Vampire Books & Movies--Meyer's "Twilight"

As I write this, today the 21^st of November, the movie “Twilight” has been released.

Author Stephanie Meyers did a very good job in writing the book, although I've had it from a teenager source that the angisty—her word, not mine—relationship between the two main characters was a bit much for her. I'd have to agree, but let's face it, authors need to place their characters in conflict, and it has to be believable, and it has to be constant, if it has to do with the relationship, or if it has to do with the danger quality of their actions. Bella and Edward's conflict is, they're in love, BUT—yes a big but—Edward is a vampire who is so very attracted to the scent of her blood, he has a very hard time not jumping on her and kill her right away. So, somehow he finds restraint, because he saves her multiple times, and especially at the end, like all heroes do.

Meyers went from having the voices of Bella and Edward in her head, having to get up in the middle of the night to write the conversations down, to getting a book deal from a publisher in 6 months time. And now the movie is out. She claims she never had any good luck, never won anything in her life, etc., getting an agent to look at her book—esp. Since it was a 500 page book—was a stroke of very good luck. No one even looks at a first-time author's book, and especially if they know how long the novel is. I can't tell you how many rejections I've had over the years. I really don't want to count them. I've had one agent write of a vampire novel I'd sent to her that selling vampire novels was difficult, after telling me I should reduce the size of my novel (which was at least 800 double-spaced pages). After all that work cutting the thing down to half, thinking I might have found myself an agent at last! No, the agent had gotten cold feet. My vampire novel—which had been rewritten from the 1980's, named Vampire Legacy, went back into a box—along with several other unpublished novels.

That was some time in the '90's. Then along came Rowling's Harry Potter books.

At the time who knew that a children's novel could turn the publishing world up-side-down? I, along with everyone else who had Harry Potter Syndrome, could not get enough of this woman's writing, or the wonderful characters, the backdrop, etc.

It was at this time I was trying to find something new to write. Something I could get excited about.

That's how Spell of the Black Unicorn came about. I'd found that fantasy was something I did enjoy much better than the horror, or the thrillers I'd been reading. I needed something with magic in it. Something that allowed my imagination to go all out, since I have a lot of it. Fantasy allows you to do just this. As long as you follow the program, you can do just about anything.

At the time I was reading Harry Potter, waiting for the next book to come out to read it in two weeks—I wanted to enjoy it, okay?—I went around the bookstores trying to find something like these novels, but something aimed more for adults. I couldn't find anything like what I wanted. Some were close, but after getting half-way through, or just reading bits a pieces of them. None came close to what I was trying to find. So, the old idea of why not write my own, just kicked in.

Much like Meyers, I had trouble sleeping what with all the scenes, dialogue and so forth keeping me up, and wanting very much to just stay home and write. I didn't have children, but I did have to bring home a paycheck, and so I drive a transit bus. Pays the bills, and sometimes you get a head full of “characters” who get on your bus.

It took me a while to write my novel, since I had to make up a whole world for Zofia to come from. There had to be a reason for her being here, on Earth, and also, eventually I had to explain where her people came from. That was the toughest part, but it came.

When I was in my teens, and even into my twenties, to get into vampires (movies, and books when you could find them), was viewed as odd. Yes, you probably don't believe this, if you aren't over the age of 30. I was considered “weird” to anyone who knew me. My favorite holiday has always been and will always be Halloween. I watched the horror flicks on TV late Friday and Saturday nights. My brother gave me the nickname “Igor” mainly because he thought I was weird, I suppose.

But, I've stuck to my guns. Why deny that I'm different? I revel in being different. My husband loves the fact that I'm different, that I march to my own drummer. Some people wouldn't even understand that, and claim they too, are like this. But hey, you all walk around with the tight clothes if your women, and men having their paints hanging off your asses—you all begin to look the same. You see what I mean? You aren't doing “your own thang”, you're doing whatever everyone else is doing, because you want to be accepted. I was never accepted by others, I have rarely had any close friendships throughout my life. The only true and best friend I have is Dennis, my husband, who has backed me 120% on the idea of getting my book out there.

And now it is out there. Self-publishing is still published. It's avaialable to anyone who wants a copy at www.infinitypublishing.com.

I have no problem with Meyers, who is making beaucoup bucks from her young adult novels and now has a movie deal. She deserves it. I feel envious, only because I've gone for 30 years trying to appease the gods (and goddesses) of the publishing world, to no avail. But, there is hope. If my novel can find a niche, and I think it will, in the publishing world—it's people who buy books, not the publisher who makes wrong guesses all the time what people will like to put down cold, hard cash for a book—I can go back to trying to appease the gods and goddesses. “Look,” I can say, “I've sold a thousand novels in my area. You want to see this before it goes national?” How I wish I could say that to someone.

At the moment, I'm getting set up for my very first book signing. A box of 36 of my books are due to be delivered at my door today, so that I can sell them to people I know—who have been bugging me with the same question: “When can I buy your book?” Although I have a feeling it's mainly because they know me—the author—and can get my autograph, and say they know the author, etc, but I'm hopeful that they really want to read it. And once they do, maybe they'll like it enough to start talking about it to other people.

After thirty years of having dreams of having my own book published, going to book signings, and staying home to write, rather than going out into to this mean world to make a living, I think I'm at the very threshold. To do what one has wanted all their life, and be denied it time after time, and still, I did not quit—although had wanted to, many times (my husband stopped me from throwing it all away one day)—I've come full circle on this.

I may not have a multiple book deal yet. I may never have a movie made of my novel(s) (Oh, yeah, there's a lot more books in me—even one vampire novel I worked on this summer I want to work on through the winter, after I finish last draft of Spell of Dark Castle), but I feel as though I have hit a pinnacle in my life. I've wanted to see my book in print, and now it has come to pass. I've wanted to have a book sining—I have one in the DeKalb Borders (a coup for me, as it's at the very height of Christmas season!)—and I've taken today off to get in touch with newspapers, radio stations and other people who need to be notified about it.

Spell of the Black Unicorn, Chapter One--here it is!

Chill bumps shrouded Zofia Trickenbod. She wanted to Transvect the hell out of here. But where to?

Zofia peered down into a deep chasm of copper, ocher and bronze cliffs from a dizzying height. At the very bottom of a V-shaped valley, brownish-green mud bubbled thickly like soup, and smelled like rotten eggs. At least now she knew what that smell was. Jagged tips of rocky spires and stone needles jutted up from the fumarole. She couldn’t be more lost if she’d stepped through a Portal. Well, maybe she had, she just couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here, wherever the hell here was. A crisp, cerulean-blue sky canopied this canyon of wind-carved rock while the huge scarlet disk of Antares, their sun, rode the sky like an exalted stop­light from First World.

Okay, wait just a troll minute! When did she arrive back on her own world, Euphoria? And why was she standing on this rock ledge with no way down pulling in sulfur fumes?

As if this place couldn’t get more exotic, just across from her standing majestically on a high precipice, was a black unicorn. His long mane, beard and tasseled tail billowed in the breeze like eb­ony flags. A deadly pointed and spiraled horn sprouted from his forehead.

Wait a minute. Unicorns are usually white. Aren’t they?

At least that’s what the Immortal Paradeep had always told her.

The unicorn pawed the earth nervously, sending a spray of loose rock down the bronze and tangerine cliff side. A mist rose and undulated slowly on the rocks in front of him as he tossed his head. Black eyes roved crazily at the phenomenon. He whinnied as though sensing the force wavering beside him. The smoky mist darkened and coalesced into something solid. A tall, thin man with sallow skin and a sharply chiseled face finally appeared. He look­ed like a vulture in need of a ripe corpse. Long, greasy ebony hair was pulled back off his expansive brow, falling in uneven lengths over narrow shoulders.

“Zofia!” his voice issued across the chasm like a cracking whip smacking the air. Dagger-like brows slashed across his fore­head. Coupled with an odd-looking, pencil-thin mustache, it gave him a formidable, somewhat mesmerizing look. But the eyes were his most prominent feature. Even though Zofia was not that close, she knew from past experience that the right eye was a glacially cool-blue, while the other was as black as a raven’s back. But both held a rapacious look in them as one brow plunged lower than the other, pinioning her. His deeply lined, age-spotted face betrayed his age. He was old, but not as old as many other wizards. She figured he could be around five hundred and fifty Euphoria years old, but no more than five hundred seventy-five, even though he was a third generation wizard. Unless she’d been drinking Merry Widow, she was pretty sure it was Vesselvod Blood standing right before her. In any case, she really didn’t want to be here now. But when she tried to use her Powers of Transvection to fly away, nothing happened. Dragon spit.

This wasn’t good. First the black unicorn, then Blood, and now her Powers had failed her. Could it get any worse? Of course Blood was the wizard who’d murdered her parents, and then came after her in search of the Stone of Irdisi when she was ten. Zofia had become the Stone’s Keeper after Blood had killed her mother, but she had not become the official Keeper until her seventeenth birthday. By that time, Blood’s Powers had been revoked by the Heathweian Council of Wizards and Immortals and sent into Hamparzum’s for the rest of his life. So, how could the ex-Dark Lord of Scyldings be out of Hamparzum’s and standing here?

Okay, Zofia take it easy, she told herself, the memory is first to go when you hit the forty mark. Blood had escaped Hamparzum’s Place of Darkness about five or so years ago. He had come looking for the Stone of Irdisi, which would give him unlimited powers.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Blood hissed maliciously.

“Me? Why?” she choked the words as though she’d swallowed dust from the parched earth.

“You know why,” he said, his sardonic smile in place, his chest filling with a deep breath. “The Stone!” His one blue eye seemed to glimmer maliciously in the strange orangy sunlight. He held a long, black scepter and wore the black robes of his clan, the Karballa Wizards of Scyldings from the northern most part of the Province. But Blood’s entire family was pretty cruel. Aside from torturing Ugwumps, he used their body parts in potions and incantations—Yuck!—which was against the Code of Ethics big time. She could think of no one more ruthless and more murderous—unless you counted the Frisian Warriors who ate their victims, or the monstrous Helsingas, who ate their victims.

Waving the black scepter high above his head, he said, “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” Zofia asked, but didn’t really want to know.

“Varro numa pythis!” his voice echoed off rock walls as though he had a bullhorn. He must have been showing off. No one used old incantations like that any more.

Zofia felt an electric tingle all around her—which always accompanied grand wizardry workings—and all at once the cliffs trembled. Brown, cinnamon, ocher and rust melted and fused together like wax under intense heat. Suddenly, she was standing on a flat stone surface. Well, at least she was down off the cliff.

“Are you ready to play?” Blood asked. “Oh—yes . . . we need the pieces.” He waved his scepter once again. “Et te invoco Salibatum!” he incanted.

An octet of angry Bloods now stood in a line in front of her, staring at her with that same wicked, imperious smile. Blood had multiplied his image several times.

Zofia shivered uncontrollably.

In the same moment, a leathery, wrinkled-faced woman with wild white-as-gossamer hair, and gray-blue eyes appeared to her left.

“Aunt Tillie?” Her full name was Ottillie Anubis. She was actually Zofia’s great aunt on her mother’s side.

On her right side, as though he had just Evasserated, a tall, handsome man with collar-length, blue-black hair and savage sap­phire eyes appeared.

Eyes going wide in surprise, she uttered, “Dorian?” on a bewildered breath.

Dorian Grandier was her husband. He was dressed in royal blue robes of the Brhynoth Wizards with a golden seal of the Knights of the Witenagemont over his heart. A black wand in his hand, Dorian stared down Blood. His six foot stature gave him a few inches over Blood. Broad of shoulder, steely eyes, and a bump in what would have been a straight nose, where it had been broken in a fight. This combination made him look all the meaner.

Wait another troll minute here. Was she hallucinating? Dorian had been dead for five First World years. What on Euphoria was going on?

“Are you ready, Zofia?” The repeated question echoed in her ears.

She looked over at the line of Bloods. “Now what, you ugly bastard?” Zofia growled. Hadn’t he done plenty already?

At the same exact time, each and every Blood drew back their scepter and thrust them forward—“Destructus malefica!”—from their tips flew red bolts of fire, so hot she could feel its searing heat. It slammed into Dorian, turning him instantly into ashes that fell in a pile at Zofia’s feet.

“Mistress Zofia!”

The peevish voice jolted Zofia out of the abyss she was fall­ing through, but not before she landed hard. Ow.

She sat bolt upright and gulped in air. The gray of predawn met her eyes. It was nearly dawn on First World. That much she knew. That, and she was in her own bed. Thank goddess.

“What? Who’s sick?” She expected to see her sixteen-year-old daughter, Blanche, or her eleven-year-old son, Elton, or her Aunt Tillie, standing over her. But as Zofia’s vision cleared, she saw no one was in the room with her. Whose voice had pulled her out of deep slumber?

Peering beyond the pencil posts of her bed, Zofia spied the highboy where a large brown fur-ball lay on top. Turquoise eyes scrutinized her. It was Argyll, one of her two guardian cats. Argyll sent Zofia a disgruntled look, but then her eyes fell shut and her head sank back down. So, it wasn’t either of her cats calling to her.

“Someone’s at the front door ringing the bell, and it’s giving me a h-h-headache,” the detached, slightly willowy male voice moaned.

“All right, Biddle. Really!” Zofia grumbled as she threw off the covers and swung her long legs over the edge of the bed. She had to shake the cobwebs from her head before straightening to her full, barefooted height of five-seven. Had she dreamt? She couldn’t recall.

Cutting her gaze to the clock on her nightstand, she saw it was a quarter past five in the morning. No wonder she couldn’t get her eyes open all the way. Who would be ringing her doorbell at this hour? Damn Ugwump salesman probably, she thought grumpily. If they couldn’t snag you via the phone, they came to your door. Well, she’ll take care of him. One little zap to his ass would make him take off. Or better yet, maybe a good scare would keep him from coming back, and she wouldn’t have to open the door at all.

“You’re a Ghogal, Biddle,” she snarled. “You should’ve at least seen who it was before bothering me.”

“I don’t do doors,” the detached voice retorted haughtily. No wonder she hadn’t seen anyone there. It had been Biddle, her Ghogal, and he was very much invisible.

Grabbing the silky powder-blue robe at the end of the bed, Zofia pulled it on hastily as she charged into the hallway. The peal of the door chimes was irritating, but still Biddle was her servant—a returned invisible spirit—and was capable of carrying out many physical tasks for their chosen masters. Nearly every wizarding family had one on Euphoria, and Biddle had been in her family for generations, so naturally he had come with her when she had made her exodus from Euphoria to First World. Many of the Ugwump inventions here either stumped or frightened him—including the dishwasher—but the doorbell aggravated him.

Earth had been the Immortal’s and wizard’s first home hun­dreds of years ago, and so they had renamed it ‘First World’. They’d named the mortals ‘Ugwumps’ from a term coined by Im­mortal Eleazar, and she’d forgotten what it actually meant, but it was not a complement by any stretch.

Zofia swiped a wild veil of wavy sienna hair out of her face—Probably looked like someone had taken an egg beater to my hair, she thought—and levitated, then Transvected out of her bedroom and down the hall toward the staircase. Two large tawny fury bodies darted out from beneath her dangling feet and surged ahead of her. Perth and Argyll waited at the entry, meowing impatiently before she could land barefooted on the cool slate floor.

As Zofia approached the door, she felt a chill plunge down her spine. The memory of her dream crashed through her mind like a poltergeist in a glass shop. Why did she have this dream again after five long years of it abating? Was it a warning that Blood was near? Was it a precursor of things to come? She had to wonder now if Aazel’s prediction last night wasn’t true. He’d said, “Dorian is back.” That was all. The demon was rarely, if ever, wrong.

Heavy pounding on the door made her jump out of her thoughts.

“Just a moment,” she said, and peered through the small wedge of glass. She saw the shadow of a tall, square-shouldered man standing there. But with his back toward her she couldn’t identify him. He wasn’t wearing a suit, so she knew he wasn’t a stupid salesman. She was sure it wasn’t Richard Keys, who was much taller, and more robust. The man had shoulder-length black hair. Whoever he was, from this angle, the guy looked interesting.

“Who’s there?” she asked.

The man turned to face the door. He shook the wild mane out of his dark, brooding sapphire eyes and Zofia was staring into a handsome face. She pulled in a gasp as instant recognition hit her hard like a troll’s fist to the noggin. He looked almost as he had the day he’d left her to go on assignment, five First World years ago; his hair was longish, and even the sideburns needed trimming. Even in this light she could see the slight bump on the bridge of his nose where it had been broken in a fight in his youth.

“Zofia? It’s me, Dorian,” he said in a distinctive Ogenthow accent with a mellow, almost crooning voice. “Let me in, darling.”

A multitude of emotions zipped through Zofia as her heart gave a sudden lurch. She twisted the locks and yanked the heavy oak door open. Their eyes met for the first time in five years. Zofia couldn’t believe he was standing there alive and well. Even so, she held off pulling him into a tight embrace. Mostly because all the warning bells were clanging in her head.

“Zofia . . .” His gaze took in every inch of her like a man who’d not set eyes on a woman in a thousand Euphoria years. “How wonderful you look in that—” his hands gestured toward her. “You look like one of those women in a lingerie add on Ugwump TV.”

Zofia realized she’d been holding her breath since she’d opened the door, and now exhaled with her words. “I thought you were dead. I thought Blood had killed you.” She crossed her arms and glared at him, waiting for an explanation.

“Well, yes he did—”

“I saw it all in my dream the night you disappeared. That’s why I fled with the children.”

“I know,” Dorian said as he glanced over his shoulder. Worry lines etched on his forehead as he turned back to her and said, “I’ve not much time. Could you just invite me in? I’ll explain everything—”

“I mourned for one hundred days, as required by the Code of Ethics. The children—” her voice broke with emotional overload. She averted her gaze suddenly, embarrassed to show her emotions in front of Dorian. “We couldn’t find your body so as to sever the head, and then burn the body so that a demon couldn’t take it over,” she strove on as-a-matter-of-factly, trying to regain control over those wild emotions.

“That would’ve been a mistake,” he said low.

“And now here you are!” Marshalling her emotions she said in a low, dangerous voice, “How dare you make us all go through that and now, here you are at my door after five years of nothing!”

“I’m guessing you’re upset—”

“Upset? Me?” she said, voice going up an octave. “If I were upset, you wouldn’t still be standing there.”

“But, darling, you didn’t stay in Ogenthow long after that night. And I wasn’t myself, believe me—after what Blood did to me—not only did I forget being attacked, but once I remembered what had happened, you’d already left Euphoria. I learned you’d come here to First World in order to escape Blood. I then followed you to this low-brow burg called Gladstone ill.”

“It’s not ill, it’s Illinois,” she corrected.

“What? Oh—whatever,” he said, swiping the air dismissively with his hand. “Just let me in and I’ll explain everything.” Again he looked over his shoulder. “I don’t have much time, darling. Please?”

“Why? Is someone following you?”

“No. Not exactly. But the sun’s about up. Just let me in before I turn to dust.”

His words gave her pause. The dream. Blood had turned Dorian to dust in the dream. How odd he would use such a turn of phrase.

Finally giving him a dubious look she said, “You’d better have a good explanation for not being able to find us sooner than this.”

“I do. I promise. Really.”

Gazing down at her cats she said, “What d’you think, girls? Should we let the lout in?”

A pair of slightly crossed aqua eyes gazed up at her. They both meowed, but Zofia heard, “It would make things interesting, wouldn’t it, sister?” Perth said.

“Aye, it would, sister.” Argyll replied. “In a delicious way.”

Only Zofia could hear the two speak, which was a blessing from the Immortals.

She looked up at Dorian and said, “Well, it’s unanimous.”

She stepped aside. But Dorian paused at the threshold without entering.

“Well? Didn’t you just beg me to come in?”

“Just indulge me for a second and ask me in,” he said, his voice going tight with agitation. Maybe a tinge of fear to it, too.

“What?”

“I can’t enter your house unless you tell me to do so.” His voice had phased back to its normal coolish note.

She did an eye roll. “Okay, Dorian Grandier, come in.”

He rushed into the house, slammed the door behind himself, sprinted over to the windows, threw the thick curtains closed, then backed away from them.

Zofia frowned at his strange behavior. “What’re you afraid of?”

He turned, panting slightly. The white tips of his incisors peeked just below his upper lip. She studied his deep-set eyes, almost straight nose, and the strong jaw line. He looked blanched, as if he’d been living in a cave for years. Smudges beneath the eyes—which Zofia had not seen before this—made him look a little spooky. He seemed frightened. She could not remember a time when Dorian had ever been frightened of anything. After all, he was a Knight of the Witenagemont who went after wizards who walked on the dark side, ogres with illegal stashes, demons, dangerous imps, illegal shape-shifters, vampires and Weres who stepped one toe out of the Oblast into the Province. All of them were run out of the Province, put into rehab, or incarcerated in Hampar­zum’s. She was horrified and saddened at the same time by his appearance.

Suddenly, both cats hissed vehemently. Backs arched, fur straight out, they both darted into the next room.

“Dorian!” she said, backing away a few steps. The hairs on the nape of her neck prickled. She now wished she’d brought the Stone of Irdisi-loaded scepter with her for more protection. But, she hadn’t seen it in weeks and couldn’t remember what she’d done with the thing. “Dorian, explain yourself, before I put you through the wall.”

Bringing his hands up in a defensive move he quickly said, “I—uh—” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been turned into a vampire.”

Copyright 2008 by Lorelei Bell

My book, my blog, and Stepford Wife Escapee, Sarah Palin

In my last blog, I described what I had been doing, working on formatting my book for Infinity. Well, since then I've held the first book in my hands, thrilled with seeing my name on the front cover, as well as a cover I drew myself. I've read through it, made a master sheet of corrections, and have sent one proof book off to Infinity, and another off to the copyrights office.

I will, at some point this month, place the first chapter, or a portion of it, in here for anyone who wanders upon this site. Yes, I know I have not been a good neighbor, but I have so little time to go find other sites. I work at a job, I take care of a house, and I write--have two more novels in various stages. One is the sequel to Spell of the Black Unicorn, and I'm having trouble keeping my attention on it, since it's fantasy, and some how the fantasy world is a little hard for me to get into. But my characters usually keep me interested, since I love them so much.

Since I've got a lot of other things to do, I'm going to end this blog quickly. I've just read "My Final Column" by Kevin Alexander in Writer's Digest, and I'm going to miss reading his articles every other month. I'm going to have to go and visit his blog, now.

What with my job, and all the other distractions (like the pending election--and having to look at that Stepford Wife escapee, Sarah Palin, for the next several weeks before she's put back into literal darkness in Alaska again), I'm going to try and be a better neighbor and come and look at some of the other posts around here. I also have a post at Author Nation--which I get to just as often, and do about the same. Except for a couple of writer people I've gotten to know there, I don't visit much there either. Just too busy. With my book coming out soon, I'm trying to get ready to make contact, advertise and get the word out in my area.

If you've been reading my blogs. Great. Let me know. If not, I guess I'll keep on getting a big fat 0 on my comments at the end. No biggie. I'll live, and keep on writing.

Have a happy fall, and if you want to read a portion of my book, I'll get that in here as soon as I figure out how to get it on this post.

Book is In The Mail

There's less than 3 weeks left of my summer before I go back to working 5-days a week/7 hours a day, instead of 2 days and 6 hours. One of the guys I work with asked me if it was worth it--taking the time off.

"Yes," I said. "I got my book finished, and I'm sending it out." That was last Friday.

Well, it was sent yesterday. Monday, the fourth of August. I sent it Priority Mail so I could track it when it got there--that will probably be tomorrow.

My book, "Spell of the Black Unicorn" was actually done, with need of one more reading through for any type-os, or other alterations I wanted to make. And, being the perfectionist when it comes to my writing--or is it that control-freak thing again?--I had to alter a few things that just bugged me every time I'd read it.

After this, using the directions from Infinity Publishing (booklet), I went and did the formatting as they show. Having OpenOffice I had to figure things out on my own
but I think the directions, plus the human on the other end of the e-mail, gave me excellent directions. The "human" I speak of is LinDee Rochelle, a writer herself with plenty of background to help me in this venture.

With luck, the drawing I did for the cover--of my own design, etc.--will be used. The first proof I get will be in 5 to 7 weeks after they get it and go through it.
This is what I really liked about Infinity, if you're going to use any self-publisher, they send you an actual physical proof. I've yet to see it, and so I can say nothing about it, until I do. But other Self-publishers make you scan it on computer screen to see if it's okay. Things don't pop out at you--I can say this for myself, for sure--like it does on paper. The eyes tend to not pick certain things up on screen.

Yes, I did have to pay for this. There are a lot of self-publishers out there, and if you do your homework, you can learn a lot about them. I advise, anyone who's looking to self-publish, to really check things out. One main question is: do they print the book in America? If they don't, you may loose all your rights, no matter what they say.

Some also put your whole book out there for anyone to read on-line. That's not right. Infinity is placing a thousand-word section of my first chapter on their website (that I prepared for them), for those who want to peruse for interesting stories on their site.

Things can go awry in the next few weeks. I hope they don't, however. Assuming I did everything right, my first book will be out there for sale, and I'll be promoting it heavy, by November of this year.

For someone who began writing in high school--I graduated in 1972--who was told by my English teacher to forget going into writing because of my bad grammar, horrible spelling, I think I've come a long way. In later years (I was in my 40's) I learned I am dyslexic. Funny how no one ever picked that up. But, there you go. It proves that I had a lot of will and determination, I never gave up. I certainly wasn't going to listen to an English teacher who only liked marking up my papers with red ink. Well, kiss my mostly German glutaeus maximus, Mrs. Penson wherever you are! I never quit, at least not without coming back to writing. And, as it looks, I've finally got my most fervent wish: a book that I wrote will be published this year.

If any of you who have read my blog here, know that I've thrown in things about myself, about my struggles as a writer, pulling things out of my journals from the past, know that it has been a terrible struggle for me. While some people can just sit down and write something, and someone who has the power can say--why, yes, you can write, lets just get you published--I never had such happen to me. Of course, poetry, a short story, and a hand-full of other odds and ends did wind up in small journals, or little known publications, THE BOOK was my biggest desire to be published.

Since high school, I can't say how many novels I'd written, either whole, or in part. They were, of course, probably the worst crud a person could want to read. And when I'd retrieved them from my father's house, after his passing, I threw out three paper grocery bags full of said crap. If a twenty-something year gap between doesn't improve your writing skills, nothing can. I had improved, and saw that I had. You throw the junk out. Move on.

At this very moment, I have sequel to Spell of the Black Unicorn in a 5th draft (and am working it into computer, doing any re-writes on it as I go--a portion of it is stuck in a dead computer, which I will have to revive and pull from said computer).

I'm also writing a 1st draft of a different book--an urban vampire novel. Well, not entirely urban, since my character visits the city. I'm not revealing the title to this one just yet.

I don't know if other novelists work on 3 books at the same time. I suppose you could work on 2, in different aspects of their respective drafts. I keep on wondering--dreaming of the day--what it would be like to get up in the morning, knowing your job is to write, and that's it. I respect and tip my hat to those who do this. I also must confess, I'm quite jealous. This was the life I had envisioned for myself, back in the 1980's. I was still struggling, a novice. But I got better.

Since I'm rambling, I'll say here that, yes, I've written to two of my favorite authors, and both actually wrote back (Dean Koontz, and Janet Evanovich), both telling me to "get an agent".

Ah, if only it were that simple. No agent wants to sign on someone who has no track record. I have no reading base. I'm basically a nobody. And since I haven't put my memoirs on disk (and sent to Opra for a review), I guess my writing isn't notable.(I hope you all got that dig)

Agent-schmagent. In today's technology, if you have a way to get around them, and all you want to do is get a book out there, and hope for the best(with a lot of leg work on your part to get people to take notice), you can do it.

This isn't something I'm leaving my grand kids, y'all. I have no kids. Thus I have no grand kids. This is something I've wanted all my adult life. This isn't just something to do. Writing is not a little past-time hobby. I take this very seriously. And, if I'm wrong about Black Unicorn--that people will love it--then, I'll just accept it. But I don't believe I'm wrong.

Once I get my copies from Infinity, and I send one into the copyrights office, I will put the very first chapter on this site. Anyone who wishes is welcomed to make a comment about it. If you like it, great. If you don't, you may just not like fantasy. Which is fine.

The book is in the mail. Finally it is going to be published. Wish me luck.

Berry Picking Time & Vacation

I went berry picking this morning. There's something soothing, and addictive about picking a bowl full of berries. First of all, it takes me back to when I was a kid and picked raspberries as soon as they were ripe, until they were done, getting all cut up in the process if I didn't put on jeans and long shirt. Well, I was a kid. I was a tomboy. Getting scraped knees, cuts etc. was part of being the tomboy.
I lived in a small town, behind us was a field. As soon as the asparagus was up, I was out there walking fence line, and then traveled all the way down the rail road where the wonderful spears tended to grow thick and succulent.

After this we waited for the raspberries. That meant July 4th was around the corner. It would always become hot. Mornings held a mist in the horizon, and there would be heavy dew on the grass. My feet and the bottom of my jeans were always wet once I dragged myself home, exhausted, but with a bag of my prize.
Always worth it. As it was this morning. My mind wasn't bogged down by anything. No worries, except trying to keep myself from being bitten by bugs, or scratched up by the sharp thorns of the berry vines. Long sleeves and jeans, plus a hat work the best to protect from all of the above, plus a little bug spray. I carried my handy clippers too. There's always the new growth of cane that has to be trimmed back in order to get around it―either to reach in and pick those plump gems, or in order to just get into the right spot so as to reach them. Some canes grow pretty tall and thick.

I had several spots to pick from, it may have taken me an hour, but I didn't care. I think it's the challenge too of coming away unscathed, (or nearly, because I was sweaty down to my bra, and the shirt―which I didn't care about―was stained with berries), for something free. It's almost as though you're getting away with something, using up time that maybe could be better used. But I don't think so. After all, raspberries are one of those fruits that are supposed to contain antioxidants. The things you didn't even worry about when you ate such things, because they just tasted so good, and your fingers and mouth would be blue when you were done. How cool.

Once in a while the mind begs to not have anything to ponder, too. Berry picking will allow your mind to be free of worry. You're pondering your next move: How to get to that very far away cane with the bigger juicier berries. When we become adults we spend too much time worrying about something. Or too many somethings. You need a break, just something to stop the madness. I think it's a need to free yourself, like when you were young. When you didn't have so much to worry about. When raspberries, and cherries, and asparagus was gained through just a little effort and was in the backyard, or just beyond the barbed wire fence, in my case.
I was reminded of a time my brother and I were at the other end of town, visiting relatives, and there happened to be a woods nearby. We discovered a berry patch. A little boy who was with us (some neighbor kid) warned us they were poisonous. We just laughed and went on picking and eating. Most likely his parents didn't want to spend the time teaching him anything, and just told him not to eat anything in the woods. That's too bad for him. But at the time we didn't care. We knew these were the same berries that grew near us, and, as they say, more for us.


Summer is going strong, here in Illinois. And it's also vacation time. My husband and I just came back from vacation--a short one, because of gas prices. We needed to get away.

On our journey we visited Devil's Tower--worth the trip, but by now everyone is there, so we went at the right time. Also, be aware that the Stergis Rally is coming up. That means everyone who has a motorcycle (Harley's) are out there about this time of year into August, and you won't find a motel or even camping site. The other reason you won't get a room unless you've made reservations is that there's the big dig going on from Nebraska all the way up to North Dakota and all the construction crew takes the rooms for months at a time. We had to turn around because of it. But we made the most of it. We did see "The Enchanted Highway" in North Dakota. I recommend seeing this. One man has made all these huge metal sculptures, there's nothing like them in the world. Just worth the venture. Previews can be seen on the website at same name, I believe.

Then, we went to DeSmet in South Dakota, to visit the Ingalls Homestead, one of the places where Laura Ingalls Wilder grew up. We got to ride in a covered wagon, I got a pony cart ride--until the rain came. We were driven out to the old one room school house where a retired teacher took us all back in time. The kids got to get into period costumes and participate in reciting old prose.

On way through Iowa, we stopped at Amana, Iowa. The old Germanic towns still survive. If Amana sounds familiar, it should. They still make appliances there, and you can take a tour. We haven't done so. There's plenty to see there, including a woolen shop, basket and broom shop, oh, and of course there's a chocolate shop, and several wineries where you can taste the wines they make from various fruits, and some have cheeses. Lots of nice nick-knacks, and there's also a micro brewery. All of the main ones have won various awards, so, if you go there, make sure to taste all you want and compare. I recommend you have lunch, first, but be aware that they do serve "family style". For those of you who don't know what that is, it's basically something that was done over one hundred years ago when the Amanas were a grouping of communes. Anyway, if you get the dinner, expect for your table to be laden with several bowls of vegetables, sauerkraut, fried potatoes, bread or rolls, at least a pound of cottage cheese, and God knows what all. All of it's good, but two people like us couldn't eat but a portion of it. Sounded silly to us.
Go with the sandwich option, if you don't want all that food. Believe me, unless you are a family of four, you won't be able to eat it all.

Well, that's all from me this time. Happy summer everyone!

SEX, ROMANCE AND PLOT

The sun is out. Sounds silly, but after all the rain, you need to see the sun pop out, the rain come to an end, see a rainbow or two. Seems it was raining just last week on Tuesday. I may have Blogged about it. When it rains, and you can't go outside, you read a good book. Or, you hope to have a good book to read.

You know how a good book leaves you wanting to read more? How you can't leave the characters, how their plight throughout the story simply carries you along, and you are unable to leave it, even at the end because you have become completely absorbed by it, by the characters—you can relate to one or two of them—the hero or heroine are written well, strong of character, have morals that you can either relate to, or buy into because of the back story of your character. You understand why he/she does what they do, mostly because you share some of their problems, and beliefs. You can't wait until the next book in the series to come out, or, if it is out, you go and buy it.

Rowling's Harry Potter series was like that. I wanted to climb right into the book and be part of the action. This is a children's book—and yet adults read them like they'd couldn't get enough of them. Well, let's face it, Rowling created a character we could all relate to, and the treatment he endured in his aunt and uncle's house just tugged at the heart strings. Not to mention what happened to his parents, and what nearly happened to him.

Fantasy, or not, whatever genre you write you must have characters who seem real-to-life. characters you can relate to somehow.

I don't know about you, but I don't read a story for the sex scenes. Mainly because I've written plenty of sex scenes, which never wound up in a book—because probably I felt it was too much, or unrelated to the plot. I read a story to escape. I would guess a lot of us do this. Reading fiction is escaping for a little while into another world, another characters' dilemmas, be someplace that isn't where you are now, be absorbed by this made up world of the author's.

That said, I finally finished Full Moon Rising by Australian-born Keri Arthur. A very long book which had me yawning for most of it. I may as well have spent my time looking out at the rain. (Well, I did. The excitement of the tornadoes in the area had me watching radar on my computer screen, this past weekend). Despite the fact that Arthur has won a few awards (Best Contemporary Paranormal category of the Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Awards among them), I felt this book had a weak plot. But, hey—we're talking romance here. I guess I thought it wasn't romance because it was in the fantasy/sci-fi section. Okay, my mistake. I've made the same mistake with other authors, trying to find another series to read. But I digress.

First off, I had trouble relating to her protagonist Riley Jenson. Problem is I just can't connect with a woman who walks around in four-inch heals. I don't even wear two-inch heals. I don't know about you, but high heals (especially 4-inch ones) kill your feet if you walk in them much. You'll have toe surgery before you're forty if you walk around in them in a job. And lets just have a reality check here, I've seen women walk in them. Running in 4-inch spikes is very difficult. I couldn't buy that her character used the spiky heals to stake vampires with them. Ah, yes, handy when you come across a vampire you have to kill, but then what do you walk in once your shoes are ruined? Your bare feet? Please. So, right away I can't suspend my belief here, right off the first few pages.

Secondly, Arthur's character, Riley Jenson (who has a twin brother named Rhoan) are werewolf/vampire mixes. This was what attracted me to this book to begin with. I wanted to see how she treated this, since I thought this was very different from the other cookie-cutter vampire books out there by other authors. I thought that the explanation was plausible: her werewolf mother was raped by a newly risen vampire. Her background of being thrown out of the pack once she and her brother hit puberty was pitiable, but, again, I just couldn't feel empathy on this point. The fact they became ostracized by their pack did little to me, I didn't feel her pain, or her problem. She didn't make me feel pity. Just telling about it doesn't give me any idea of what the werewolf went through. At this point, the writing wasn't writing. It was telling.

Third; I never read anywhere in this first book an explanation as to how, or why vampires and werewolves exist, only a small explanation on the Directorate of Other Races—and their policing of nonhuman criminals, which is who Riley works for. Nor is there anything on how a vampire and werewolf could actually mate and produce—it dosen't happen in nature. You can't put a cow in with a dog and expect to get a cow-dog mix.

I had problems continuously with suspension of belief in this, mostly in regards with her main character's problems, phobias, and morals, or lack there of—her uncontrollable desire for “mating” during this full moon phase just didn't help me say, okay, she can't control herself. I think it was her problem of trying to locate her brother which I felt was not explored. I needed to see some back story of the two together, surviving in their world. We got none of this. So, I had no need to worry. Apparently, neither did Riley. I didn't feel she was all that concerned about him, even though he had a dangerous job with the Directorate. Riley asks about him in a local club (where the werewolves who have these uncontrollable sexual urges during the phase of the full moon, do it right there in the bar, or go into special rooms), because the next thing she's doing is doing the nasty with someone she barely knows anything about (aside from he's a good shag) and a good time is had by all. So, I can't feel any concern, or have any empathy to her dilemma, not right away, and not later, even though she presents them, but she doesn't make me care enough. I just don't really give a damn about her, or what happens to her brother.

And then there's the “romantic” side of this. Riley becomes attracted to a vampire, Quinn, who she finds on her doorstep naked in the second chapter. The naked vampire is a good attention getter, actually. And really, you do want to see the romance between them blossom—if there will be one, because he doesn't want to have much to do with a werewolf again, because he'd been hurt by one. And when finally Arthur does place them together in a romantic/sexual way, she spends less time on their “togetherness” than those scenes involving the men she's merely relieving sexual desires with.

Romance is dead, I guess. Long live sex for sex sakes in such books.

I think the only thing that did hold my interest was the possible romance between Quinn and Riley, but I just couldn't get past this sex-for-sex sake thing in this book. I actually rolled my eyes whenever I got to a sex scene. Especially when Riley is strapped down so that Talon can to his thing.

Arthur's explanation as to how/why the werewolf “needs to mate” thing during the full moon cycle also falls short, for me. These werewolves acted nothing like wolves of the forest. For one thing, wolves in nature don't have an orgy. There are male and female alpha wolves in a pack. Only they mate, the other members are not allowed to mate. This is the pack, or nature, making sure only the strongest creature leaves behind strong stock. But, I realize we're talking about werewolves, and when an author uses a fantasy aspect, they can do whatever the hell they want with it. So, Arthur has created this world of werewolves mating uncontrollably, and I'm sorry, but it's still sex-for-sex sake.

Another thing that bothered me was the fact that every guy she—let's put it delicately here—went to bed with, wound up being rich—filthy rich. Talon, who wanted to mate with her to produce a child, (and was, insane, apparently) is son of a wealthy research scientist. And by using some sort of chemical technology that he developed, Talon was hoping for results, even though their kind don't always produce, and Riley suggests throughout she may be infertile.

The cloning thing was really a bit over-done. The suggestion that someone could produce a super race via cloning, well, sure, that could be done. But to have me suspend my belief system enough to accept that someone could clone half werewolves-half-vampires, or “other races” and do so with some sort of “accelerator” I just had to stop and say, “okay, I really need to refresh my wine glass here.”

What I got from this book, and Arthur's treatment of her story and plot, was that when the plot sagged, I felt that sex was thrown in, or the character was put in danger and had to get out of a jam, usually someone helped her out of it. I felt there were no cleverness in how the characters got out of their jams, I think I got lost in the clues, and the who's-behind-it-all, and why as secondary to what the main focus was on.

The ending, where she's again face to face with her foe, Talon, I was disappointed at how it was handled. Riley has a laser—even though it was half-charged. She couldn't just shoot the jerk with the laser, no. She uses it on the clones that he's set on her. Why on earth didn't she just whack off his doo-dad (since he was naked and apparently ready to do it, right there and then) when she had the chance? That's what I would have done. Well, I understand that the author had to make this last scene exciting. And because this story couldn't go another page without another convoluted sexual scene, the character, Riley, uses Talon's sexual urges against him. Which is okay, since the full moon was at its height, and no one should blame them for needing to have sex.

Possibly I have too high standards. I'm not easily fooled into a book by the cover—half naked men, or a man and woman kissing are probably dead give aways there's going to be sex, and a lot of it. But even though the cover isn't exactly a give away, and believe me, I don't mind sex scenes in books, as long as they are done well. I don't mind that two people do it on the page, and if it's well written—not the in-your-face stuff of some authors who shall remain nameless here. I've written sex scenes. No biggie. I just need to care about the characters. I need to want them to crush the bad guys—men or women—I need them to make me care what happens. If that doesn't happen right away, you've lost me, your reader.

Perhaps my desire to see a bit of good writing between the hundreds of pages of a book I've payed eight bucks for seems a bit much, and really, I don't expect everyone to write like Rowling. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy other writers, like Charlaine Harris, or Kim Harrison, as well as Janet Evanovich, and I'm a sometimes reader of Dean Koontz, and Dan Brown. I also can't wait until Elizabeth Kostova finishes another book—or has she? These writers don't just tell a story, they craft a story. I don't want to work to like a character. Placing sex scenes into a book will not get me to be a repeat reader, I'm sorry. Plotting is a difficult job for the writer. But even more difficult is creating a likable character. Someone I can enjoy, and want to read the next book of the series, or even pick up the same book I've read and enjoy it all over again.

Think I'll have to pick up my Harry Potter books and just escape for the rest of the summer, and save myself eight bucks. Spend it on something else . . . like a gallon of gas.

Color Me Lilac

Hello again. Whoa, two posts in a month, and within 8 days of each other--must be a record for me, I say with tongue firmly planted in side of cheek.

The title of this blog has very little to do with anything, except that lilac, orchid, and deep violet are my favorite colors. They've always been my colors. I notice that this spring, our lilacs have been in blossom going on 3 weeks--that's a record, as far as I've ever made notice--and believe me, I watch nature. Usually, rain comes and rusts them out, and they die. I've been able to have several bouquets of them in the house, my office, brighten it up (of course, the walls are painted my favorite color, as well), and give off it's perfume--one you can't find in any bottle.

I have been busy, as I've last reported, editing for the last time, my book Spell of the Black Unicorn for Infinity. The book is essentially done. I merely need to make sure what I send them is absolutely as unblemished as my eyes can distinguish. I've gone through Black Unicorn several times in this last draft. Correcting, or changing it to my liking. The editing is a slow process. You can't just read it over once, and be done with it, once you think you have your final draft. You go through it as many times as you can, until you can find no more mistakes--you hope. And for me, I have to mess with lines, or take out commas I feel aren't needed. Maybe rearrange a line, here or there. I'm a writer, I guess that's my problem. I need to just edit this thing, but I want to mess with it. Sort of like a scab, I can't leave it be.

Besides editing, I've been writing another book--I've renamed it, but I'm not going to reveal it here. It's in it's very first draft. And I'm just half way through it. Still working on the plotting. Plotting a novel is about the most difficult thing you can do in the writing process. But plot you must. You also have to have a sense of your characters. Until you do, and know why they do the things they do (motives), you can't really move on.

Speaking of plotting, I've recently been able to view an excellent show which aired in the early '90's called "Forever Knight"(thanks to a friend who let me borrow the disks). Premise: Nicholas Knight is a vampire who wants to redeem himself, pay his debt to society--as the opening lines go. He plays a vampire who lives in the human world as a homicide detective in Toronto. This idea, in the 90's, was rather fresh. New. But a lot of people may come away from seeing a few of these shows and say, well, someone did this again, called it Angel. Well, my friends, you're right in that respect. Writer of Angel, Joss Whedon probably did see Forever Knight and was inspired to do his own version. Whatever. But if you watch both shows, you'll see that although Angel was very inventive, and entertaining, as was his Buffy the Vampire Slayer series, Forever Knight is much more sophisticated, plot-wise. I think the writers of Forever Knight was able to put together some excellent shows, at the same time, create realistic, characters that you watch interact with each other. The actors, Geraint Wyn Davies (Knight), Nigel Bennett (LaCroix), Deborah Duchene, and John Kapelos, all do excellent jobs pulling off their characters. Nigel Bennett plays the most evil LaCroix, who sired Knight 800 years ago, and will not let him forget it, no matter how much Nick tries to separate himself from LaCroix, he never is able to. Deborah Duchene, who plays the very sexy, and sometimes dark, Janette, seems to have been born for her part. Not to forget Catherine Disher who plays Natalie, the coroner, and the only living human in Toronto who knows what Knight is (and is trying to help him turn human/get back his soul), does an excellent job in her roll, as does John Kapelos as Knight's partner, Schanke--who hates when Knight takes off in a split second, and doesn't know he's a vampire--gives his roll 110%.

Aside from enjoying the actors as they do their rolls, the plotting is tight, somehow you are pulled in by Knight's plight, and his ever persistent battle over his demons, those inside and outside--namely LaCroix.

To date, I've viewed all of first season, and part of second. The second season sees LaCroix come back as a night-time radio talk host. He's just as fiendish as always, but the writer has been able to throw some interesting twists in. I absolutely loved "Stranger Than Fiction" in which Knight becomes romantically involved--one of the few shows that has him become romantically involved with a character--with a novelist who writes vampire fiction, and she's way too close to the truth about them. This one ends to my satisfaction, and I won't give it away, but writers, Phil Bedard & Larry Lalonde don't take the easy route, which one expects. The ending is simple, yet moving. LaCroix couldn't be more disappointed in the outcome. Other episodes have been just as well done, in every respect. (My friend, John, tells me the third season "smokes".)

There were only three seasons. You wonder why they take shows like this off and put idiotic-non-written shows like Idol, or Dancing with the Stars on. I call it the I-don't-want-to-use-my-brain syndrome. Well, I guess it's a sign of our times. No one wants to think any more, producers don't want to pay writers to actually write something brilliant, interesting, intriguing, or have any emotional outcomes any more. However, I haven't been watching much TV anymore, since Buffy was taken off. Maybe I'm missing something? I have to check out Moonlight, as yet. I didn't even know it was on, since it's on a channel I don't regularly view, as I can't get it in. (Yeah, I'm still using an antenna--don't get me started on that!)

Well, the sun is out, today. But it's cold in my northern part of Illinois. Perhaps in June things will begin to heat up, but I'm hoping for a coolish summer. People will complain. But I'm not going to. I don't like living in air conditioning. People who like it hot are kidding themselves. They jump in and out of air conditioned cars, offices and houses. If they actually had to deal with the heat and humidity, they wouldn't really like it all that much.

And don't get me started on global warming. You don't think something is happening to our atmosphere? Glaciers and polar ice caps are melting as I write this. I'm just glad I won't be around when they all do, and everything is under the ocean again--at least I hope I'm not, since I'm not a vampire.

Living in the World of "Yourself"

Hello, it's me, Lorelei, writer, and bus driver.

I realize I've been neglecting my blog, but that's life.

I've finally got some time to myself, to write as I need to, take walks, etc. This I've needed for a while. We tend to get caught up in the world at large. Work, and daily things that need to get done. I've opted to work only 2 days, and be freed up to work on getting the book published. Yes. Self-published.

Yesterday I was glad to go for a walk in the park (which we manage, and is next to us), and found that my knees held up pretty good. I walked through the fluff of dandelions, took in Spring, the way it used to be--although it has been rather cooler than normal, but I say, if I can wear jeans and be comfortable, then I don't care.

I've worked so very hard on writing, reading everything I could to help me, all forms of writing, and even the writer's magazines (which go along with all the silly notions that writing has rules to follow, and every published author I've ever read ignores said rules. I won't go into them here). I do not have 20 more years to wait for someone to discover me. I may not even have 10. I'm tired of waiting to hold a book with a title, and my name on it. My dreams of publishing has gone through its phases after three decades, with only very little to show. I've always wanted to be a novelist. Why this is such a difficult aspiration, I don't understand.

It no longer matters. With P.O.D. anyone can publish their book--whether it's terrible, or good, or great. All you need is the good old dollar--lots of them--and go on line, and you can find dozens of them. You just have to be careful, look around to see if anyone has complaints about ones you're interested in, and if you feel safe to go with them, go for it.

Since we were getting this so called "stimulus package" and my husband and I came to the conclusion that this was the only way we would see something I wrote in print, we just decided to set aside a good portion of it to go toward it. Hey, it's money from the government. Why not look at it like winnings in a lottery, or something?

And today I went out and spent $100, on shopping, food and such. I figured it was my duty to stimulate the local economy, and so Barns & Nobel got some, Borders got a little, Wal-Mart, of course got some, as did a number of other places I visited. It was fun, I'll admit. I don't get to blow money like that on a daily, or even a monthly basis. I did shop until I was bored, tired and just wanted to get the hell out of the noise and traffic and come home to peace and quiet of the country.

I read something just yesterday, I think. I get this newsletter from a pair of writers. It's called Write Free--if you're a writer and are interested in getting your mind cleared, it's a nice place to check out. It helped me just sort of relax and let go when I read this piece by Jordan Rosenfeld basically said that if we can let go our urgency, desperation, and longing when going after what we want--I think that goes for anything, including writing. Doing so will help to open us up to attracting what we want in life. This is actually something I'd learned a long time ago. It's considered "white magic". You think about those things you need and want. But the hard part is letting go of those emotions that say "I've got to have this or that".

I'd always had the longing, desire, and yes, even feelings of urgency drowning out everything else, including life itself. Just living. I think--no, I know--it's because having a book published has been a life-long pursuit. I thought it would have been gained more easily, and sooner than this.

I'm turning 54 this year. The waiting is about over. Yes, this is a self-publishing venture. Yes, I will pay to have my book printed/published--something I'd said many years ago I would not do. But the idea that no one besides myself and maybe a hand full of people would ever get to read my book Spell of the Black Unicorn just hung around my neck like a noose. I felt it tighten with every year that went by, and each and ever rejection I got. Why don't they like it? Are they stupid?

Well, I'm going to be busy this summer getting Black Unicorn ready for Infinity. I even have my own drawing for the front cover they will use--at no extra charge--and, yes, I can draw, after all I majored in art. Art was my first love. But now it's writing.

So, as I sit here tapping this out for whoever reads this, I bid you good tidings.

By the way, while at the bookstore, drinking down the very strong mocha latte, I found myself a new author. Keri Arthur of Melbourne, Australia. She's won lots of awards. Full Moon Rising about a half vampire, half werewolf, looks promising.

I also picked up Karen Chance's Touch the Dark, and that looks pretty good too--I read a portion of it on line. Her web-site is awesome!

Well, I hope you all get your stimulus packages, and go stimulate something.
Ta.

All Writers Were Once New

There is a saying that all music was once new.

This is true.

All writing was also once new.

But I'll go one further. All writers were once new.

Who knows when the next King, Rowling--or whoever your favorite author is--will come along and knock down the conventional doors of writing?

So, with this in mind, I write on. And blog when I can.

I wanted to sort of review some of the books I've read this past winter.

Lately I've been really into Charlaine Harris' Sookie Stackhouse books. These are fun to read--a blend of fantasy, romance, and mystery. Charlaine isn't the only one doing these types of books, but for me, these are the ones I personally like, out of any of the other writer's I've read.

Harris' last book All Together Dead, I thought had been her best, in as far as bringing all her elements together--the mystery,the danger, the romance--creating a romantic cliffhanger for her heroine over which man she'll choose. I can't wait until her next book, but I really can't afford a hardbound book. So, I'll have to bide my time and wait until a year from now, when it should be out in paperback.

Basically, her vampires have come out of the closet, as they say, because of the new "synthetic" blood developed by the Japanese. This enables the vampires to blend into society, and be accepted (as far as they can be).

The sometimes funny things that happen along the way, and the different characters that she introduces in every story, is what gives these stories their magic, and keeps the reader interested.

This was her seventh book, her eighth one is due out next month.

I was curious about Laurell K. Hamilton, and unfortunately I didn't know she wrote porno (erotica in writing terms, but a manager of a bookstore said flat out that it's unabashed porno, and I had to agree). Thus, this is all I'm saying about the one I tried to read, Incubus Dreams, but I truly became sick of the multiple menage a trois, throughout, and what I was told was an interesting premise in the very beginning turned into an ugly beast. Her character doesn't do any vampire hunting, as far as I can see. Most of her time is spent on bathroom, bedroom, office floors, in a bed occasionally, on a desk once, and the back seat of a Jeep. Well, I'll be honest. Every now and then she was on top. But it was always with two men. If this is your fantasy, be my guest, check her out in the fantasy section. You have a who array to choose from. I personally don't care to have nightmares about sex, thank you. So, I put it down and couldn't finish it.

I then went to the other end of the scale, chose Lynsay Sands' Vampire, Interrupted, and found it very tame compared to Hamilton. It is a romance, and thus nothing really happens at all. As in all romances, the basic plot is easy (easy to figure out who's going to go to bed with whom), and so, I became easily bored, sleepy, and couldn't finish it in a week, as I do any of the Harris' Dead books. This kept me in reading material until All Together Dead went into paperback.

The one thing I didn't like about Sands' vampire explanation was that their ancestors came from Atlantis, thus were advanced scientifically, and used something called "nano" technology, and bioengineering, and to stay alive forever they feed on blood, I guess, to become "immortals". This part for me was okay. But her other premises just weren't in the vampire mode, such as women (vampires) aparently can give birth at any age, and in this book, they were able to go out into the sun. So, why did they need to do things at night? I haven't a clue. I couldn't get their being able to attain blood (in plastic bags, like you find in blood banks, hospitals, etc.). It was a total turn off reading about them sucking blood from the plastic bags.

Sands' books are probably okay, if you don't get into the usual vampire fantasy thing. If you want to read romance with a vampire or two in it as the main characters, but you want more of a romance-read, Sands gets my vote.

Personally, I like the whole fantasy creation, and true vampires who are somewhat evil, or at least bite during sex. I don't know why, but the mild erotic eliment of this is just pushing the envelope just enough to be naughty but not something that gives me nightmares.

As far as the Dead books by Harris, she has her Sookie character dating vampires as well as Weres. It makes for a good mix that isn't boring at least, her characters feel real. She doesn't try to gross you out in crutial points (it's why I quit reading King. That was pure horror, and I fell away from it years ago).

Okay, that's all for me. I'm looking forward to checking out a different writer, one that Harris mentioned in her blog the other day. Karen Chance. Touch The Dark, is her first book. I just want to read it, because her main character is a clairvoyant, as is my character I'm writing about in Were There's Blood. I need to make sure I'm not copying an idea. But mainly to see what my other copetition is doing.

Happy Spring!

I WRITE THEREFORE I AM

Hello. I've been busy.

For those of you who have yet to read my blog, and don't know it (other than the very title of this post), I am writer . . . hear me roar. Or squeak. Whichever.

I've been busy, of course, with my latest book--Were There's Blood--and working (more or less) full time. It has also been very cold, here in northern Illinois, most of the time, and heating my office has been a challenge, since I live in a 107 year old farm house, without insulation, and my office just happens to be the far western fringe of the main house (almost in Bismark, but I'm willing to bet it's closer to Siberia). With tall ceilings, may I say. Why did people have 10 foot ceilings when they were only five and a half-feet tall? That's the question of the day. How do you get to the cobwebs? How do you paint, or change the lightbulbs without having to find/buy a 15 foot ladder???

Just got my latest Writer's Digest. I recommend it for any writer. Subscribe to this and/or The Writer, and you will be able to self-educate yourself. That is my tip of the day--or of the month, since I can't get in here as often as I would like.

This issue (June 2008) has 101 best websites for writers. I spent the last couple of days hi-lighting the ones I want to visit. I'll never have time to see them all, until I retire, I think. But a few will get a peruse, when I get some time, and I'm not so damned tired. I may want to see some of the freelancer ones, since it would be nice to see if I can't get a job writing. I'll write for coffee (most flavors) and chocolate, but since I can buy those things, I'd rather have a little cash, instead.

Writers are a different animal, believe me. A true writer never stops writing. This I can say with full authority. If you are a true writer, you write while you are doing anything else, like doing dishes, walking (esp. walking), doing laundry (my husband does the laundry so I can write), you can even write while asleep. Ah. This I can do. Which is annoying as hell because you really don't feel like getting up, finding your reading glasses, and the pen and paper you left by your bed-side. I do have a recorder. But I also have a bed partner. If I start talking, he would hear it and think I'm talking in my sleep and kick me. If only you could just record all those ideas, dialogues, scenes that spin around up there through some electronic device that you can hook up to your brain, then, well, you'd just have it made. That's what I want for Christmas, this year. The electronic thingamajig that records your every thought, and you just plug it into your computer and it comes up on screen--complete with pictures. Wow. I don't know if I've just invented this, but maybe I should get the patent, and maybe I'll get rich that way. You think?

I once read that Rod Sterling had written his stories from his dreams (if you've ever seen Twilight Zone, you'd understand why the weirdness), and I believe also Lovecraft, did the same, but I can't say this for sure, (and I'm not looking this up, since it would take hours of digging), however both men had on-going dreams. That is they could get up from a dream, go do whatever, and go back to sleep, and return to the dream, sort of like reading a book, or watching a video. In fact I think one of them could go back to the same dream the very next night. Cool. And I'm envious. My husband claims to have done this on occasion.

Okay. Since I have only so many hours in my day to devote to writing, this was my first stop. I hope you enjoy my blog. Eventually I will get some pictures, and make this blog more interesting. I'll have more time to play with this in a little over a month from now, since I'm taking some time off this summer to WRITE!

Query Letters--and Bad Breath

It's been a while since I've posted, but I've been busy writing--which is what a writer does, okay? In between driving the stupid bus, I get very little free time, but this week I'm off (spring break) (what spring??).

Aside from working on my newest novel Were There's Blood, I've been working up my courage to send out Spell of the Black Unicorn--again. I've collected seven rejections, so far--those are from '07 & '06. Some of the rejections are just rejections. The best/nicest one as yet was from Jabberwocky. They said they were delighted to receive my query, and they gave it careful attention, but "alas . . . the query was not quit intriguing enough to inspire me to offer representation . . ." yada yada. I've been rejected I don't know how many times over the years. That one didn't sting quite as much as the usual "we're not interested" or the one stamped on my query letter, because I guess I don't merit an actual rejection letter: "I'm afraid your material doesn't suit our current needs and/or interests." Written below was that his client list was "quite full".

I doesn't really matter how nicely or poorly they reject you, you still feel like slitting your wrists, sticking your head in an oven, or watch carefully for the next biggest honking meteorite hurtling toward earth so as to get it all over with.

It hurts. Terribly. They know this, and I know they must. But it still hurts because you've put years into the work. I actually do five drafts before I'm finished and then I read it over maybe a dozen times--this doesn't count how many times a writer may change anything, which may be a few words to whole chapters--and you still want to change something every time you go through it. I don't know why. I put on the editor's cap, and I can't help but want to mess with things.

The hours I spend I try to spend them in the best way possible. I'd rather just write. I hate the business end, because--well, look at it this way. An artist--whether he makes music, or paints/draws/sculpts--wants to spend time doing what he/she does best and loves best. Who wants to spend hours trying to come up with a brilliant one-paged letter that will get the attention of an agent? Who does this? Only writers are expected to cram the whole idea of their 400-page (or more) novel into a few strong sentences which is supposed to give the agent head spins, or maybe an orgasm--I'm not quite sure which--and jump up and down excitedly and say, "Oh, my God! I have to get this author, she's just brilliant. I've never read a better query letter in all my life."

No artist, no musician has to go through all this crud in order to attract attention. Their art is either visual, or can be heard. With paintings, you look at it and you either like it or you don't. A musician, you listen and either their wonderful, or they stink. They just go on one of those shows on TV, and, if they loose, they've had a lot of exposure. Try doing that with a novel. Unless it's made into a visual media first, you haven't a chance, babe.

Writing is visual, and also time consuming to evaluate. That is why you send in only a query letter usually (or maybe a chapter or two), which I've still to come across the magical verbiage which will make an agent just jump right out of their seat and beg you to see the whole manuscript. You also get only one chance to make an impression.

So, that's where I am--again--since I'm just not going to go through the self-publishing thing. I think every one of them are scams, and they'll get money from you some how, and then it's up to you to go out and sell yourself. Not for me, thanks.

I sent one of my query letters off to an agent this week, and plan to send another one soon. This is like playing the lottery, folks. You know your dollar is gone the moment you hand it over. You know the odds, and yet you keep on playing. Boy, how stupid. I don't play the lottery, mainly because I'm already doing so with my writing.

The one big difference now, than back in '07--and before that--is that I can actually go to these agent's sites and see exactly how they want it sent. Some are pretty picky. The pickiest is--well, I'm not going to name anyone here, but they actually didn't want it in Times Roman, but in something else. Which would mean a person would have to go and change the font, and re-print it all. Fortunately, they didn't take the type of fiction I write. (Wiping my brow now.)

Another agent boasted they weren't as jaded or cynical as many hard core agents. Well, you know I beg to differ. If you're an agent, you almost have to be a little jaded or cynical, these days. It comes with the territory. Maybe they're not quite so cynical, but I know that I'll get a nice rejection, all the same. "Sorry, not for us" (you stupid clod).

Another agent says in the very first sentence that they are very anxious to see new work.

Okay. This is either a type-o, or they are very nervous about seeing new work. The right word should have been eager. Unless this is a test to see how many of us writers actually notice this, and you know many of us will. But how many of us will actually point this out to them? How do you do it without pissing them off? (Eh, yeah, uh, didn't you mean eager instead of anxious? You guys are a bunch of--)

One thing I hate is mind games in this, my chosen field.

Before I leave this, and post it, I want to add, I'd read an article in Writer's Digest written by an agent who had an assortment of examples of "bad" query letters. Some were pretty wild, and I could see why no one would even consider them, let alone send them anything but a rejection. But my favorite was from some writer who more or less sounded like me--things I'd only put into my personal journal, and no where else. They basically couldn't understand why, after having countless essays and poems published, they couldn't make money as a writer (I had to presume getting a book published, and my heart went out to them immediately). They asked if it was because of no contacts, or they didn't go to Harvard, or if they were too old. But the last line was a killer. I loved it. "Is it my breath?" they said.

(Yes, my dear, your breath is so bad, it was carried on the very piece of paper you sent through the mail.)

And then they asked, "Am I cursed?"

Well, of course you are! Just as I am. For some reason we writers have the writing bug, and the only thing that makes us happy is to write. We can happily sit and write and never let anyone but our friends and families see any of it, and never go through the pain, misery and self-abuse we go through with every rejection we get. This is our lot in life. But some of us just want to have recognition, and if it works out, you might have a nice little income for the rest of your life. Those are the lucky ones. The ones who some how, some way knew exactly how to word their query letters (and don't waste your money on books that tell you how to do it, I've got several of them, and they didn't work for me).

As I close this little chapter I want you to look at those happy, smiling faces of authors on the back of their books--they are the lucky ones. Just remember that, my bad-breathed friends.