest No-No in the world of writing-correctness, especially if one came across as a shrew (but even if one didn't, it's an automatic accusation, regardless of gender of writer). Or (gasp!), get threatened to be put on somebody's Do Not Buy List. So it is better not to talk about the pain of writing in a forum that's making fun of writing, especially one's own at that moment. Unless you're like me, and just want to unleash your inner devil's advocate and start calling everyone mean just so I can hear the We're Mean Girl Pride speech.

These things have been on my mind lately and I'm just processing it. Thinking and putting it out here would probably get me in trouble. But hell, if I could survive a shipwreck, I could survive somebody making fun of my baby.

Note 1: I don't actually see my books as my babies. My poms are my babies. Make fun of that and you incur my wrath. You may make fun of my books as long as you've paid for at least one of them new. I can be insulted for a quarter or a dollar (royalty depending on bk).

Note 2: So what the hell are you babbling about on this blog entry then, Jenn? Aha! Suffer writer's block and you'll understand.

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More or Less?

Do you guys like to read snippets and excerpts of ongoing writing? If I enjoy an author, I look forward to any snippets that she poses of her writing-in-progress (WIP). Some friends don't because they hate to wait after reading a short snip or they don't like to be spoiled. But everyone knows I'm a spoiler ho, reading every plotline, secret, and winner of every TV competition ahead of time. I start reading books from the end, that's how bad I am.

So, what about you? If, let's say, I post the next two chapters of T and Alex, that is, the rest of the proposal I'm sending out to an editor, would you skip those posts? Or would that make you happy? Just curious. It's interesting to see how others read. For example, if I'm excited about a novel, I hunt down reviews and like-minded web discussions, just so I could get a before and after experience. I guess, my reading fun encompasses more than just the story itself.

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Relentless

Time keeps marching at a punishing pace and I can't seem to keep up. I apologize for Virtually One not being out yet. It's my fault. It's not finished and I'm having a bit of a problem with Jed right now.

Admittedly, telling you I'm exhausted from re-roofing doesn't make me feel any better, so I try to wake up at odd hours in the morning to sneak in some writing. I love my writing, but when one has to force oneself for a word count it becomes a chore, you know? I hope you aren't too mad at the delay, but I'll try my best to get the manuscript ready by end of the month. Fingers-crossed.

And now, I must go back to writing (late lunch) and then back on the roof.

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Being Commercial

I was having a conversation and was told, very earnestly, that one needs to be commercial to break through these days. I've been around long enough to hear this line at least twice or thrice a year, but my acquaintance was a newbie, and sometimes, they just want someone to listen--not lecture--to them.

My first question to this kind of throwaway wisdom is--what does it mean, "to be commercial?" I know that, in the case of celebrity actors/singers, being commercial has to do with looks, but writing a good book has nothing to do with a good-looking author, although if you looked like the TV character, Castle, it doesn't hurt ;-).

Is it writing what's out there? Part of the reason why some trend is so popular is because someone has made it popular, usually someone who brought an "IT" factor in her writing and actually doing something different, perhaps not very commercial even. I know for a fact that, in the mid-90s, all was doom and gloom for paranormal romance and the few who toiled it was told to write something "more commercial." Some did. Some toiled on.

In 1999, I sat beside a woman at RWA. I was the newbiest of newbies. So newbie, I didn't even know what I was supposed to be doing at RWA except wander around staring at groups of women talking about this agent that, that editor this. I didn't even know the concept of networking. This woman and I had a very short, but nice, conversation.

I had no idea who she was, and when I asked about her being there and whether she was published, she said, yes, she was, but not quite in romance. Her story, she told me, wasn't the usual commercial stuff. The conversation went on a bit, and finally, she signed a book for me and left. I think that was my first ever signed book, one that I hadn't even requested, by the way. It had never occurred to me to ask for an autograph, LOL.

The book was Outlander. The author, Diana Gabaldon. She wasn't very well-known in the romance world at that time, although her time-travel was getting a very good buzz. She was right; she wasn't the "usual commercial stuff."

Look at her now.

As the newbiest of newbie, I learned an important lesson that day, but I didn't know it till much, much later.

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Has It Really Been 30 Years?

Last week, everyone was talking about the American Idol dude, David Cook, and his version of Michael Jackson's Billie Jean. He rocked it out and everyone was amazed at how it sounded.

Actually, it wasn't Cook who remade Billie Jean into a rocker anthem, but Chris Cornell, who was the lead of some of my favorite earlier bands, AudioSlave and Soundgarten. Chris sang a very rock bluesy version of MJ's Billie Jean and I found an excellent video on You Tube:



I've always liked Cornell's voice and he's debuting this song in his newest album coming out soon. I think I'm going to download it cos I like this version very much. It's angstier and more matured than the original, which I first heard as a young college student with a more pop-py outlook in life.

Still, it doesn't compare to the incredible original take by Michael Jackson himself. His weirdness notwithstanding, I remember going to his concert in the 80s and seeing his awesome magic during performance. The video below is his re-enactment of Billie Jean on its 30th anniversary in Madison Square Garden, another live performance I saw. The young crowd in this show, who was around my age when I first saw this, reacted the same freaked-out way as I and the crowd I was with in the 80s. Not bad for a man who's in his early 40s in 2001. Check out Liz Taylor, Liza Minellie AND McCauley Caulkin (is that how you spell his name) in the front row cheering him on. So weird. But so apt too.

What stood out for me in this video was MJ's story-telling ability, which was prevalent in almost all his songs. Here, he walks on stage, thirty years after Billie Jean's debut, and opens a suitcase. You can feel his surprise and uncertainty as he takes out the old suit and tries it on. The crowd goes crazy because they recognize it (which is funny to me because half of them weren't even borned yet). He pulls out The Hat. And then, The Glove. The built-up is just perfect. He tentatively moves, as if trying to remember, and then, he strikes up The Pose. Pause. The crowd is in a frenzy.

Even now, after all my young pop-py hormones are long gone, he pulled me in with no music and no words, just those two minutes of miming. He might have lost a step or two in speed and didn't perform the whole song and dance at the same time, but the old magic was still there.

As a writer, I hope I can achieve that with my writing. That thirty years from now (argh!), someone will pick up the book and still feel the characters coming alive. But that young crowd in that audience? They were me during a younger, even more exuberant Michael Jackson time. That kind of magic is a gift from the Muse.



Come on, admit it. You tried moonwalking too. ::grin:::

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Making The Character Show

I actually have a roofing job! Yay, food and paid bills. The Bad Puppy was beginning to eye the bookshelves for possible snacks....

Yesterday was a tough writing day. I think I stared at the screen for four hours before I finally managed to start writing the scene. It was, of all things, a sex scene. Usually I crack my knuckles at that and go for a nice emotional ride with my characters. However, uh, this is Jed we're talking about and he's not exactly your emo-bitch. I was writing, using his POV (point of view), about his sexual manipulation of Hell in virtual reality and I wanted to show his motives/motivation/reasoning without him saying a word. Do you know I was stuck with my fingers poised over the keys for hours and hours till I capitulated and instead, gave Hell's POV instead? That struggle was so painful I almost gave up for the day. But the scene worked because at the end of the intense sexual confrontation (and yes, I'd label it more a confrontation), Hell said to "Hades" in VR (not final version):

“I hate the power you have over my mind,” she told him, in between small pants. “In fact, I hate you right now.”

“Hate, love, lust. I need all your strong emotions tied to me,” he replied grimly. “I won’t lose you out there. You’ll obey me in this. Out there, you can punch me again, if you like. In here, you’re mine. The more you accept this, the less dangerous it’d be for you when we're messing with the unknown during immersive remote-viewing. Get it?”

Again, the sexual stuff was controversial. Jed is hopeless. He just won't behave.

Controversial sex scenes are beginning to enjoy a comeback in romances, have you noticed? Even SEALs are into BDSM now (ha! WOKE YOU UP, LADY ZANNAH!), even though I snicker at the idea of a spike collar and leather diaper on a Hawk. Your thoughts?

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Uber Paradox, or, Too Much Time Restrains

This past week, I read two books, which was a miracle. There was a time when I could read a book a day, but that was years ago.

Anyway, I highly recommend Joanna Bourne's The Spymaster's Lady and Patricia Brigg's Iron Kissed. The first is a historical spy romance and the second, the third book of an urban fantasy series, which can be read stand-alone. Both have twists and turns that made me go "ooooh" and unable to stop turning the pages. Unless you want me to write one of my long-ass reviews, you'd have to take my word that these are wonderful reads that transcended their respective genres. The Spymaster's Lady, for instance, has the most kick-ass female spies that doesn't come across as too modern; in fact, she's so well-written, I started to read the narrative with a French accent. In my head, of course. My out-loud French accent could slay indignant Francophones by ear wave assault.

My reading two books also coincides with the fact that I'm not working or writing much, both of which seem uncontrollable, the former by the economy and the latter...who knows? Yes, the control freak in me is freaking out, in a very controlled way. And that's why no one notices. I'm actually a walking hysterical jello pudding right now. Just kidding.

It is so strange, though. The more time I have on my hands, the less words I produce. It's a puzzle to me. I keep thinking I should be writing my ass off. Everyone tells me so. Everyone.

"Oh, wow, not working for a week? You must love all that writing time!"

"Hey, that's great, you must be writing morning to night!"

"Oh, that's wonderful, all that free time...you must be loving the writing."

If words could kill one's ability to create, those knocked mine out cold. I have all this time and I can't write! :::head desk::: I think I'm wired wrong.

So I turned to my other love. I read. These were such beautiful stories, they swept me off my feet, taking me from my present troubles for a few glorious hours. And, they renew those little creative neurons. Hopefully. Thank you, Bourne and Briggs ;-). From these two books, I'll take one kick ass lady spy with a wonderful sense of humor and one alpha male (albeit werewolf) who is mad, angry, MURDEROUS that his female has been hurt, and sprinkle the magic onto my pages. Hopefully. Because my lady spy just happens to be injured. And my usually very controlled alpha male happens to have just lost it.

You take your creative flow from wherever you can.

And oh, snap: I KNOW you girls are reading those last two sentences about the two spies very, very speculatively. Uh-huh.

*****

Let's hear your current read.

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Exotic Memories, or, Why I Write (Maybe)

Running late, excuse the mistakes and typos, I have to get back on the roof....)

For those who enjoy my books, it's probably obvious that I have a fascination for different cultures. I write about different countries and customs, hoping to capture a snapshot of the background that shapes my heros and heroines, even the bad guys (like Dilaver and his aunt, Greta).

Of course, the most familiar culture to me is that from my country, which celebrates four different new years annually: the traditional Western New Year, Chinese New Year (fifteen days starting from yesterday), the Hindu New Year, and the Muslim New Year. Each of these are national holidays in my old homeland, and many of us visit our different friends and their families during their new year celebrations.

It is from growing up with this background that shaped me: my beliefs and my outlook in life. Everything might look or taste different, but the feeling is the same. The different cultures celebrate the new years asking for hope and wishing luck and happiness to friends and families.

Thus it is with romance. The storyline may be exotic and the culture may feel alien, but the emotional pull of the story is familiar. My characters love and hate the same as any book set here, in familiar American territory.

Here is a quick snapshot of the Chinese New Year celebrations of my youth. It's a fifteen-day festival and most of us kids loved it because it is tradition for married and old people to give kids and those who are unmarried "red packets," or angpow, filled with lucky money. We always knew who the scrooge in the neighborhood was (she filled her packets with a 20 cent coin each, which was our equivalent of a quarter). Most of the packets would contain a new Malaysian dollar.

My parents, who were wealthy, filled theirs with $5 or $10 for visiting relatives. As you could imagine, one could get pretty poor during New Year if one was known for their generosity!

My siblings and I got quite rich during this time. Our red packet collection is like candy to American kids during Halloween. We wore our new clothes (and the colors had to be red or yellow or green to attract luck. No black or blue!) and we ate the traditional family meal at home, with noodles and sweet meats. The elders enjoyed a meal of wine with raw fish and rice noodles, which had always disgusted me.

On the second and third days, my grandmother would take us to the temples to pray and also give the gods big oranges and tangerines (which signified plentiful wealth) as well as burn incense. The temples in those days were run by old women who had nowhere else to go (just like medieval times when the ladies had to join the nunnery); they depended on the goodwill of the believers to help pay for their livelihood and the temple. As I matured, I grew to understand the limitations of being a woman in certain cultures and the different choices in aloneness that they faced. I'm not saying that these temple women weren't happy or disatisfied, but I wasn't happy or satisfied for them, if that made sense.

Outside the temple were the band of beggars. They traveled together and took care of each other. I still remember the man with no legs sitting on a piece of cloth that told his sad story. People dropped coins in his bucket while he mumbled his thanks, barely looking up. At the end of the day, one of the other beggars would come over to "carry" this man back to wherever their shelter was. As a kid, this group of people were like aliens to me; I wasn't emotionally affected yet.

As I grew older, I learned compassion from understanding the dilemma of trying to survive in a system with no social services help. I also learned that humans would find a way to survive; these beggars banded together into a community and did what they could for survival. I could even say that some of them were perfectly happy the way they were; I've had quite a few funny conversations with the drunken hobos who certainly taught me that humor could be found in anything.
Anyway, the temples would be filled with incense and people praying. The statues of the Goddess of Mercy and the King of Heaven would be draped with cloths of red and gold silk. To a small kid, looking up at them, they were ethereal and powerful beings, magical beings who could grant wishes if they felt like it. Most of the stuff my grandma made me ask for were boring, like good grades in school. I probably wasn't sincere enough in my prayers because my grades were never particularly wonderful.

But I did crawl under the table that the gods sat on. Kids doing that were promised that they would grow up tall, strong, and protected. Heck, at a puny 4 foot 2, I needed to be taller, so I crawled under that table A LOT. I remember shooting up six inches one year and catching up with some of my friends. I remember thinking that the gods must have known how sincerely desperate I was!

As I grew older, I would shuffle the I-Ching sticks that were in tall bamboo vases. The sticks were darkened by age and numbered according to the I-Ching. The ones that fell out were picked up and taken to the counter and one of the nuns would pull the yellow paper from the wall with that number on it. Because I wasn't literate in Chinese, she would read it out loud to me, very lyrical imagery about water in valleys and filling the cave, or desert awaiting rain, or music in the mountain.

I rarely understood what was told about my future but I was thoroughly fascinated with the words and the idea that words were so important to actions and choices (most people used the I-Ching to make a decision about something important or to query about the current state of a problem). As I grew older, I appreciated this tradition in a more celebral way, enjoying the objective interpretation of a problem using imagery. And heck, so much cheaper than a psychiatrist.

While walking anywhere in Chinatown or around my neighborhood, I would hear the rhythmic drums and firecrackers from different directions. The local taichi/kungfu houses would send out their best troupes to do the acrobatics in a traditional lion and dragon dance. The best lion dance I ever saw were dueling troupes hired by my father. They were rivals, so they were dancing their lion-tails off, moving the very heavy lion heads up and down while the other members somersaulted around them. They "crashed" heads, acting out a fight scene, showing off their kungfu. My mother, ever inventive, put the angpow money (their pay) on a pole and dangled it from the second balcony of our house. The acrobats had to work really hard, climbing on each other's shoulders, to get to their packets, but being that my family was rich, they knew their pay would be worthed it.

As a kid, I was told that the firecrackers, drums, and lion-dancing were meant to scare away evil and bad things from the house. All those painted masks were kind of scary, I suppose. But I was really fascinated with the lion's head with its blinking eyes. In my very fertile imagination, I was already making up a story about the magical lion that came alive every new year.

I wanted to be part of the lion dance and learned kungfu and be kickass. I wanted to do splits and jumped off from the shoulders of strong, muscular men. Alas, my parents quashed that ambition rather effectively. Young educated girls just didn't do things like that. You know, I could have been the next Michelle Yeoh, whom, by the way, I shared a school bus with once or twice. Not the Miss Malaysia part, because damn, I stopped crawling under the gods' table and didn't grow an inch taller, but the jumping off from cars and bridges part...I could have...if mom and dad hadn't told me I was a crazy idiot ;-) and should just go to school and study hard.

A trip down memory lane with Gennita couldn't end without her bemoaning about Chinese New Year food. My mother was a fabulous cook and could do all the New Year cakes and sweetmeats like a professional. Almost every year, she stayed up late making lin-ko (a gooey concoction that hardened into rock-like taffee), or chong-yuen, or kuih kapit. She told me I could help her because she shaved me bald when I was a kid. That's right. Shaven bald had something to do with the correct consistency of thickened coconut and steamed buns. I still think she was pulling my leg, but to this day, none of my sister could produce anything other than lumpy kaya, except for me. I had the "magic" touch, it seemed, when it came to smooth, sexy, and delicious Malaysian/Chinese sweetmeats.

That's why, when I post about a trip to New York Chinatown, you're always hearing me wax poetic about the food. I cannot explain to those of you how many different variety of foods that could be sampled in Malaysia without you having been there at least a year. With our four main cultures, one could just eat a different recipe a day for 365 days. So when you sit with me in a Malaysian restaurant in Chinatown, be aware that I usually would go a little (okay, a lot) crazy, and order enough food to feed a refugee family of ten. The waitresses would be staring, amused and somewhat bemused, as the feast keep coming, and you, my poor guest, would have to put up with a non-talking author whose mouth is very busy.

The further away I am from these memories, the more I want to write about them in my books. Not all of them, but little bits and pieces, hooking them somehow to the background of my characters and stories. There was a reason why I made Nikki enjoy food so much; her appetite for the past was huge and food was an immediate acknowledgment of her love of life. There was a reason why I wrote about the girls and the poor people in Vivi's surroundings. The culture of a people runs deep and change wasn't always necessary good. There was a reason why I gave my heroines certain choices and took away some; as a product of my culture, I see women very differently from the way you see them.

I've made certain choices that some of you never needed to, and that's part of the reason why I write about exotic cultures and women. Not that I'm exotic, you understand, although I'm probably weirder/more alien than I want to admit, but because underneath it all, I've wanted to show that love, humor, survival, and sisterhood are a common thread.

Okay, back to celebrating the New Year ;-). May there be heavenly lions to frighten away the bad vibes around you!

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One Of Those Meandering Posts About Writing And Reading

Announcement first, long boring dissertation after that:

I found something interesting for those who are thinking about going to the RWA Convention in July:

***PERMISSION TO FORWARD GRANTED***

Now that the prices for San Francisco are out, it might be a good time to enter the Valley Forge Romance Writers Rafflemania (yes, we do have alicense for this, and it's RWA approved):

Valley Forge Romance Writers Presents The 1st Annual VFRW Writer's Rafflemania!

The Prize$ 1,500.00 Check To Defray Your Costs For the 2008 RWA National Conference Fee! Held In San Francisco, CA July 30 - August 2, 2008. 4 Nights Hotel Accommodations! Roundtrip Airfare To San Francisco! Raffle tickets cost $5.00 each or (3) for $10.00.

Go to Valley Forge Romance Writers' website http://www.vfrw.com/ for information or send a self-addressed stamped envelope to VFRW Rafflemania, PO Box 248, Lenni, PA 19052.

Grand Prize drawn on March 28, 2008. Any checks received after March 1, 2008 will be returned. Prize is non-transferable. All entries must be postmarked by February 29, 2008.

Valley Forge Romance Writers' Rafflemania Rules:

The Prize: Winner will receive a check in the amount of $1,500.00 to be used for one 2008 RWA National conference registration fee, one single room, including tax, single room rate for July 30 through August 2nd, 2008 at the San Francisco Marriot, the conference location, and one round trip coachclass airfare. Winner is responsible for making their own reservations anditinerary. The total amount awarded will be $1,500.00 regardless of total cost of conference, hotel and flights to winner. No amount over $1,500.00 will be reimbursed and any extra monies due are the sole responsibility ofthe winner. Prize package is non-transferable for any reason andnon-refundable.

To Enter: All raffle sales are final. There will be no refund of raffle chances for any reason. By entering the raffle you acknowledge that you have read and agree to the conditions and rules as listed on the VFRW website and/or VFRW Rafflemania flyer. Raffle chances are valid only for the San Francisco, 2008 RWA National Conference. Contest is open only to residents of the United States and members in goodstanding of Romance Writers of America who are at least 18 years old as ofFebruary 29, 2008. All funds must be received in US currency drawn on a US bank or money order.

To enter USING WHITE 3"X5" CARD(s), Print The Following: Name, Address, Phone Number, RWA Number, Email Address. Place your raffle cards in an envelope along with a check or money order for the appropriate amount. Make Check or Money Order payable to: VFRW. Mail your 3"X 5" card(s) and check or money order to:

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Lenni, PA 19052

A confirmation of receipt will be sent out via email but raffle chances will not be valid until all funds clear. If a check is returned for insufficient funds, the entrant will be notified by email that they are no longer eligible and the check will be shredded. It is up to the entrant to send another check to re-enter the contest (including any NSF fees incurred byVFRW) postmarked by the deadline of February 29, 2008. Any raffle entries received that are not on white, 3"X5" cards will be pulled, the entrant notified and given a chance to correct the error before the contest deadline. If the entrant does not provide the correct 3"X5" card entry postmarked by the February 29, 2008 deadline, the check will be shredded and the entrant will not be eligible for the drawing. The Drawing: All 3"X5" raffle tickets will be placed in a large bin for a random drawing on March 28, 2008. Winner will be notified by phone on or about March 28, 2008.

The Winner: For IRS tax purposes, the winner must supply in writing his/her social security number before receiving the prize check. A1099 form will be issued to the winner by Valley Forge Romance Writers. If the winner does not supply his/her social security number in writing by April 15, 2008 to the president, vice-president or treasurer of VFRW, the prize is forfeit. Any and all taxes are the responsibility of the winner.The winner agrees to allow VFRW to use his/her name and/or likeness for publicity purposes. Winner agrees to hold VFRW blameless for any credit card finance chargesincurred, and from liability for events beyond control, including an act ofGod, conference cancellation and/or hotel overflow. If the officialconference hotel site does not have any rooms available, the winner is welcome to make reservations at an overflow hotel; however, no amount above the $1,500.00 will be reimbursed.

***************

Super way to get some of those expenses taken care of some of the expenses, huh? I've already registered for Nationals, so I'm hoping to see some of you there too!

****************

I was talking to a friend of mine that, for the first time, I understood why some readers can't read First POV. First person point-of-view means a narrative that is told with "I" or "We," thus giving a sense of intimacy to the reader. The reader's focus is narrowed to just the main character and everything else depends on that character's ability to tell what's going on in the story.

When I started reading, first POV is mostly found in gothic novels, you know, the kind with the heroine in a flimsy dress walking in a dark danky castle while holding a small candle in one hand, with a brooding hero/monster probably lurking nearby. The first person POV worked in these stories because the heroine's fear enlarged her inner and outer demons and made me, the reader, really cared for her (in a way...if she's not too stupid to live...okay, she's already TSTL for walking around in a danky castle in her $235 Victoria's Secrets see-through cottons, but that's another topic).

These days, urban fantasies are written in first person too. I never had any problems identifying with the heroine of those stories. Kickass vampire slayer? Okay, go forth and stake some bloodsuckers. Falling for various weird species? Romancing with fang or fur? Not a problem making that leap of imagination at all. I follow the heroines through their trials and tribulations and cheer them on as they leave a path of blood in their wake. Their feelings for their supernatural heroes were identifiable to me.

Until Lilith Saintcrow's Danny Valentine series, that is.

You see, I still talk about this series a lot, especially with friends who are just reading the books. The world building is so complex (in a good way) but there are so many big holes caused by the heroine's inability to understand what was happening to her and around her that left me, as her reader, very frustrated.

I have many moments making personal yelling conferences with Dante Valentine. She is not a stupid character, not TSTL. Dante Valentine would not walk into a danky castle without her trusty sword. That's not the problem here. In these stories, she's connected/bonded with a demon from hell and other than in bed, did she have communication problems with her lover, or what!

I thought her very stupid on several important occasions. In fact, she was guilty of many things that make me cringe when it came to heroine antics: charging into some big action scene without adequately understanding a situation; not asking questions when the right time appeared; trusting the wrong people when they're WRITTEN SO obviously untrustworthy. In fact, when another character in the story said to her, near the end, that she "gets dumber and dumber," I actually jumped up from my seat and did a wave, yelling, "Hurrah, HE got it right!"

I love this series like an addict on crack, but the heroine damn near gave me brain seizures with some of her maddening blindness. I couldn't understand why she couldn't see what I saw. Then, lightbulb moment while talking to my friend.

Like I said in the beginning, I have had no problems whatsoever before reading first person POV. Most readers hate the limited knowledge but I was okay with it because in the past I was able to go along with the heroine on her journey as she learned about the other characters, as she made her mental leaps, and finally came to that magical moment near the end of the story where she and I go AHA!

My lightbulb moment clarified everything to me. My problem with the Dante Valentine first person thing is that I was able to be WAY AHEAD of Dante about so many things. I couldn't understand her inability to trust her demon lover in book after book as she kept making decisions to trust someone else, usually another demon. My initial reaction was, "Heck woman, he's a Fallen (in the story, a demon loses his power if he falls for a human); he's chosen YOU to spend eternity with...he literally can't live without you, so surely, you don't think he's going to kill you, right? I mean, maybe for one book, but three books later, you're still unsure?"

So, as a writer, I've learned something. POV is tied to pacing. If the reader is given too much room to speed up, she/he will get frustrated, especially in a complex world like the one Saintcrow built. Lastly, in a series, with so many unanswered questions, it's important to answer the main ones that's been voiced several times through the books. It's like a smoking gun. Showing it means it's got to be used some scenes down the road.

But with this particular use of first POV, I as the reader was never given the privilege to understand some of the "secrets" presented in the big story arc. I was frustrated because, for the first time ever, I felt that I was losing something without the Other Main Character's (the hero's) point-of-view. His actions and motivations appeared so clear TO ME, and therein lies the problem with first POV. If his actions/motivations are understood by the reader (me), and then the first POV (I, I, I) kept going on and on about being clueless, the reader (me) starts to gnash her teeth. And bang her head on the desk. And growl like a demon.

Because Danny was often second-guessing what was going on and trying to understand Hell's politics, it would have been so nice if just for a page or two, in between the intense angsting and even more intense action scenes, some of her questions were answered. However, I'm not sure she'll ever "get" her demon like I "got" him. That made me want to sit her down and give her a few clues.

;-)

I forget why I started this piece. Definitely, this is not to flog this wonderful series. For those who enjoy urban fantasy with lots of action and somewhat dark romantic elements, I highly recommend these books. They kept me enthralled for days, like early Anita Blake. I'm writing this to acknowledge that I now "get it," why first POV doesn't work for some readers. That's all.

Why do you think most urban fantasy use first person point-of-view, anyway? That's another writerly thing I always think about.

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That Secret Ingredient In Creating A Story

You know, writing and drawing are deeply personal acts. When you were a kid making that arts and craft assignment (remember that horrible plate made of watered mushy paper? Or the first lopsided glaced mug?), didn't you add a bit of uniqueness to it to make your own? It could be some initials hidden in the picture, a small piece of glass embedded in the clay, or for me, a three legged turtle vase (don't ask). It was yours because you envisioned it, took it from within and made it real--with words, or paint, or pieces of wood--and when you received an A or some compliment from teacher and friends, do you remember the bloom of pride over your creation?

Some of us grew up to be writers and painters (and craftsmen). We enjoy the act of creation, of bringing our imagination to live and sharing it with others. There is a kind of magic we perform, each of us leaving a piece of souls in our art. And yes, there are secrets in each one of our creation, some of which we keep even from our selves. We have our different ways of blending paint and words, of mixing ingredients, even though it might use the same basic recipe, of adding that touch that make what we're creating uniquely ours.

Then...there are those who love to strip us of our secrets. Take, for example, the famous painting, Mona Lisa.

Immediately, the smile comes to mind, yes? It's that da Vinci magic touch. That smile and its owner have haunted many for centuries. Books have been written about her. Is it important to discover her identity? Would that reveal the magic of that smile da Vinci captured?

Recently, Mona Lisa's identity has been confirmed by the academics in Heidelberg University. She was a young lady named Lisa Gherardini del Giocondo. From that one starting point, suddenly we know details about that Mona Lisa in the painting.

No, she wasn't a secret lover.

No, she wasn't a prostitute.

Nope, not the face of da Vinci's muse.

She was the wife of a silk merchant. She married him at sixteen. The fabric of imagination ripped just like that.

We suddenly have so many details. Her husband was fourteen years older, which made him thirty. They were da Vinci's neighbor. She had five children (we even had a list of all the names) and she died at 63.

And part of me is resentful that the magic has been stripped. When I first visited the Louvre so many decades ago, my first destination was Mona Lisa. I've always been drawn to her when I looked at paintings of portraits. Perhaps it was because she was mysterious. Nameless. A woman da Vinci had left some of his magic.

I remember the first reaction. The throng trying to get closer to the picture. The shock of the how small that painting was. The details. And yes, my eyes were drawn to that smile, just like in the painting. To me, she symbolized what an artist could do with words and paint. Look at me, she said. I'm not another painted head. I have a story only my creator can tell. And you'd better come closer and pay attention.

Today, I know more about her than my neighbor's life. It doesn't change the beauty of the painting, I know that, but inside, my lips curl down like a pouting child. The creator in me is throwing a tantrum for da Vinci.

I use a lot of emotional magic in my creation. I would not have liked those elements identified and labled. I might admit a few details here and there to my readers--walking through a red-light district and watching children propositioning men and my feelings about that; the frustration with working against redtape; the childhood myths that my mother told me that became a character's internal foundation; the essense of the male jokes bantered around in the real job. And even that have to be pried from me.

Edited to add: And now they are going to use a digital scanner to figure out how da Vinci applied his paint. There is a "misty" look in the Mona Lisa that was part of the da Vinci secret magic. Using the scanner, they have found no brushstrokes or even da Vinci's fingerprints present on the canvas.

Decoding Mona Lisa

I'm hoping they fail. I don't want them to find all of Mona Lisa's secrets.

Let the creation tell its own story. You don't have to know everything.

Do you?

;-)

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Are We 2008 Yet?

Since Santa didn't show up properly unattired


I decided to catch the New Year Boy before he got away....



Ooops. I guess he was busy checking out last year's headlines....

Heh.

Sadly, I didn't make any New Year's resolutions. I was too exhausted, LOL.

The top of the building is DONE. The project, the one I showed pictures of a couple of years ago, is FINITO. So I'm almost relieved, even though the future of construction looks uncertain.

But I would like to start 2008 by making positive affirmations:

1) I will write at least one page of my WORK IN PROGRESS a day.

At least. Sometimes it's just too damn easy to stare at the blank screen and then click to the blog and then to various sites. I need to remind myself the reason I spent all my savings on that first clunky HP laptop so many years ago. Uh yeah. To write my stories.

2) I will say one nice thing to someone a day.

I know I cuss a lot at work. Sometimes it's no fun being Ms Bitch on the jobsite ;-). But I'll find someone before the end of the day to say one nice thing to. Ha. I feel like Dante Valentine, how 'bout that.

3) I will pay my bills on time.

Duh. Ms. Procrastination here. Do you know how many times I've forgotten to pay the electric and water bill in 2007?!

4) I will write better.

Faster. Tougher. Sexier. I'll not let one star reviews stir my fears! I will not feel like a mountain stepped on me when someone emails me that I write trash. Fair and smart reviews are always welcomed, but if you recall a certain post, some people think calling an author a "pimp" because she writes about female trafficking makes their piece a review.

5) I will talk a bit more about myself and how the past influences my writing life.

Sort of a writer's journey to help other writers. I don't know how to write craft essays (bores everyone to tears, I'm sure). I don't plot much so there's nothing interesting for me to add to that topic. I'm horrible at promotions. I can't tell you how one thing works, even though I could show you.

However, I would like to help other writers the way they've helped me with their wonderful writing and promotion nuggets. The only way I know how is the knowledge that one's experience is a powerful basis to writing a good story, that by making connections with past emotions/experiences with certain scenes or stories, I can show how writing is disemminated, distilled, and done through me.

Whew. Am I being positively affirming here, or what?!

If you can have one positive affirmation, what would it be?

And oh, yeah, spank Bad Puppy more. He raided my laundry again.

;-)

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Waiting For Godot, or Where Is Uber Inspiration?

Yesterday, I took a whole day off. That means, no nothing, just complete rest. It was wonderful. I was alone with my dogs and we just ate and slept, barked (yes, I bark and yep when I'm alone with the fur mutants), piled up in my bed without the complaining man who hates the Alpha Bad Puppy and intermittently play with my email, slept, and ate cookies. Life felt good. Maybe that's my dream life, LOL.

I just needed it. My body and brain haven't been happy for a while and you know how Nikki Harden talked about the chuung being off...well, mine was off big time. It's as if every part of me refuses to acknowledge me when that happens, just existing for the sake of walking, talking, and doing chores. I hate that. Just existing = Unhappy Jenn.

The writing has suffered lately. Writing, in fact, has been awful. It's been like sitting in a car waiting for the storm to abait, and driving really slowly towards home, except that it's raining muddy water outside and the windshield wipers just can't keep up with the dirt and are smearing streaks across the glass and no matter how fast you turn them on, you couldn't make out many, many important things. Like the parked car you almost ran over. Like the Stop sign you passed. Actually, you may even have gone past your destination and have to detour.

Horrid feeling.

Writing is a personal experience to me and sometimes it's not possible to share. I can share the product but the process--with its wonderful, amazing highs and the incredibly depressing lows--is difficult to explain. That's why I'm always amazed at the many writers who could do it--tell how they write and examine the process of it--because man, their methods sure sounded so easy and sensible!

I have had my process explained to me (and I admit, I've dutifully mouthed them back to people who asked similar questions):

1) "Oh, you channel your stories."

What the hell does that mean? You mean, like a prophet, I have a secret mental pathway to Storyland? I just dial telepathically and secrets and tales get deposited in my brain?

2) "You're a pantser, meaning you write by the seat of your pants, meaning you don't plot."

Yes, but what is the process to that? It's important to know because sometimes being a "pantser" sucks. And when you're stuck in mud, like I was and still am, how do you explain all the various sheets of plot I've discarded? I get it that the pantser does the mental freedom thing, but saying that I can pull stories out of the air isn't quite as easy as it sounds. Really.

You see what taking a whole day off means to me? ;-) It makes me put the armor back on and resume the fight. They say "success is 10 percent inspiration and 90 percent perspiration." COMCEN dude would love that analogy because it's so specific. This perspiration stuff is MUD. Mud, I tell you. It'd better stop soon and get to that 10 percent part.

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Uber Deep Thoughts

Over at Lynn Viehl's blog, she posted a funny rant about how her Zen calendar's "deep thoughts" were incomprehensible to her. Looking through her examples, I had to agree. Also, her comments for each one cracked me up.

For next year, she decided to make her own Writer's Zen calendar, and she came up with some really great ones. Here are a few:

September 6: They don't all hate you. Go and write.

September 7: Maybe two hate you. But only two, I promise. Could you write now?

September 8: All right. Fine. They all hate you. I hate you. Happy? Now go write something, or tomorrow we'll start talking about why we hate you.

So of course that started me down long and winding Procrastination Lane ;-) and I happily spent my minutes away thinking up deep Zen thoughts about writing instead of doing the writing itself. Ha. If that isn't the Zen of Irony, I don't know what is.

And of course I'm sharing some of my deep thoughts about writing with you!

September 5: To write or not to write....that isn't a question...is it? Huh. It doesn't sound like a question. I wonder if Wikipedia would have an entry on that....

September 6: Writing is like training a puppy dog to stop chewing your favorite slippers. You will find the slippers chewed again and again anyway.

September 7: Wow, yesterday's deep thought was deep, wasn't it?

September 8: I know what I know, if you know what I mean...what I am is what I am...are you what you are--or what? I'm sorry, that song came on suddenly. Deepest. Songwriter. Evah.

September 9: Hero and Heroine together: "Are we there yet?"

September 10: WWJD: What would Jed do?

Hee. I knew I could get Jed in there somewhere ;-). Procrastination station: my favorite stop.

Maybe you can help me with a few deep thoughts for the calendar? Thanks, Ms. Viehl, for the fun...I think.

**************

Of course, nothing deep about KILTS.

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