Christmas Carol for Writers

For some reason at this time of year, I have a compulsion to play around with a perfectly good Christmas carol. With apologies to Santa and the Reindeer, here is the current offering. Hope all y’all have a truly grand holiday and there is a scarcity of coal and switches in your stockings come Christmas morning.

A Christmas Carol for Writers

You know Roberts and Austen and Rowling and Woolf,

Christie and Cartland and Bronte and Boothe.

But do you recall

The most dedicated writer of all?

Rosemary, the red-nosed writer,

Had a very nasty cold,

And her poor nose was scarlet.

You might even say it glowed.

All the other writers

Had gone off for Christmas cheer,

Leaving her a laptop

And a deadline much too near.

Then on Christmas Eve so late,

Editors came to say,

“Rosie, with your prose so bright

Can you do another re-write?”

Then how the others praised her

And how they cried out with glee,

“Rosie, our favorite writer,

You’ve saved the anthology!”

With best wishes to all’,

Fleeta Cunningham

www.fleetacunningham.com

SANTA RITA SERIES

Don’t Call Me Darlin’

Black Rain Rising

Elopement for One

Half Past Mourning

Cry Against the Wind

CONFRONTING DESTINY SERIES

Bal Masque (forthcoming)

SHORT STORIES

Close Encounter with a Crumpet (forthcoming)

Help Wanted:WIFE (forthcoming)

NOVELLA

Double Wedding, Single Dad (forthcoming)

Oh, I NEVER Read Romance…They’re So (Fill in the Blank)

And you know all the descriptors that slip into the blank, don’t you? You’ve heard them. “Trashy”. That’s one of my favorites. Usually accompanied by the expression reserved for foul odors and inebriated strangers. Or the line that goes “I suppose they’re all right for some people, people who don’t want to read real books, but I’d never bother with love stories. I only read books that are worthwhile.” That comment came from a visitor to the Texas Book Fair some years back. Looking at her dingy cut-offs, unwashed hair, and flip-flops, I had to think a few romance novels would be good for her. But who am I to say? Perhaps her six inch tome on the reproductive habits of earthworms gave her real happiness.

I really don’t want to hammer people who don’t like my genre. I’m overjoyed when people read anything–any subject, any format, and in any place they can curl up with an author’s thoughts. I applaud their right to channel their interests in every direction. All I ask is a little respect for the talented, hard-working authors who want to give readers a rich story with strong and interesting characters and a satisfying resolution to a believable problem.

So if I believe anybody is entitled to read whatever he/she may choose, why am I on my soapbox? Because I think romance writers have contributed to the betterment of the world in very concrete ways. Wouldn’t the world be a poorer place if Jane Austen had written only descriptions of English gardens? We’d never have known Mr. Darcy and his literary/theatrical/musical descendents!  What if Emily Bronte had settled for recording her mum’s recipes and skipped giving us Heathcliff? Would we ever have developed the pattern for all the brooding, noble heroes of filmdon–from Valentino to Clint Eastwood? That would leave all of us in a wasteland if we had no heroes to occupy our dreams.

Oh, but those are LITERATURE. Yes, I heard that. And yes, Pride and Prejudice and Wuthering Heights have endured, but somehow I don’t think Austen and Bronte were consciously creating belles lettres when they picked up quill and began. I think they were telling a story for the sheer pleasure of doing so.  They wrote for the same reason Nora Roberts wrote that first  manuscript while snowbound with sick children.  Creating and escaping!  And the joy of doing so.  Romance writers are still sharing with readers their delight in creating and escaping every time they invent a believable hero or an appealing heroine, or touch a reader’s heart with a well-crafted story. Blessed are the story tellers, whatever their era, whatever their style of yarn-spinning.

Somewhere back in those days of Higher Aspirations, I suspect some proper matron in violet silk, sipping tea and glaring at her debutante daughter, explained in righteous tones why she’d never, ever sully her mind (insert shudder of revulsion here) with the frivolous natterings of chatty Jane or moody Emily! Better dear daughter should mind her pocket handkerchief and become a social ornament for her future husband. It was her philosophical descendant, the woman of inquiring mind and dingy cut offs who assured me she’d never (insert another shudder here) waste her time on Nora Roberts or Debbie Macomber. Better she study the inner workings of  earthworms and plan her report to the Committee on Nightcrawlers.

What?? No romance? No dark, mysterious hero in the shadows? No joyous confession of love and the promise of a happily-ever-after ending? Pity!! But to each his/her own. Where’s my copy of Emma?

Fleeta Cunningham

www.fleetacunningham.com

fgcunningham@yahoo.com

SANTA RITA SERIES

Don’t Call Me Darlin’

Black Rain Rising

Elopement for One

Half Past Mourning

Cry Against the Wind

CONFRONTING DESTINY SERIES

Bal Masque (forthcoming)

SHORT STORIES

Close Encounter with a Crumpet (forthcoming)

Help Wanted: WIFE (forthcoming)

November Full Moon Guest-Sally J. Walker

“This book would make a great movie!” Really?

By Sally J. Walker

I have three facts to prove in this blog.

Fact One: Not all novels CAN be successfully adapted to the screen.

Fact Two: The novelist’s voice and style are moot points in the collaborative medium of film production.

Fact Three: Novels are intended to be a private exchange between the writer and the reader, whereas films are public group orgies.

Now, if you have read the above three facts and accepted them, you are ready to read on. If you choose to argue them, read something else.

Fact One embodies the essence of adaptation. Novels are written to reach the intellect of the reader. Sensations are titillated by thought association, just as factual information or exposition is provided for reader understanding. The motivation, memories, emotional impact experienced by the characters can be explained in novels. Film relies on ONE concept: Visual image.

Certainly sensations can be depicted VISUALLY, whether by character reaction or audience identification. For example, seeing a steaming turkey fresh from the oven evokes that aroma, just as a pile of steaming manure at the feet of a milk cow…You get the “picture.” What film CANNOT do is explain what the character feels as a novel could. Those internal thoughts and emotions are frequently the fiber, the richness, the perfection of novels that cannot smoothly or naturally translate. Some films have successfully used VOICE OVER to allow the character to explain, usually as a device of logic. However, over-use of this intrusive device tends to annoy the audience who is caught up in experiencing the moment WITH the character. The V.O. can seem to be a lecturer trying to guide the interpretations of the audience who are too stupid to draw their own conclusions. Bad reaction.

Exposition is another fiction writer’s device that doesn’t translate well to film. Some novels rely heavily on underlying information in a character’s background or a culture’s history that directly impact the character’s limited options or the plot events. Scrolling information at the opening, V.O., Series Shots as glimpses, or depicting a very brief back-story scene have all been used successfully to deliver information to the audience. First, ask yourself if this back-story is VITAL for the audience to get it or to be sucked into the total story. Then ask yourself HOW the vital information can be served up succinctly, actively, VISUALLY. The joy of reading is mental immersion in a different time and place. The joy of film is the visual empathy of sharing with characters the experience of the moment. Both are illusions, one totally on a mental plane, the second on the plane of visual awareness. Novels deliver the illusion slowly, but successful films create ONLY the immediate moment. When cinematic storytelling becomes documentary teaching, the illusion is lost and the audience grows restless. Bad reaction.

Another problem inherent to adaptation: Readers of popular work formulate their own image of what the characters look like, what their voices sound like. The casted actor and the director’s interpretation will more often than not conflict with the reader’s image. Perfect matches are rare. An actor turning the tide of the public image so the character is known as HIM is even rarer. Frequently, the novelist has to give up his/her image for the sake of collaboration, which leads us into Fact Two.

The art of prose is the unique manipulation of words that defines the voice and style of a writer. Abstract and esoteric concepts separate each writer and provide for lively comparisons in the literary world. Screenplays are NOT literature. Screenplays are the crisp, bare-bones blue-prints that will guide the various craftsmen and artists who will translate the written word to a visual medium. The beauty of the WORD is not primary. The beauty of the IMAGE seen through the camera’s eye is everything. If the glorious description of a place cannot be matched by the location scouts or constructed by the set designers, especially within budget, then it will be changed. Workability is the key word to translating fiction to film.

“Surely a novel’s dialogue will adapt well, won’t it?” Dialogue consists of the words that reflect who the characters are and what is important for them to say. So much of movies is dialogue, what the characters are say and NOT saying. Film is about innuendo, not spelling everything out. In a novel the dialogue can be subtle or direct, effusive or succinct. Then the character has the luxury of an internal response. Multi-layered dialogue for dramatic interpretation must do BOTH. The adaptation writer must be willing to delete inane, playful, redundant conversations then create verbal exchanges that MOVE the cinematic story. A succinct punchy ending to a verbal battle in a film scene can cover an entire chapter of bitter exchanges depicted in a novel. The writer simply must remember this long-ago quip: “These are movies, not talkies.”

One last comment on collaboration. Look up the definition of that word. Then make a list of all the roles of people involved in bringing a film to the screen. (Don’t know? Scribble down their titles as the credits roll by.) Remember the screenplay is merely the blue-print. Each of these people–these artists–will uniquely interpret their contribution. Some may read the original novel for flavor. Others may see no point since the mediums are so different. The producer’s fiscal guidance and the director’s leadership are central to the feel of the film. Early in their careers, most novelists learn they have to give over a degree of control to the editors in the publishing houses who will manufacture and distribute their books. Well, the film industry spreads that control among many more people with the producer and the director at the top of the food chain’s hierarchy. Many writers contract as associate producers to retain some control. Still, the writer must accept that the novel’s precious words, images, characters, and events will inevitably be rearranged, deleted, corrupted, and mangled for the sake of the film story, usually as a result of collaboration. The entire production crew is responsible for the end product, not just the writer. The novel’s concept of intimacy between writer and reader does not exist in a theater, which brings us nicely to Fact Three.

Reading a novel is supposed to be a very personal experience. The very nature of comprehending language is personal. A newly divorced astrophysicist from the southwestern United States will not read MADAME BOVARY with the same appreciation as a schoolgirl from a village near Paris. Logically, based on each reader’s unique life experience, the thought associations, the images derived from the words will be different. The reader is alone with the writer’s words. True, the story and the characters remain constant, but the experience of each reader is unique in the solitude of the words registering on the mind.

Contrast this with all these individuals coming to a theater or settling in a living room to view a film. Certainly these viewers retain their individuality and opinions, but the experience of the film is a group experience. Together the audience lives those moments with the characters. The successful film holds the audience in their seats. The outside world fades away. The experiences on the screen take over the visual awareness of the audience. Afterwards, when the credits roll and the lights come up, the illusion is shattered, the real world returns, the group disperses to digest what they experienced together.

The Group Factor of film viewing needs to be understood by the novelist, not from an economic point of view but from an artistic perspective. Of course, the novelist wants to create a best-seller. Those books, however, will still be read one at a time. To be commercially marketable, a film must relate and appeal to a broader audience, a large number of individuals who will get it, who will lose themselves in experiencing the immediate moments of the characters on that screen.

Sometimes the characters and their stories are meant to be strictly between the writer and the reader. That storytelling deserves to be revered in its truest form as a novel. But other times, the author can see a story and its people come alive and transport a movie audience en masse through the sharing of a bring the cinematic story to life separate from the book.

I urge you to read the books then watch the movies of TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD (Harper Lee), THE EAGLE (Rosemary Sutcliffe), THE LUCKY ONE (Nicholas Sparks) and THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS (James Fenimore Cooper). Look for what was retained and what was changed.

* * * * * * * * *

Sally Walker’s published credits include literary, romance and western novels, a nonfiction essay collection, several creative writing textbooks, stage plays, poetry, and many magazine articles on the craft of writing, including staff contributions to two international film magazines. With close to 30 screenplays written, her first one sold in 2012 and several novel-to-screenplay adaptations contracted, Sally has a well-respected manager representing her in Hollywood. In addition to long time active memberships in such national writing organizations as RWA, WWA and SCBWI, she was president of the prestigious Nebraska Writers Guild 2007-2011. Keeping to a strenuous writing schedule, she still has time to work as Editorial Director for The Fiction Works, in charge of acquisitions and supervising sub-contracted editors. Sally has taught writing seminars, both on-site and on-line, for over 25 years and is the facilitator for the weekly meetings of the Nebraska Writers Workshop in Ralston, NE.  For more information on her works and classes go to her website at http://www.sallyjwalker.com

* * * * * * * * * *

GIVEAWAY ALERT

Excerpt from opening chapter of Sally J. Walker’s DESERT TIME. The pdf of the novel will be given away to randomly selected reader who comments on this blog.

CHAPTER ONE

Council Bluffs, Iowa – 1857

Out of the suffocating blackness, a dulcet Southern voice crooned, “Don’t move, Little One. Just lie quiet. There, there now.” Tildy tried to snuggle closer to the warmth of a broad male chest, but the cold water surrounded, tugged, sucked at her body.

Water? Why am I in water in my wedding clothes, no, my traveling suit? And where’s Ike?

A whir erupted into a cacophony of sound surrounding her. The blackness lightened to ethereal gray. A horse screamed and screamed again. Harness jangled. Water viciously thrashed against creaking wood. Muddy water, wet horsehide, and a sweet, spicy man-scent assaulted her nose. Her open mouth gasped against slick, starch-flavored cloth and the vibrant thunder of the heartbeat in the solid chest.

This isn’t Ike. Did I just groan against some stranger’s chest? But Ike’s a stranger, too, isn’t he?

“Goddamnit! Will someone hold that horse! He’s forcin’ this wagon into the current. Where’s the stupid bastard who was drivin’?” the same voice turned harsh with authority and accusa­tion, rising distinctly above the chaos. “He’s kickin’ it to pieces! Rope him! No! Get out of my way!”
Tildy forced her eyes open to find herself looking down a long, dark-suited arm to a man’s hand extended toward some big, black, struggling thing. The hand swung side-to-side, moving a pistol like a snake mesmerizing its prey. Only this prey was white-eyed, frantic Tom-Boy, the Percheron stallion her father had harnessed to the wagon that very morning. His good-bye gift.

“No-o-o!” she screamed as the pistol exploded.

The enormous black horse jerked then thudded heavily onto the slashed mud bank. As the entangled and stilled Tom-Boy slid against a second lump of half-submerged black animal, one rope then another whistled through the air to snag a big hoof. The twang of the lines halted his movement. The wagon bed settled. Water whooshed softly. A bird chirped from nearby trees. Staring at the taut ropes, Tildy’s neck muscles reflexively tightened.

Dead! He killed Tom-Boy!

Her ears filled with a roaring just before the blackness returned.

Nat Carruthers barely got the pistol into its holster before the young woman held in his left arm went limp once again. The Missouri River current picked the same moment to surge around the tipped wagon bed, gently lifting it. He pulled his suddenly freed burden high against his body and stumbled several steps backward, up the riverbank. Her water-soaked skirts wrapped around his legs. He had no choice but to sit down in the mud, keeping her head on his shoulder, her cool face pressed against the heat of his neck.

A comfortable calmness settled over Nat as he sat very still with his prize, watching the few dock-side rescuers become a voracious horde determined to reclaim human property from the river. A hulking bargeman shouted orders above the confusion.

The horseman in Nat winced as the two dead animals were cut from their harness. He grimly appreciated the quality of the stud he’d been forced to sacrifice. Blood swirled in the brown water. The animal hadn’t even been aware of his shattered front leg. The mare’s drowning death throes had crazed the big fellow beyond help. A matched pair. Breeding stock. Nat’s jaw clamped. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the crowd, hoping the sonofabitch was dead who had caused this loss . . . and near-loss. Gut-instinct told him the world and the girl in his arms weren’t that lucky.

A light buggy clattered onto the nearby dock, scattering onlookers. A drowned-rat of a man scrambled off the seat. Without even a nod of thanks to the driver, his obvious rescuer, he jumped from the dock’s wooden planking onto the bank and hurried toward the men pulling his wagon and dead animals from the Missouri’s velvety hunger.

“Judas H. Christ, I thought I was a goner.” His excited, twangy voice turned heads as he pushed his way through the crowd. High on the action and attention, he rattled on to no one yet anyone who would listen. “I was swept almost a half mile ‘afore that farmer there hauled me out. I tell ya, the Mo’s fifty times meaner than the Mighty Miss. Aw, shit!” he moaned. “Them horses dead?”

Nat let out a long breath before looking down at the young woman settled so perfectly in his lap. Sadness for her and an elusive, unexplainable yearning impacted him as he studied her.

Freckles sprinkled across her pert nose and cheeks enhanced rather than marred the opal shimmer of her face. The wet, thick ropes of unbound hair, arch of eyebrows and long, lacy lashes glistened deep auburn in the spring sunshine. The lush, faintly pink lips parted on a puff of breath. Blood pulsed in her slen­der neck and her heart beat in time with his own.

A twisting pain ripped through Nat’s chest. He drew back and arched his chin in the air just as her man spied them.

“Hey, that there’s my bride!” He sloshed toward them, grin­ning and nodding stupidly. “Way you’re holdin’ her, friend, she must be alive. She’s a purty thing, ain’t she? I’m Ike Beaumont. Tildy an’ me just married up this mornin’ at her folks’ place over in Brea.”

Wiping the river water from his dark blonde hair as he dropped to his knees beside Nat, the man finally had the decency to look concerned. He laid a cautious hand along the fragile chin Nat had been admiring. “She is awright, ain’t she?”

“Fainted, I think. She was thrown out an’ swept under the wagon.” He wanted to slam a fist into the ignorant blue eyes possessively raking his hard-gained treasure. It wasn’t his place to accuse and judge, but he couldn’t help himself. “She would’ve drowned, you know.”

“Aw, damn!” A careless, half-smile tilted one corner of the man’s thin lips. “Ain’t even had a weddin’ night an’ I almost kilt her.”

Nat frowned, protectively pulling the young woman closer. “What the hell did you say?” The carefully enunciated words produced the desired effect. He enjoyed the intimidated man’s rapid blink of wide eyes that looked everywhere but at him, the flick of a nervous tongue, and the self-conscious shrug.

“Aw, I always try funnin’ when I’m nervous-like. Tildy’s real special. I didn’t mean she weren’t. Um . . . Ya think she needs a place ta rest . . . or maybe doctorin’? I ain’t got much money fer either–”

“You are one dumb sonofabitch!” Shifting his burden only slightly, Nat bent a knee and rose to his feet in one motion. He had voiced an insult and couldn’t reach his gun for reinforce­ment, but he saw it didn’t matter. Again the man’s blue eyes blinked and his tongue flicked. Nat pushed past him toward the dock.

Pleasant Surprises

Greetings all!  Francesca Hawley here. I know, long time no see. Well life was kind of crazy again for the last few months. In August I broke my left arm and spent some time in the hospital and a few days shortly after that in assisted care. Once I went home, I had to deal with a recent move and adjusting to one arm. It was slow going but I’m much improved now. I’m still attending physical therapy three days a week to get my arm strength up but I got out of my sling in September and I feel like I’ve been going pretty strong since then.

Work has kept me super busy as I try to do more programming at my local library too. So unfortunately, I haven’t been getting a lot of writing done. And normally, I would have posted in early October about how excited I was to attend Romanticon, Ellora’s Cave’s convention for readers and authors except that this year I didn’t get to go. Talk about a let down. One of the reasons I was so excited was that I would get the chance to sign a new print book at the book signing: Predator-Match.com which is an anthology that contains my two ebooks: Alpha vs. Alpha and Leader of the Pack! I was anticipating my new cover but when I didn’t get to attend, I didn’t get to SEE that cover.

Then last week, the print book went up on EC’s site and Nick Soto (the handsome 2013 EC Alpha Caveman) posted this cover on Facebook because he is the beautiful face (and body) of my shapeshifters. I saw the cover and I’m sure my SQUEEs of delight were heard from here to Ohio (EC’s home office) to every corner of the U.S. and perhaps the world! The cover gods smiled on me and gave me the beautiful cover you see on the left side of this post. This cover goes with the print anthology and will be on sale from the Ellora’s Cave web site tomorrow, November 5th. If you already have my ebooks (Alpha vs. Alpha and Leader of the Pack), you don’t need to buy the book but you might want to. JUST for that gorgeous cover! LOL

So I wanted to pop in to apologize for being MIA for so long and to share my cover. Have a great Monday!

It’s the spooky season-are you ready for a little Voodoo magic?

I’m so excited that the third book in my Pittsburgh Lady Lawyers series is coming out this week–VOODOO DREAMS. This romantic suspense tale is available for Kindle for several months before it’s generally released, so those who like holding the book in hand will have to wait till February.

Here’s the story:

When her big trial goes bad, corporate attorney Brianna Ward can’t wait to get out of Pittsburgh. The Big Easy seems like the perfect place to rest, relax, and forget about the legal business. Too bad an obnoxious–but handsome–lawyer from a rival firm is checking into the same bed and breakfast.

Attorney Evan Farrell has Mardi Gras vacation plans too. When he encounters fiery and attractive Brianna, however, he puts the Bourbon Street party on hold. He’d much rather devote himself to her–especially when a mysterious riddle appears in her bag, seeming to threaten danger.

Strangely compelled to follow the riddle’s clues, Brianna is pulled deeper into the twisted schemes of a voodoo priest bent on revenge. To escape his poisonous web, she must work with Evan to solve the curse. But is the growing love they feel for each other real? Or just a voodoo dream?

Want an excerpt?

I thought you would. :)

***

Brianna snatched a triangle-folded paper from her bag and dropped it onto the table between them. It sat there, looking fairly harmless. Evan studied it from the top, from the side, not seeing any sort of wire or other device that could cause a shock.

“It stung me. Like a jolt of electricity.”

“You said you ‘saw’ something. Was that when you touched it?”

Look, it clearly wasn’t real. I don’t want to think about it.”

Frustrated, he took matters into his own hands, literally. He reached for it, ready to draw back when it zapped him. But it didn’t. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Just throw it in the trash, she said.

In the trash? No way. Not after this whole freaky scene. “Something’s going on here. If it’s a real threat or danger, we’ll call the police. They can handle it.”

He spread the white sheet flat.

Thickly-inked black letters jumped out at him.

WHAT YOU SEEK IS WITHIN YOUR GRASP.

YOU MUST PASS THROUGH DANGER

WHERE SAND BECOMES WATER

AND THE GREATEST PERIL IS TO BE ALONE.

THE PRIZED POSSESSION OF YOUR ENEMY

IS YOUR KEY TO THE CITIES OF THE DEAD.

FIND THERE THE BLOOD-RED FLOWER.

MAKE YOUR SACRIFICE

TO SHOW YOUR PURITY OF HEART.

THEN WILL YOUR DEBT BE SATISFIED.

What kind of bizarro weirdness is this? Where did you get it?”

Mystified, he read it again. But the words made no more sense the second time. Or the third.

***

Brianna and Evan learn they must find the tomb of Marie Laveau–yes, the same one who appears on the new season of American Horror Story. If you like creepy, this is the book for you.

Available October 28, 2013 exclusively at amazon.com , from The Wild Rose Press.

To celebrate the release, I’ll give one lucky commenter an ebook of the first volume in the series, CONVICTION OF THE HEART, about a lawyer/single mom who tangles with a dangerous court defendant and a handsome cop as well. Thanks for stopping by!

Commonness and Capitalization

Much as I enjoy interacting with people online — how cool is it that a few keystokes will send an IM to someone on the other side of the world? — the internet has produced a corresponding deterioration in the correct use of language. It drives me nuts at times. People who don’t capitalize correctly rouse my inner grammar cop, along with incorrect use of commas and an inability to tell the difference between the plural of a word and its possessive form — grrrrr!. But having had to grit my teeth at a number of incorrectly capitalized memos at my day job, I can no longer repress my wrath. Hence, today I write about nouns and their relationship to letters big and small.

The simplest definition of a noun is: any word that represents a person, place or thing. A more detailed definition, from the Chicago Manual of Style, 16th edition, is that “a noun is a word that names something, whether abstract (intangible) or concrete (tangible).” In other words, a noun can name things both perceptible, like a tree, and imperceptible, like goodness.

A common noun names a generic person, place, thing, activity or condition: The mayor of the city visited the ball park. Common nouns are capitalized only when they begin a sentence or appear as part of a title: “Mayors from across the country met at a conference today. The keynote speaker was Mayor Smith.”

Common nouns can be concrete or abstract. Concrete nouns name things that are perceptible to the five senses: apple, rose, window, music. Abstract nouns name things than cannot be directly seen, heard, smelled, tasted or touched: joy, anticipation, schizophrenia.

A proper noun is the specific name of a person, place or thing. To rephrase the example above using proper nouns, it could read: Mayor Emanuel of Chicago visited Wrigley Field. Proper nouns are always capitalized, no matter how they’re used.

Titles of works are also proper nouns and have their own rules of capitalization. Big Sky River, (book), The Importance of Being Earnest (play), Downton Abbey (television show), Zero Dark Thirty (movie), My Guy (song). Note that in two- or three-word titles, all words are capitalized. In longer titles, prepositions and articles are lowercase except when they are the first word: The Old Man and the Sea, The Unbearable Lightness of Being. For articles on the web or in print, current style is the first word and proper nouns capitalized, the rest lowercase.

Common nouns can become proper nouns: Democrats, Republicans, the Big Apple. And sometimes a proper noun may be used informally as if it is a common noun, as in asking “Who died and made you Godzilla?” to imply that someone is having a massive tantrum, or they are destroying Tokyo. <—  proper noun

A class of common nouns called eponyms are derived from proper nouns that passed into such universal usage that the formal version was dropped. Today we might pack sandwiches, not Sandwiches (from the Earl of Sandwich, who popularized them) before setting off on an odyssey, not an Odyssey (a long journey, from the adventures of Odysseus in Greek legend). And we would want to remember our bloomers (from a garment popularized by early feminist Amelia Bloomer).

What are writing or speaking mistakes that make you twitch?

PS: Don’t forget that every comment at Authors by Moonlight enters you in a giveaway for a e-gift card this month — AND several of us are giving away FREE BOOKS in our Harvest Moon Reads Giveaway!  Read the excerpts and how to enter for your own autumn read at the links below:

Debra St. John

Ann Stephens – OOO! That’s me!

Fleeta Cunningham

Beth Caudill

Niecey Roy

Sherry James

Linda Carroll-Brad

Nimue, The Lady of the Lake

Nimue was twelve years old when she first met Merlin.  He was young and handsome with coal black hair and eyes, an exact opposite of her honey blonde hair and summer blue eyes, and one could immediately sense something different about him.  It was his incredible magic, of course.  Just standing a foot from him, Nimue could feel the vibration of his power, quite like standing next to a lightning bolt.

Illustration of Windsor castle in the United KingdomHow she fell instantly in love at their first meeting!  Nimue lived in a beautiful castle near a vast lake, and Merlin had come to see her father, Dionas.  But Nimue got the feeling Merlin had really come for her.  She was proved right.  Soon after their first meeting, Merlin told her she had powerful magic and he would help her develop it.

Nimue couldn’t believe it!  She would be spending everyday with her love, learning to be powerful and revered, just like Merlin.  On the very first day of his lessons, Merlin did something odd.  He drew a circle around Nimue, a magic circle that was drawn for protection.  She would find years later, however, that the circle also bound her to a place of Merlin’s choosing.  But for now, Nimue was content to stay at Merlin’s side and learn everything about his magic.

WaterFire, earth, air, water.  Merlin had given her a strange first task.  She had to concentrate on these elements one at a time to see what happened.  This, he said, would reveal the source of all her power.  Wanting to please Merlin, Nimue did as he asked.  She closed her eyes tight and thought of a great roaring fire, even bigger than her father’s castle.  But no matter how hard she tried, nothing happened.  Merlin laid a hand on her shoulder and told her to try the next element.  Going from one to the next, sweat broke out on her forehead as she tried and failed at the first three elements.  A great fear overcame Nimue.  If she couldn’t succeed at this one, small task, Merlin would surely leave!

She was almost drained of all her strength when she came to water.  Nimue could hardly stay on her feet.  Weary but determined to keep Merlin with her, she closed her eyes and thought of the vast lake just a few yards away.  She concentrated on pulling the water up out of its banks, over the smooth colorful pebbles to blanket the emerald green grass, and settle around her feet.  At first, Nimue thought the cool wetness kissing her toes was all in her imagination, but when she opened her eyes and saw the crystal clear water glistening all around them, she squeaked with delight, then threw herself into Merlin’s arms.

Dragon astrological symbol of the Chinese zodiacNimue wasn’t sure if it was the water or Merlin’s arms tightening around her that gave her strength, but she was suddenly charged with energy.  Lots of energy that filled her and moved through her.  It was as though Nimue could conquer a dragon with her bare hands and win.  With a chuckle, Merlin glanced down at her with pride shining in his eyes and said they had found her source of power.

For five years, she and Merlin were inseparable.  Nimue gobbled up Merlin’s knowledge, but couldn’t seem to sate her thirst to learn more.  In that time, Nimue could tell Merlin’s love for her grew stronger with each passing day.  He began talking about getting married and starting a family.  How could he discuss such things when there was so much to learn?  Nimue wanted to know it all.  Her power was almost equaled to Merlin’s.  She was so close.

Forest road covered with autumn leavesThen one day Merlin surprised her.  He said he had to leave for a while, that a great king would be born and would require his help.  Merlin told her all about Arthur and how his story was written in the stars.  Nimue marveled at Merlin and his ability to see the future.  That was just another thing she had yet to learn!

The day Merlin was to leave, Nimue couldn’t believe how sad she became. Probably because he wouldn’t be there to teach her more magic.  Merlin promised to return after Arthur was born and settled safely with a foster family.  Fearing Merlin wouldn’t return, she made him promise to come back and teach her everything he knew and not hold anything back.  Even how to do and undo the magic circle.  She also asked he never use magic on her again.  In return for all this, she would marry him.  Seeing the fire that burned in his eyes at the thought of them married, he agreed, and sealed his promise with a lingering, passionate kiss.  As Merlin set out, Nimue placed her fingertips on her tingling lips and was suddenly overcome with grief.

View detailsNimue practiced everyday Merlin was gone.  She even learned a few things on her own, like making the lake by her house disappear and reappear.  But Merlin stayed on her mind continually.  The days passed slowly and Nimue grew restless.  One day, she decided to venture away from her father’s castle just for a short time.  But as she set out and came to the border of her father’s land, Nimue couldn’t take one step more.  That dreaded magic circle kept her from leaving her father’s land!  No matter how hard she tried, Nimue couldn’t break the circle.

Three long years passed before Merlin returned to her.  Nimue spent more and more time in the lake, absorbing its power into her to fuel her magic.  She could breathe in the water and didn’t have to leave but once every new moon when the power of the water was at its weakest.  Merlin stood at the edge of the lake and called to her, but Nimue knew for three days he would arrive.  She could feel his presence.  One look into Merlin’s onyx eyes, however, made the last three years fall away.  Nimue knew in that instant she still felt a great love for him.

White Easter lilyIt took another four years to learn all Merlin had to offer.  They even forged the great Excalibur and magical scabbard together.  But he saved the magic circle for last, promising to tell her on their wedding night.  When the wedding came, Nimue dressed in the most beautiful white silk gown ever created and held a fragrant bouquet of lilies in her hands.  As always, Merlin was her opposite, dressed in black from head to foot.  But he was so handsome and Nimue could feel the love she had been trying to suppress for him burst forth.  However, she knew she would never be able to love him completely until he released her from the magic circle.

Twinkling stars in the night skiesOn their wedding night, they made love under the stars.  Nimue was bursting with love and happiness, until she heard Merlin’s swift intake of breath and felt him stiffen.  He was gazing up to the stars and she knew the news wasn’t good.  Something terrible was going to happen unless Merlin did something to prevent it.  Nimue was heartbroken to learn Merlin had to leave once again.  She begged to go with him, but he refused, and left in a hurry.

It wasn’t until the next day, Nimue realized Merlin had left without showing her the secret of the magic circle.  That very night, she studied the stars, trying to see what Merlin had saw.  He had taught her how to read the stars and she was confident she could do it.  As the scenes began unfolding, Nimue saw something that turned her blood cold.  Her Merlin had been teaching another beautiful young lady named Morgan Le Fay his magic!  Not wanting to see anymore, Nimue closed her eyes to the stars and couldn’t look again.  It was too painful.  She went to the lake, her sanctuary, and remained in hopes of healing from the deep wounds of betrayal.

One soldier on horseback riding away from a castleWhen Merlin finally returned, Nimue refused to see him.  She told him in her mind she never wanted to see him again and to leave her alone forever.  About a month after he left, Nimue had a dream that she read the stars accurately, but had seen the past.  Merlin had begun to show Morgan magic but when she started using it for evil purposes, he stopped.  It wasn’t long after that Merlin had been lead to Nimue.  So, Merlin hadn’t betrayed her.  When Nimue woke and looked again at the stars, she realized her mistake.  Unfortunately, she couldn’t set out to find Merlin because of that dreaded magic circle!  And no matter how hard she tried, Nimue could not find Merlin.  She asked her father to find him and he sent men out to search.

It took two years before Merlin was found and came rushing back to her.  Nimue tearfully admitted her mistake.  Finally, Merlin showed her how to do and undo the magic circle and the reason he had to leave in such haste.  Uther had been poisoned by Morgan Le Fay and Merlin had to be sure the king named Arthur his successor before his death.  Nimue decided to never doubt Merlin again and was grateful he so quickly forgave her.

But, years later, it would be Nimue who would betray Merlin.  Morgan Le Fay’s dark powers grew to such strength, she would eventually do everything she could to kill both Arthur and Merlin.  First, putting Arthur under a spell to have him sleep with his own sister, Morgause, which resulted in Mordred’s birth, then using Guinevere’s love for Lancelot to have her betray Arthur, Morgan fought hard to tear the kingdom apart.

Desert cave in ArizonaOne night, Nimue saw in the stars that Morgan would kill Merlin.  In a desperate attempt to save Merlin, she lured him into a cave where they made love.  As he slept, and with tears in her eyes, Nimue drew the magic circle to bind him there, then went back to her lake.  One day, she promised to release Merlin and prayed he would forgive her.

What do you think?  Should Nimue have used the circle to protect Merlin, even though she might have lost him forever?

~Tiffany

www.tiffanygreen.net

FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DESK — An Interview With Nan Swanson, Editor

A writer’s relationship with an editor is special. It requires a lot of trust and respect on both sides. It also helps if the writer-editor team can share a laugh over the hard stuff, grab a virtual hand in bad times, and once in a while, actually meet for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. Nan Swanson, who edits the Vintage line for The Wild Rose Press, has been my editor for more than five years. She meets every standard for professionalism and I love working with her. I am so grateful that she agreed to share some time with our Authors By Moonlight readers today.

You and I have worked with five-going-on-six books, but if I tried to describe what an editor does, I don’t think I would do it very well. Would you explain how an editor takes a promising manuscript and turns it into a publishable book?

Oh, gee, I don’t know. I just read the book and automatically correct the grammar—syntax and punctuation—as I go, catch inconsistencies when they hit me in the face, such as a character’s name changing midstream or the time frame being out of kilter (i.e., earlier the wedding was set for Sunday and now here it’s supposed to be on Saturday, so did it get switched somewhere and I missed that, or is this a misstep on the author’s part?). That kind of thing. The “flow” has to be there, as well as the technical correctness, with variety in the sentence structure to keep it interesting. I urge authors to read their work out loud before sending it anywhere. That helps catch things that aren’t evident otherwise. As I read a submission, it’s “out loud” in my head, as well as playing like a movie — I have to be able to “see” the action and have it make sense. Otherwise I’ll question it, as in, “If he’s facing the door, how can he see out the window?” That kind of thing.

How did you become an editor? Did you have a background in editing or did you come to it from another field?

It started in eighth grade, when our teacher required a weekly essay or story from each of us, at least a page long, handwritten. Everybody would say, “Hey, Nancy , you’re good at English, will you look at my story and tell me if I need to fix anything?” So I did, and it’s been something I like to do ever since. My college major was English (member of P.O.E.M., by the way—Professional Organization of English Majors) and I also took a course from Wisconsin State on editing, but otherwise it’s been a freelance, on-my-own job until I joined The Wild Rose Press.

Did you ever want to write books rather than edit them?

When I was about 10 I thought I could probably write something equivalent to The Bobbsey Twins, only about my family. I outlined all the chapters. And that was as far as that went. When I was forty-something, I thought I could probably write something in the romance line, and I have the first few paragraphs, at least, of about a dozen books, with sketchy outlines of the remainder of the plot for each. And that’s all. There’s nothing pushing me, saying I MUST WRITE OR ELSE, and editing is so much more fun…

What is the most satisfying aspect of editing? The most challenging? The most stressful?

Most satisfying would be seeing it published and knowing both the author and I did our very best to prepare it for its readers. Most challenging? Hard to say. Maybe when an unfamiliar time or setting is involved, so I have to verify details as well as ask the author more about them. I can’t think of anything really stressful about editing. Not for me, anyway.

What was the very first book you edited? What was it about that book that caught your interest?

Not sure I can give you the title, as it may have changed after leaving TWRP, but it was a contemporary Western, set in Montana , with a bit of mystery involved and a lot of romance. Still one of my favorites. I’m always ready for a good story.

What keeps you up at night? Deadlines or worrying with a story that just won’t come right? Something else?

Deadlines, if they must! Most often, tho, something will bother me as I’m editing but I can’t quite put a finger on what it is or why or what to say to the author about it. If I leave it till the next day, often the answer(s) will occur to me in the middle of the night when my brain has relaxed a bit.

Though you are the editor of the‘Vintage line, do you work with manuscripts in other genres? Do you have a favorite time period or setting?

My favorite is the Vintage time period, the 20th century, but I do work with other lines and other time periods and settings. I love variety, from a good Western, whether historical or contemporary, to Rome of the Caesars to South Africa to the Philippines … Everything’s interesting when well written.

I know a few of the other Vintage authors you work with and all of us think we are the luckiest writers alive because we have you. How many authors do you work with? Do you have crossover authors who write in more than one genre?

You know, I’ve never counted them up. Maybe if I were on Facebook it would count them for me, since they’re all “friends”? All I know is they are all lovely to work with and it’s wonderful when I have the chance to meet them in person. And yes, more and more of them are crossing over into other lines here at The Wild Rose Press, and that’s fun, too, because I get to go with them over there to other parts of our Garden.

In your spare time—and I know you don’t have much—what do you do?

LOL. I love to read, despite reading a lot as an editor. I sew (often quilts) and watch TV, especially NCIS and Person of Interest and several PBS whodunits. My mother lives with me, which is a fulltime job in itself, but an enjoyable one. She loves to play Boggle and once in a while gets me to play a game or two.

Is there any advice you would give an aspiring author trying to find a publisher?

Sure. If you’ve polished to perfection (not just in your opinion but that of several others, also), then submit your ms to The Wild Rose Press, Inc. We publish quality women’s fiction as well as romance these days — possibly a few other genres, not everything and anything, but it doesn’t hurt to run it by us if you think it might fit. (See our website for particulars.)

Recently I saw a blog the editors of TWRP did about pet peeves and ‘don’t ever do this’ comments. Do you have a few special ‘fatal errors’ you’d like to discuss?

Hmmm. Just ran across another “He dropped his eyes.” Between that and the rolling eyes in so many manuscripts, all I can think is, “Heaven forbid anyone should happen to step on any of those dropped eyes as they roll around on the floor….”

But what really bugs me is that authors happily use lots of -ing words without realizing that either (1) that has to be happening at the same time as the other verb in the sentence, or (2) if it’s starting a phrase at the beginning of a sentence, it has to be describing the noun (person, place or thing) that comes right after the phrase. Examples? Here ya go:

Unlocking the door, he removed the candle from the kitchen and wandered to the hall.

Huh-uh. He can’t be unlocking the door at the same time he removes the candle and wanders on from there. It could be he does all three: He unlocked the door, removed…and wandered…. There are other possibilities too, of course.

Unlocking the door, his suitcase fell at his feet.

Again, huh-uh. The suitcase didn’t unlock the door. And again, it needs to be revised.

Is there anything I didn’t ask that you’d like to mention?

What? You think I haven’t said enough already?! I’d just like to say Thank You for letting me ramble on a bit here, Fleeta! And now I’ll get back to my editing desk…
Thank you, Nan, for letting our readers see this writing business from your side of the desk. I loved having the chance to visit again.

Fleeta Cunningham

www.fleetacunningham.com

fgcunningham@yahoo.com

SANTA RITA SERIES

Don’t Call Me Darlin’

Black Rain Rising

Elopement for One

Half Past Mourning

Cry Against the Wind

CONFRONTING DESTINY SERIES

Bal Masque (forthcoming)



Lynnette Austin–September Full Moon Guest!

First I’d like to say what a pleasure it is to be here at Authors by Moonlight! In fact, I’m so happy I’m giving away an eBook copy of my new release, Nearest Thing to Heaven to one of our visitors.

The Not-So-Silent Character in a Book

As incredible as it is, the lazy days of summer are nearly over. The kids are headed back to school, the days growing shorter, the mornings cooler. It won’t be long before we’ll be hanging autumn wreaths on our doors and passing out treats to the ghosts and goblins that come to visit.

With the change of seasons, we all undergo subtle variations in our life—from what we wear to what we eat to our favorite activities. The hot days of summer beg us to lounge on the beach; autumn calls us to the Friday night football game. That light fruit salad becomes a hearty beef stew. The flowers and trees change, moving through Mother Nature’s cycle.

As an author, the time of year my story is set in directly impacts the plot line. The season—whether it’s summer, spring, autumn, or winter—becomes a not-so-silent character. Before I write word one, I know whether my hero and heroine are going to swelter in July’s heat or shiver in that blast of cold December air. The season is as integral to my book as is the physical setting.

Somebody Like You, the first in my new Maverick Junction series from Grand Central Publishing, begged for heat. It had to be hot, hot, hot when Annelise rode into town on her big black Harley. Nothing else would do.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Annelise Montjoy motored her Harley along what appeared to be the town’s main street. This was Maverick Junction?

A blue Cadillac, surely old enough to be in a museum, was parked nose-in to the curb. An incredibly ugly dog sat in the front seat.

Thank God, this, the final destination of her cross-country trip from Boston, was temporary. It looked like the kind of place you ran away from, not toward. If luck was on her side, she’d be out of here in a couple weeks at the most.

And then a store door opened and her breath caught. Go, Texas! Look at that cowboy. So different from any of the men in her life. So…intriguing. She slowed to nearly a standstill and watched as he swiped an arm across his forehead, then dumped a grocery bag in the backseat of the old Caddy.

Cracking open a bottle of water, he turned his head in her direction. Her breath hitched as his gaze ran lazily over her, her bike. Then he snagged a Styrofoam cup from inside his car and filled it before setting it on the blistering pavement for the dog waiting patiently beside him. Leaning against the faded fender, he thumbed back his battered Stetson and chugged the rest of the water.

But in the second book in the series, Nearest Thing to Heaven, Ty Rawlins is a widower with four-year-old triplets. Although he’s a hot Texas cowboy, too, I didn’t need or want the summer heat. His story demanded the feel of family. What better than the holiday season when family sits down to that Thanksgiving turkey, when the world celebrates Christmas? In Nearest Thing to Heaven the warmth isn’t measured by the thermometer but rather by family love.

Over the TV noise, she heard the front door open and a loud squeal. High-pitched children’s voices.

“That would be Ty.” Mrs. Taylor, Matt’s mother and Ty’s mother-in-law, laid down her dish towel.

Before she started toward the front room, though, Ty stuck his head into the kitchen, casserole in hand. “Sorry we’re late. I went by my folks’ place for a short visit and had trouble escaping. Mom sent this.”

He passed the dish to his sister-in-law.

“Where are my grandbabies?”

“Destroying the front of the house, no doubt. It’s been a trying morning.”

“Too much going on.” Mrs. Taylor went in search of the boys.

Babs lifted the foil and sniffed appreciatively. “Your mother’s enchiladas.”

“For Thanksgiving?” The question slipped out before Sophie could bite it back.

Ty sent her a bemused look. “Absolutely. Don’t forget, you’re in Texas now, darlin’.” He ran a finger down her nose. “We eat enchiladas three hundred sixty five days of the year.”

Even though I wrote Nearest Thing to Heaven in Georgia in the dead of summer, it was important to me to connect to that incredible feeling the holidays bring. To do that, I set up a Christmas tree in my office, lights and all, and played country Christmas music nonstop on Pandora radio. J It was wonderful, truly Christmas in July!

The third in the series, Can’t Stop Lovin’ You, will take place in the spring when the world is waking from that long, cold spell—kind of like Sleeping Beauty, right? And Brawley and Maggie’s love. Sigh…

So when I write, the season truly becomes another character in my story—and it’s never silent!

I find the changing of the seasons invigorating. I like autumn best with its crispness, beautiful colors, and air of anticipation. I like digging out my sweaters and watching the pumpkins and scarecrows appear around town on their bales of hay.

But whatever the season, we have reason to celebrate. Our calendar is sprinkled liberally with holidays. The day after Thanksgiving, my husband calls a small store in Rock Springs, Wyoming and orders Kronskis, a type of sausage made only by them. It wouldn’t be Christmas Eve without them.

What’s your favorite season? What do you do to celebrate it? Leave me a comment , and I’ll enter you into a contest for a free eBook edition of either Somebody Like You or Nearest Thing to Heaven—your choice.

Thanks so much for stopping by. Come visit me at my website www.authorlynnetteaustin.com or visit me on Face Book or Twitter.

Nearest Thing to Heaven will be out October 1st and is available now for preorder at both Barnes & Noble and Amazon.

Here’s a short blurb from Nearest Thing to Heaven:

Ty Rawlins banged around in his kitchen, feeling more than a little frayed along the edges. Things weren’t going well. He glanced at the clock, then did a double take. The thing was practically sideways on the wall. Twelve o’clock settled somewhere around the spot where two o’clock should be. One of the triplets must have whacked it with a sword during last night’s duel to the death.

Guess he’d have to hang it higher.

He should have let one of the hands finish up the horse feeding so he’d have enough time for the kid feeding. Somehow, time was something he never had enough of.

Okay, so he was a single parent. All across America, single moms managed to take care of the kids, the house, and hold down a job. If they could do it, he sure as hell ought to be able to.

And now he had to go to this damn dinner tonight. He dropped a spoon into the far-from-empty sink. It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy for Cash and Annie. He was. But it stirred up memories he didn’t want to visit. Memories of far happier times now gone. Forever.

A crash sounded from somewhere in the vicinity of the living room.

“Uh-oh. Daddy’s going to be mad.”

That would be Jonah, Ty thought. The conscience of the trio.

“It was your fault.”

Jesse, the finger-pointer.

Ty set the pan of over-cooked spaghetti on a hot pad and strode off to the front of the house to check out the latest damage. He took a deep breath and surveyed the mess. Nobody was hurt. No blood anywhere. And Josh was right. Nothing was broken. In the grand scheme of things, this was a minor bump. A mere blip on the uh-oh meter.

Thanks so much for stopping in to visit. Remember, leave a comment, and you’ll be entered into the drawing for a free eBook of Nearest Thing to Heaven!


ABOUT LYNNETTE

The luxury of staying home when the weather turns nasty, of working in PJs and bare feet, and the fact that daydreaming is not only permissible but encouraged, are a few of the reasons middle school teacher Lynnette Hallberg/Austin gave up the classroom to write full-time. Lynnette grew up in Pennsylvania’s Alleghany Mountains, moved to Upstate New York, then to the Rockies in Wyoming. Presently she and her husband divide their time between Southwest Florida’s beaches and Georgia’s Blue Ridge Mountains. A finalist in RWA’s Golden Heart Contest, PASIC’s Book of Your Heart Contest, and Georgia Romance Writers’ Maggie Contest, she’s published five books as Lynnette Hallberg. She’s currently writing as Lynnette Austin for Grand Central Publishing. Somebody Like You, Nearest Thing to Heaven, and Can’t Stop Lovin’ You are the first three books in her Maverick Junction series, contemporary romances set in Texas. Visit Lynnette at www.authorlynnetteaustin.com.

Sometimes it feels like it’ll kill you, though…

The saying goes, “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Right? Here’s how Kelly Clarkson says it:

watch?v=Xn676-fLq7I

I guess I understand that message–in other words, sometimes you think you couldn’t STAND if something particular happened to you. Then it does. And you go on.

The post I saw the other day –”On particularly rough days when I’m sure I can’t possibly endure, I like to remind myself that my track record for getting through bad days so far is 100%, and that’s pretty good.”–seemed to bear out the same idea. (Thanks, Bethany!)

I mean, I’m sure if a dog bit Chuck Norris, the dog would be the one to end up with rabies, you know?

I’m taking a break from my romance writing right now and focusing on my science-fiction and action stories, because I’m just not feeling it. Going through the break-up of a marriage isn’t supposed to be fun or even mildly entertaining. I’ve done it twice before for myself and I practice family law–I’ve done it for other people a thousand times, in all kinds of flavors from fruits to nuts. Heavy on the nuts, actually. But it’s hard to shake the pall of failure this time. Even if I know it’s not all my fault.

Perhaps it’s the perfect storm, too. With the change of seasons, the fibromyalgia always takes a downturn, and looking at everything through pain-sizzled goggles doesn’t help. So, timing doesn’t help.

Globe at Biltmore Gardens

Everyone has downswings. Some are deeper than others. This doesn’t feel as bad as some I’ve experienced, and certainly not as desperate as many I’ve handled professionally. I’ve got to keep in mind how much of this I’ve chosen for myself, and the reasons why I thought I wanted it.

Motivation, people, motivation! It’s what drives our characters, too, but in a story we control the horizontal, and the vertical, as Rod Serling says. We make their lives what they are. But out here in the real world, so much is out of our control. Unless you hole up in a little glass jar and not let anything close enough to hurt you….you might get hurt. But we’ll be okay, right?

That’s one of the blessings of books. They are staunch friends and companions through the best of times and the worst of times. When our own lives are dragging over rocky roads, the pages of a book give us a chance to escape, even for just a little while. Parchment therapy, if you will, or for the hopelessly modern, digital. We’ll all get through it.

A book to read, a glass of wine, an inspirational tune–how do you cope when you feel your world spinning out of your control?

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