Discussing Books From Authors I Know

Hey Bunnies,

Have you missed me? The computer is up and working again. I've been thinking about all the great writers I know through my website and my workshop and I realized that I know a lot of published writers.

So today I'm going to talk about the books published by people I know. I hope you'll look at these books and consider adding them to your read list.

After compiling the list, I realize I know a LOT of authors, both traditionally published and independently published. Due to the sheer number of books, I'm splitting this post up. The second half will be posted over the weekend.

The books talked about on this post are: The Celibate Mouse, I Wish I Were Engulfed by Flames, Girl in The Box, This Time You Lose, The Bum Magnet, Far From Happy, The Grateful Undead: They're So Vein, The Love ThingTirzah

Books from AUTHORS I KNOW:


The Celibate Mouse--Diana Hockley
Book Description: Shell-shocked from a tragedy at work and an acrimonious domestic upheaval, Detective Senior Sergeant Susan Prescott flees town to recuperate, but fate has other ideas. Her plan to house-sit for relatives in a rural community is shattered when Susan witnesses a very public murder within an hour of her arrival.
Click Here For Book Trailer

My Thoughts On the Cover: I love Diana's book cover...although I probably would have made the red coat a little brighter...lol. But I think it's a great cover and really builds suspense. And I'm a little sad I didn't create it. :) This book was one of the first ones I made a book trailer for so I'm fond of it.

Thoughts on the Book: Oh I love a good murder mystery, don't you? The plot is beautifully detailed. I really think it'd make a nice weekend mystery for television--someone tell a producer. The characters are flawed enough to be human and interesting enough to deserve a book be told about them.

Overall, I find this to be a great little rainy day murder mystery, perfect for curling up to in a warm bed. Hey, I have no boyfriend so if I chose to curl a book, don't judge me. :)


Invisible-Jeanne Bannon

Description: Lola’s not pretty. Lola’s not popular. Lola wishes she could disappear … and then one day she does just that... For seventeen-year-old Lola Savullo, life is a struggle. Born to funky parents who are more in than she could ever be, Lola’s dream of becoming a writer makes her an outsider even in her own home. Bullied and despised, Lola still has the support of her best pal Charlie and Grandma Rose. Not only is she freakishly tall, Lola’s a big girl and when forced to wear a bathing suit at her summer job as a camp counselor, Lola’s only escape from deep embarrassment seems to be to literally vanish.

Click Here for BOOK TRAILER
My Thoughts on the Cover--This designer went for less is more. The eyes grab you in the middle of all that whiteness. The feel of aloneness feeds into the plot. This cover shows restraint sometimes is best.

Thoughts on the Book: Jeanne can thank The Hunger Games for gettting me excited about YA again. After years of reading bad teen porn (what else can I call those adolescent make out books with some sort of magic in them?), that book made me excited for YA again. So I was willing to give her LOLA a chance. I related heavily with her main character. Haven't we all felt like the ugly duckling and haven't we all wished to disappear? This book is one that should be read in high schools. I think it has what so few YA books have--it has heart.


The Apocalypse Gene--
Description: Global pandemic is raging.

Olivya Wright-Ono's once loving home has been converted to a hospice for the dying. Her ability to see auras forces her to witness, with agonizing detail, the vibrant colors of life consumed by malignancy. When Olivya sees evidence of disease creeping into her mother's aura, she has no one to turn to but Mikah. Can he unearth the Kindred secrets and find a cure? Can she trust this boy whose power allows him to manipulate her very emotions? With her mother's life, and that of the world, in the balance, Olivya and Mikah embark on a quest to stop the Pandemic, only to discover it is far, far more than a mere disease . . .

Click Here for the BOOK WEBSITE
My Thoughts On The Cover--Ah love the lightening blended with the DNA strands. It's science and fantasy blended. I wasn't sure I liked the brigher color strands at first but I've warmed up to it.

Book Thoughts--Another YA that should thank The Hunger Games I've warmed up to YA again. I'm so glad I didn't miss this book. The book is dark but never hopeless. It's a wonderful blend of dysopia, love story, a touch of sci-fi and a bit of fantasy. Boys and girls, it's Christmas already and I'm happy with my gift. :) What I was struck by in the book is how effortlessly the world building is done. I believe in this futuristic dark Chicago. I hope for Mikah and Olivya. And the authors slowly lead the reader forward until the whole premise seems like truth. Hard to do but---so wonderful to read.


Hardware--J.L. Campbell

Descrption: Camille Moyston has managed to put the nightmare of a violent attack behind her. Having forged a safe, predictable life, the last thing she needs is a cliché, oversexed Jamaican male expressing interest.For Quinn Mayhew, life is too good to waste time chasing a haughty, irritable woman who is too cautious to accept him for the man he is, but somehow she symbolizes everything he desires in his future.

When Camille's inner fortress finally starts to crumble, Quinn is arrested for murder and everything changes...

Thoughts on the Cover--Lovely blue water tones, sexy kiss...it tells me what I'm getting. A tension filled love story set near the water.

Check out Joy's website: The Character Depot


Thoughts on the Book--I haven't read this one. BUT I have read Joy's award winning short stories and I love the taste of Jamaica in her books so I can't imagine this isn't a good book.


The Grateful Undead
Descripton:--Be careful what you pray for. I merely asked to live a long healthy life and hinted that I wouldn't mind starting over while keeping the knowledge I had accumulated in my 58 years. And if a more youthful body and less wrinkles were involved, I certainly wouldn't complain. Well, I'm here to tell you, God does listen… to everything… and he's got quite a frigging sense of humor. I'm the undead proof. And so are the rest of my family, the whole dysfunctional lot, who wasted no time in baring their necks for a chance to share in my new found fountain of vampire youth.

Cover--It's irreverant and so is the book. I still think it needs more color. But I always love more...that's why I no longer own a bedazzler. :)

Thoughts on the Book--HAHAHAHAHAHA--does that sum it up? The only thing worse than a house full of pissy menopausal women is a house full of pissy women with 20 year old bodies and bad attitudes. It's a darkly funny.If any of you have ever had family problems or 'female' problems and love the vampire life---please, please go buy this one. Volume 2 comes out soon--Gator Baitin'.

Check out her website: The Grateful Undead: They're So Vein


Far From Happy-- Jeni Decker/Not Yet Published

Description: Jackson Fouchet steps off a bus at the Port Authority in June of 1987—directly onto Times Square—an 18 year old kid with the word naiveté plastered across his forehead.Immediately spotted by a young hustler, he begins his journey from peep shows to the last bathhouses, getting involved with Mr. B, the mob-connected owner of multiple clubs, all under fire from a new mayor embarking on an anti-sleaze campaign directed squarely at The Deuce.

He spends the next 20 years on the streets trying to swim against the mob who controls the gay sex trade, the politicians trying to eliminate it, and the misfits addicted to it—until a call in 2008 forces him return to his native New Orleans and a dying sister. Coming home proves harder than coming out in this story about love, family and acceptance.

PUBLISHER WEEKLY Review: "[Far From Happy] does a fine job navigating inner turmoil, family dynamics and political realities, grabbing you by the heart even when you’d rather turn away. Its no-holds-barred sexual content is challenging, but far from gratuitous; rather, it sharpens an already edgy story of indifference, shame, and, finally, acceptance."

Thoughts on The Book: I read this book in my online workshop before it was picked up by a publisher. If you've never read LGBT literature, this book may be the one to start with. It's gritty and the sex scenes may be overly graphic for some BUT this book is more about emotional growth of Jackson. Yes, he was a hustler but Jackson is also a person who is broken emotionally. I bawled reading this book, just bawled. I was at turns repulsed by Jackson and heartbroken by him. In the end, I just really wanted to save him. It's a wonderful book but it is NOT for every reader. Be prepared for a gritty, dark climb into the light.


I Wish I Were Engulfed In Flames-Jeni Decker

Description: This is Jeni's brutally honesty and darkly funny memoir on raising two boys with autism.
CLICK HERE FOR BOOK TRAILER

Book Cover--It's kitchy. The cover was debated, disected and discussed to death at my workshop. Although I don't think it would have been the author's first choice, I think it does grab the eye off the book shelf. What I worry about is that the cover is a bit cutesy. As the book's title tells you, this is a funny memoir with an edge. The edge is missing in the cover.

Thoughts on Novel: This is non-fiction. If you are looking for a book where we all hold hands sing 'Oh Happy Day', this isn't that book. Engulfed is an honest book full of frustration, pain, love, anger and laughter. Probably the most commerical of Jeni's books, it's still a book unafraid to look you in the eye and tell the truth. A rare commodity.

VISIT JENI DECKER's WEBSITE


This Time You Lose--Chris Strayln

DESCRIPTION: What would you do if street thugs invaded your home? What if you’re a daycare provider, caring for a dozen children at the time? Lisa Kaamp, a most unlikely heroine, faces just such a nightmare in This Time You Lose, the suspense driven story of one woman’s struggle to survive when she and the children she cares for become victims of a home invasion gone terribly wrong. Lisa Kaamp operates a small childcare business out of her home in Nogeksum, Michigan. Highly respected and known for going the extra mile for her daycare kids, she thinks she’s handled every daycare emergency possible. But nothing prepares her for the horror she now faces. Lisa finds herself bound and gagged, four strange men in her home, and the daycare children held hostage in the next room.

Book Cover--One of the very first covers I ever designed so, of course, I LOVE it. Hah.

Book Thoughts: A home invasion story where being a hero is more than just words. It's a tense book, a real nail biter. It reads quickly but you'll be reading it sitting on the edge of your chair. Not a book if you have high blood pressure, the excitement may hurt you. :)

CHECK OUT THE WEBSITE for This Time You Lose



Girl In The Box--Sheila Dalton

Official Reviews
ABNA Publisher Weekly Review
In a series of deftly handled flashes ... this novel successfully juggles themes involving relationships, commitment, professional jealousy and helplessness in the face of international issues.

--Publishers' Weekly
One to Watch: The protagonist's dark past, not to mention the book's focus on international issues, professional jealousy and journalistic crusading, is akin to [Stieg] Larsson's Lizbet Salander. --Quill and Quire, Jan./Feb. 2011

Description: Caitlin Shaughnessy, a Canadian journalist, discovers that Inez, a traumatized young Mayan woman originally from Guatemala, has killed Caitlin's psychoanalyst partner, Dr. Jerry Simpson. Simpson brought the girl, who may be autistic, back to Canada as an act of mercy and to attempt to treat her obvious trauma. Cailin desperately needs to find out why this terrible incident occurred so she can find the strength to forgive and move on with her life.

CLICK HERE FOR THE BOOK TRAILER
Book Cover: I like the subtle colors of the cover. I also like that the girl is faceless. The cover echoes the title, she's boxed and removed from color. It's sad cover but very self-contained, just like Inez. I also really liked what they did with the font. Font is so important.

Thoughts on the Book: The book builds slowly. Unlike so much of the in your face suspense, this book warms to a acid burn of psychological suspense. Oh what a film this would make, somebody get ten million together and help Shelia bring it to the screen. I think the opening scene where the image of Christ is bleeding sets the theme for Inez. Both she and Jerry are both sacrificed for the sins of others. Am I reading too much into it? Dunno.

Beautifully paced, emotionally suspenseful--The Girl in The Box is what psychological suspense use to be when it was still good. You won't get Die Hard action so if you want car chases and jiggling boobs, it's not the book for you. But if you like a thinking suspense book that grows organically? Then buys this!


The Bum Magnet--K.L. Brady

DESCRIPTION: Charisse Tyson’s got it all going on . . .
She’s a savvy, successful real-estate agent with a quick wit, a low tolerance for BS, a gorgeous size-14 body, and a thirst for top shelf vodka. Despite her dream house, luxury car, and appetite for life’s best—like fine dining and hot men—she seems to have her own special talent for attracting players. Why do all of her ex-lovers belong in the Losers Hall of Fame?

There was Lamar, the hazel-eyed Adonis who sowed more wild oats than Quaker. . . Sean, an expert at juggling relationships . . . Marcus, whose lips wandered as often as his eyes . . . and others, too. But just as Rissey swears off sex and vows to dump her emotional baggage, she meets house-hunting client Dwayne Gibson. There’s no way she can resist his seductive smile and rock-hard body. . . . Will Dwayne turn out to be the biggest bum of them all? Or will this time be different?

Book Cover: There are so few great racially diverse stock photos, that's why I was so excited to see the cover for 'The Bum Magnet'. The African American model is beautiful, plus-size and gorgeous. Pefect for the character. The only thing I might have added was a bit more sex but can you have too much sex?

Thoughts on the Book: I read the early draft of this book on my online workshop. Karla shopped it for a bit but couldn't quite find a place for it. Then she self-published the book...it sold well and attracted the attention of a mainstream traditional publisher. This book is the pubilishing Cinderella tale. Her second book publishes within months.


The Love Thing--Chris Delyani

DESCRIPTION: Twenty-two-year old Greg DeAngelis moves to San Francisco from New York to escape his overbearing father, who's pressuring him to go to law school, and his ex-boyfriend Matthew, who dumps him for an older, richer man. To make desperately needed money Greg temps at a law firm, where he blunders into the role of the firm’s official birthday cake maker—despite his utter lack of culinary skill. A lot of guys vie for the hero’s attention as he navigates the rough waters of office politics and single life in San Francisco, but only one of them can give him "the love thing." Can he figure out which one, before it's too late? This comic novel is about the importance of love and friendship, and of knowing who your true friends really are.

Book Cover--Actually, it's not one of my favorite covers. I think this cover could use a little romance. :) BUt it's not a bad cover, just not as engaging as I'd like.

Book Thoughts: This was my first male-male romance. It opened my eyes to a whole world of LGBT books that are at heart--romantic. The main charcter is a bit lost. Greg's dad wants him to be a lawyer and he'd be good at it but his heart's not in it. When the guy he loves leaves him for another man, Greg re-locates, finds a temp job and searches for himself. He makes a few wrong turns in life, love and cake recipes but I loved this young man. I wanted him happy. It's a sweet book.

AMAZON PAGE

Check in next week for more books by authors I know.

GLAZED (Short Story)

Glazed was written years ago. It's all about a guy that is so focused on his own pleasures, he missed the important stuff. It's so old and I'd do it differently now. Honestly I don't think I'd write it this way at all now. I do love that I got to play with taste and scent. The food descriptions were so much fun.

But I think it's a bit rushed and it's not as well developed as it could be.

Still it's amusing so I'm sharing. Here is one of my early short stories---Glazed.

Tirzah
__________

Glass rained down in a sparkling cloudburst. Slivers of light, like live things speared into the passersby. I could barely hear the people screaming from inside my bakery but I could see it in dazzling techno-color.

People, smeared with bright streaks of blood, were scattered over the street. Some still, some running, and the worst, just hugging the ground, crying. The large glass windows in the county clerk's office were shattered all over the road. I shook my head at the noise and mess.

I took one last bite of the chocolate éclair, deliciously sweet, licked the dark streaks from my fingers, and went about straightening the shelves and wiping down the counters. The police weren't long in coming, followed closely by the ambulances. I counted the personnel gathering at the scene and started mixing another batch of batter.

Both coffee pots were brewing, I put out the fresh glazed donuts and popped another batch of snicker doodles in the oven. Some song was playing over and over in my head; I hummed a little piece of the melody, trying to catch the title. I liked things to be orderly. What was the name of that song? I nibbled on a cinnamon roll, pinching off little bites, savoring the glaze. I hummed a few more notes.

The bell jingled over the door and two uniformed police officers came in. One sported a paunch over his belt and wore tinted sunglasses. The other was shorter, thin, and dark.

"Morning Officers, would you like to try some of the glazed? They're still warm. Mmmm...all gooey." I washed my hands at the back sink and turned back to the officers, "So, what will it be?"

The heavy one took off his sunglasses and tucked them in his front pocket, "I'm Officer Mulroy and this is Deets, we wanted to ask you a few questions about the trouble this morning."

"What trouble?" I opened up the back of the display and took out two crème horns.

"Sir, surely you heard the explosion this morning?" Mulroy stepped closer, the plastic buttons of his shirt scraping against the counter.

"Oh that. I saw the window blow out. Is that what happened? An explosion? Well, isn't that interesting. How about a crème horn, fresh baked this morning?"

"No thank you. Are you the Derry on the sign outside?"

"Yes, that's me. Derry Dean of Derry's Delights. How about some of my lemon cookies? I mix lemon zest into the batter and it really makes the taste pop." I held out a small display tray, I had developed the recipe myself. They looked good, crisp and not to sweet. I tossed one into my mouth, mmm...good.

"Sorry, I have a weakness for sweets. Are you sure you don't want any? They are terribly good, if I do say so myself." I helped myself to another. Heavenly.

The dark one cleared his throat, "Sir, about this morning, what exactly did you see?" He pulled out a small black notebook and cheap ballpoint pen.

"Hmm...this morning. Yes, I was just trying one of my new éclairs, the dark chocolate, when the windows blew out. Would you like one? Coffee?"

"No. The windows?"

"Oh yes, the windows." I checked the batch of snicker doodles in the oven, not quite ready yet, "Mmm, the windows. Well, about nine-fifteen the windows shattered and hit all those people on the street. The coffee's a special blend, hazelnut and vanilla. Are you sure you don't want any?"

"No coffee. Mr. Derry, we're trying to run an investigation here, do you think you could just give us the specifics? The explosion was at 9:15am?"

"Well...there was an explosion, the windows blew out. Oh, I was so fortunate that I wasn't baking cakes this morning. Yes, where was I, yes, the glass went everywhere and all the people started running and yelling. I don't suppose you want to try a piece of peanut butter fudge?" I slid a smooth, sinful portion into my mouth. I closed my eyes on the rich, delicious taste. I opened my eyes to Mulroy's red, irritated face.

"Was it 9:15 or not?" Deets spoke this time, his words bitten off and spit out like a mouth full of unsweetened baker's chocolate.

"Isn't that what I just said?" I poured a small cup of coffee, sipped. Ugh, the taste was off.

I poured out what was in my cup and poured another cup. Oh my, the taste was overpowering, almost bitter. Tsking to myself, I carried the pot over to the sink and drained the remainder of the pot down the sink. Thank goodness they had not wanted coffee, I would have been ashamed to serve this tainted concoction. It was the last time Andree would sell me...I heard a slapping sound. The heavy police office was slapping his notebook against his hand, his face flushed red.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry if you wanted coffee but that sludge wasn't fit to serve to pigeons. If you have the time to wait, I'm going to put on a new pot. perhaps Sweet Georgia Brown...nice robust flavor..." Already, I had turned to get the beans from the sealed canister when I heard a muffled question.

"What?"

Speaking slowly through clenched teeth, the gypsy cop, darker than ever, leaned over the counter, "Did you see anyone strange around the area earlier this morning?"

"Stranger? No...no one strange. Nobody but the regulars but I was pretty busy. I guess business will be pretty bad until they fix up the street. I hope the repairs won't take long. Are you sure you don't want something? A piece of coffee cake?...danish?" At the sharp shake of their heads, I sighed. No one really appreciated the art of dessert anymore. I picked up a lemon tart and bit into it's perfect sugared brown crust, God on earth.

"Well, I guess that's it, Mr. Derry. We're going to be leaving now. If you remember anything else, you can contact us at this number." Aggravated, Mulroy tossed his card on the counter. The two men then turned and headed back out to the carnage outside.

I shook my head. They hadn't even had a cup of coffee. I took another succulent bite of tart. A riot of taste assaulted my taste buds.

Glorious. Hearing the bell, I glanced up to see Mr. Pearly ease his way through the door. Wizened with age, hair whitened by the years, Mr. Pearly was my favorite customer. Often, he would come in and sit at the counter, trying my newest confections, sipping coffee and looking out the window. Poor fellow, retirement had been hard for him. I knew money was tight so often I would let him critique my experiments and not charge him for his order.

"Morning Dee, quite a bit of excitement you had this morning," his voice was warm and heavy like molasses.

"Yes, but I'm afraid that no one seems hungry. Do you want to try my new chocolate strawberry crème?" At his nod, I pulled open the display door, and extracted a perfect dark chocolate cup filled with strawberry crème and placed it in front of the elderly gentleman.

Distracted, I looked around my spotless kitchen. I checked the fridge for the second time. Sigh. Something felt out of place but I couldn't quite place what it was. I turned my attention back to my customer.

Mr Pearly raised his fork and broke the surface, slicing deeply into the soft center. He lifted the sweet morsel of pink and chocolate mixture to his mouth and tasted. He held the bite for a moment, chewed, and swallowed delicately.

"Nice presentation but the filling is just a bit tart, don't you think?" he held a second forkful up to my mouth. I scooped it up in my mouth, held it, absorbing the flavor. True, I had noticed it before; the strawberries were a bit overbearing to the chocolate. Perhaps, the strawberries weren't ripe enough...maybe milk chocolate.

I nodded to him, smiling with relief. That's was it. The filling was off. Mr. Pearly had helped me perfect quite a few of my recipes in the last year. I retrieved three of the white chocolate truffles from the back case, his favorites, and set them beside his plate. He smiled and finished the strawberry crème.

"I thought you'd be in earlier, Mr. Pearly."

"I would have been but I had a little retirement business to take care of. Some goodbyes that needed to be said," his brown eyes were momentarily sad.

"Yes, I saw you go into work this morning. It must be hard to be denied doing the thing you love. Mandatory retirement is a terrible thing. Thank goodness, I own my own shop." I blushed, realizing what I had just said to poor Mr. Pearly. Losing his job last year had been hard but I didn't need to rub his nose in his misfortune. "Forgive me if I said anything..."

He waved off my apology, "What they did to me was a terrible blow but I finally feel I made a little peace with myself."

His dark nut brown eyes looked out my front window and stared at the glass covered street, sheet covered bodies, and crying victims huddled in front of the gutted building. Mr. Pearly pointed to a middle aged woman in a blood stained pink suit, "That was my supervisor."

Blood still streamed from her head and left leg, her eyes open but unseeing. Poor, poor woman. Those that had survived would be out on the street, living hand to mouth just like my friend, Mr. Pearly. I vowed to send each family a gift basket, it was the least I could do. Something niggled at the back of my mind, I was forgetting something.

I started to mentally check of the supplies I would need to finish the baskets.

"Do you want me to send your regrets with the care baskets that I'm sending?" What was bothering me? Nutmeg? I'm sure I had nutmeg.

"No, that's all right. I'm sure they all know how I feel."

Digging through the cabinets, I found the nutmeg. Placing it on the counter, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease. I nibbled on a butter cookie. Anxiety made me so hungry. What was it?

I mentally ran through my morning, Mr. Pearly had enter the building across the street about nine this morning just as I put the second batch of cookies in. The bombing just had me all rattled. Oh, I was missing something so important. What was it?

"Oh well, as long as you're sure." Aggravated, I refreshed our half-full cups. Business was going to be so slow today. Sigh. No use letting good food go to waste, I selected a perfect glazed donut from the covered glass platter and bit into it's sugar flaked outside...delicious.

Then, I smelled the acrid smell of burning cookies. Darn it, I forgot the snicker doodles. I always miss the important things. I found myself humming...what was that song?

Off The Beaten Path (Short Story)

It's fiction time again. I'm posting one of my old short stories. This one dates back to when I wrote spookier stuff. :) Enjoy.

___________________________

Title: Off the Beaten Path
BY: Tirzah Goodwin

"Hey Ronnie, wait up. Ronnie! I said wait."

"Move it, Karen. You said you wanted to go hiking with me."

"Yeah-hike, not a freakin' marathon race."

My lungs beat angrily against my sore ribs. After only three miles, I was wheezing like an asmathic cow and the muscles in my legs burned. If Ronnie ever wanted to see me naked again, he better slow his ass down.

I dropped my pack on the ground and collapsed beside it. A rock was digging into my back but I didn't care, I wasn't ever going to move again. Closing my eyes, I found a temporary respite from the overheated sun. A dark shadow moved over my body, hiding me from the light. I opened my eyes reluctantly and looked up.

Ronnie's face hid in the shade of his Red's baseball cap but I could feel his impatience rolling over me. I sighed.

"Get up Karen and quit playing the martyr."

I was disgusted to see that his white t-shirt was barely touched with sweat. I knew I looked like I rolled in grease from this miserable heat. My blue shirt was sticking to me, my new jeans were rubbing me raw at the waist and I was still huffing for air.

"Who's playing? You might have told me that we were going to jog the whole trip. I'm dying down here."

I reached a hand up for his dented canteen, "Hand me the water."

He stepped away from my hand. Asshole. My mouth was dry as a bone.

"There's a good campsite about a half a mile from here. If you have to rest, let's do it there. I don't like camping off the main trail."

I pulled up the neck of my shirt and used it to wipe the dripping perspiration from my cheeks. I wish Ronnie would step closer again and give me a little shade. I was so miserably hot.

"I'm not going another step, not even if you promised me my weight in chocolate. Can't we just stay here for awhile? Please?"

"Come on Karen, just a half a mile more and I promise to give you a full body massage."

"I think that's more for you than me, isn't it?"

Ronnie laughed, "Well a man can dream, can't he? Ok, how about I tweak your homepage when we get back. I'll even let you download some of my video programs."

Ronnie's didn't share his original programs with anyone and I'd love to have his new Zombie Head Hunters. It was awesome. When he sold it, it was going to make him as rich as Bill Gates. And I'd get a copy first. Hah!

I grumbled but gave in, "All right, you'll never shut up until I get up anyway. But I still get my massage and your software. Deal?"

"Deal."

I raised my hand and he helped me up. My legs screamed in protest but at least I had my breath back. I leaned down to pick up my pack and stopped, momentarily numb.

"Ronnie, Oh God, Ronnie-Oh my God", I couldn't stop saying it, over and over again. Before I knew it, the numbness was gone and I was backing up as quickly as I could. Little whimpers of terror were coming from somewhere but I couldn't concentrate, I could only stare at it. I couldn't stop looking at it.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Karen?"

Ronnie was staring at me with anxiety but my mouth wouldn't work. The whimpers were getting more desperate. I opened my mouth to tell him but the bile rose in my throat and I turned and gagged into the bushes.

"What is it, Karen? Are you hurt? What is it?" I just pointed mutely back to where my backpack still lay. The rock I had been lying on was a fist; a fist with chipped pink nail polish.

Ronnie grew quiet. I retched into the bushes again, closing my eyes. Ronnie's leg brushed against mine.

A hushed voice hissed in my ear, "Why don't you ever do what your told?"

A pinch of pain in my back stole my breath. I slid to my knees and felt a shiver of cold quiver down my spine.

"Ronnie....?"

There was no answer.

__________________

I see so many ways now to improve this story but it's so old I think I'm going to leave it as is. It's still entertaining.

:)

Tirz

Flash Fiction--A Father Knows

Today I thought I'd post one of my short fiction pieces. It's not perfect but so few things are. I hope you enjoy.

This story is a bit disturbing so if you are easily upset, stop here. It's not gory or graphic but emotionally upsetting.

Tirz

____________

A FATHER KNOWS by Tirzah L. Goodwin

The evenings in Morganstown are loud. Cars drift by, music blaring, a mix of Mexicana and rap that swells into a headache behind my right eye. I feel the beat there now, pounding. Or maybe it's my heart that pounds out, "No, no, no" but I feel the answer, a cold bubble of truth that lodges like a knife in my gut.

I know but I don't want to know.

He's standing on the steps of his mother's apartment building, his teeth flash as he laughs with a skinny boy with FT shaved into the back of his head. But I don't see that other boy; I see him, my son.

"Darius."

Just his name and he freezes, his dark eyes wide, the dimple disappearing from his cheek.

I grab his arm, digging my calloused fingers into the plump flesh underneath.

"Dad?...Dad?"someone calls but I'm already dragging him across the street, ignoring the screaming horns and swear words. His skin is slippery with sweat but I yank him after me, not stopping when he stumbles. The music beats in the background like an accusation, ringing in my ears.

"Dad?Dad?"

In the park where I took him to play as a kid, I stop. He trips and falls to his knees, blubbering. The swings sit empty and silent behind him as big sloppy tears pour down his cheeks, leaving wet circles on his blue t-shirt.

That bubble of cold breaks in my belly and spreads through my bones. I'm trembling. He's trembling.

"Darius, don't lie to me, son. Did you do it?"

"Dad..."

He's on his knees, his eyes rolling wildly, looking at anything, anyone but me. To me, we are the only two people in the world. The vein behind my eye throbs. I yank the gun from the waist band of my jeans and I press it against his forehead. He moans. The cold wraps around my heart until each beat of it rips a bigger hole in my chest.

"Darius, I will know if you lie. I'll know."

"Daddy..."

He won't took at me because I can see him, really see him. I see him squealing as he races up an escalator as a kid, I see him with my brother's darkness in him. He's my son, mine.


"I'll know," I whisper but I don't know, not for sure. I want him to tell me I'm wrong. I want him to convince me.

"I didn't mean it, Daddy. I didn't. She's just kept huggin' me and followin' me..."

Pain leaves me in a howl. No.

My right hand moves before I even think. The butt of the gun smacks him backwards, warm blood flooding down his chin from his busted lip. My nose burns as the air spikes with the smell of urine and a dark stain spread across the crotch of Darius's jeans.

"She's four. Four, Darius! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

Darius is curled up at my feet, trembling, blood smeared across his chin, and I don't know what to do. My skin flashes hot, then cold. My stomach rolls with each convulsive swallow of bile. Then calm settles inside me like God laid his hand on my shoulder. I suck in a deep breath, hold it, then let it out slowly, the sound whistling between my teeth.

I love him. I do. Even now, I love him.

Falling to my knees in the worn grass, my tears drip down on his bare head like a baptism.

"Darius, son, I forgive you."

I reach out and pull him close with my left arm. The warm air of his breath flutters against my chest. My right arm aches from the awkward angle. I squeeze the trigger softly.

He stiffens then sighs, his body going limp against mine.

I kiss his forehead and follow him into sleep.


The End.

Essay on Why I Write (Personal) Short Version

At the end of last year, I entered another contest on 'Why I Write', as usual I lost...lol. So I decided that since it doesn't seem to be publishable, I'll share my story here on my blog. To those of you that read it on TNBW, it's the Short Version.

To those that aren't on TNBW, my writing workshop site, this is why I write. It's not a sweet story but it's my story. Remember, this was a long time ago. I'm much happier now.

My mother’s a bitch.

Although, I suppose that term isn't really correct. My online therapist suspects she suffers from Borderline Personality Disorder but what does he know? He treats psych patients in a chat room at a dollar ninety-nine a minute. In a roundabout way, though, my mother is why I started writing.

One of my earliest memories is being a little kid and my mother accusing me of not brushing my hair. Somehow, we ended up on the floor, nubby carpet rubbing the back of my bare calves while she held a giant pair of sewing scissors up to my face, an inch from my eyes. The finger grips were calico, a swirl of black and orange.

If you want to be ugly, I'll make you ugly.

She grabbed a handful of my hair, her knee pressed into my chest and the scissors flashed open. I kicked out, tried to wiggle away. My nails dug into her muscled arms. Tears and snot flowed down my face in great sticky drips. I couldn't breathe. She yanked my hair. I shoved at her knee, needing it to move. I mouthed the words ‘no' over and over.

You don't tell me what to do, you little bitch.

I bit her.

She jerked away and I ran up the hallway, a dark tunnel of cheap wood paneling. I opened the door to my room, slammed it shut behind me, turned the lock. I burrowed into the closet, past trash bags of summer clothes and old purses, and waited in a far corner for her to come and kill me.

She howled at the door, "Let me in or you'll be sorry. I‘ll make you sorry."

The door shook under the pounding of her fists but it held. It held. I shivered.

Then, the bedroom door swung open with a rusty squeak. I whimpered, biting my lip bloody. Hands reached for me, grabbed at my ankles, my sleeve. I think I screamed. She'd come to get me.

Only it wasn‘t her, it was my older sister. Sis managed to take me home with her but the incessant calls, the threats, became too much for her. She brought me home three days later. My belly hurt.

My mother waited in the kitchen. She smiled like I'd been at summer camp and wrapped her arms around me, tight. She hugged me forever. My arms stayed limp at my sides.

Tell me you love me. You're my baby, my favorite. Tell me you love me. Tell me you'll never leave me again. Tell me.

I'll never leave you. No matter where I am, I'll never be able to get you out of my head.

I started writing to escape.

First, I wrote a diary but she read all my papers so I converted my ideas into poetry. Eventually, I branched into fiction even though I know I'm not a natural writer. I don't have a gift for quaint turns of phrase or stunning prose but I do have a love for the craft. Writing lets me make everything beautiful.

And I wanted the world to be beautiful for once.

Instead of a vent for my pain, my writing is an avenue for the best of me. I write romance. I love a happy ending. But I can write horror as well. I've been intimate with darkness and as much as I crave sweetness, I know most of us have pain lurking beneath our bright smiles. You can't ignore pain but you can shape it into something useful.

My bad days now are the days I can’t write. I need the words. They keep the silent dreams away. They make it possible for me to function as a real person, a kind person. I need to be kind. I need to make my pain useful.

But writing can't just be therapy. Writing needs to ripen ideas so they can fall from the vine, ready to be crushed into something better. It needs to be an act of creation, not destruction.

That creation is what saves me. And no matter how much I wish I could shrug off the past like some old snake skin, I just can’t. Instead I deal with it the only way I can, I put it on paper. In some strange way, I guess I have to thank my mother for my writing. She isolated me from everyone so I turned inward and ‘inward’ is a fascinating place full of strange roads.

She gave me the suffering I turned into art.

I still don't think I can be grateful though.

The woman's a bitch.

Writing Rejections--staying Positive

I am completely and utterly behind on my blog reading. I will catch up, eventually. You've probably wondered what I've been up to. Well I'm up to about five foot four inches but I still have hope that I will get taller.

It's good to have a dream, right?

Anyway, today's post is about rejection. No, not a romantic rejection but one on your writing. In my workshop group today, they announced the winners of one of writing contest. Alas, I did not win. This was probably due to the fact that I did not enter. I meant to enter but I got busy and didn't.

Someone was wondering at the fairness of the contest, the fairness of the judges etc... And I have no problem with them questioning the system. Questions are how you get answers even if those answers taste like moldy cheese.

But the truth is, as a writer, you will get rejected. Repeatedly. Last year alone, I had 48, yes 48, separate rejections of my poetry and short stories. There are days when I wonder if I'm wasting my time. There are days when I think I'm the suckiest writer on the Earth.

Yet on some level, I know that's not true. I'm not the best writer in the world. I've read that person's book and I cannot write they way they do. That's okay. I write like me and not them. Which is good because I'd look silly wearing their underwear and living their life.

Each day I work at my writing, I become a better writer. I don't stink like sweaty feet in the jungle but I won't win the Nobel Prize in Literature either. I'm learning to be accept that.

I'm okay with being rejected because it means I put myself out there. I didn't give up even when I really, really wanted to.

Writing is one of those professions where being rejected is part of the job. You will get rejected, shredded, criticized, and edited. But you'll also inspire, titillate, interest, educate, and entertain a hundred others. Writing is not a win or lose proposition but rather a win AND lose proposition.

No one writes perfectly when evaluated by a critic. And every writer, my dear, has critics. A critic is your worst enemy and best friend. A critic will tell you when you have run-on sentences, don't have a good story arc, or if your rhymes are purile. A good critic will also tell you when your imagery is inspired, your words touching, and your meter is lyrical.

A good critic sees you writing in all it's glorious excellence and flaws.

Rejection is how you learn as a writer.

If you can't stand to lose then don't be a writer or a professional sports player, you'll just end up miserable.

And who likes that? Not me.

Poetry Book Website UPDATE

Hi Bunnies!

I know, I know, I've been a bit absent lately. Between my mother's knee surgery, my emotional humps/bumps, the non-stop venting from relatives, and a funeral, I just haven't been giving my blog or anyone else's any attention.

I'll be back soon.

On a happier note, my book website has been updated. I hope you'll drop in for a visit.

http://www.tirzahlaughs.com/

My poetry book, Love and Lighter Fluid, is available on the publisher's website now and it will be on Amazon in May.

No, you don't have to buy it.

LOL.

However, if you'd like to check out my book website or my podcasts, I'd adore it.

My podcasts are linked to the site (and on this one) but if you want something more direct, then go to

http://tirzahlaughs.podbean.com/

Since so many of my friends and family have children, I recorded a few of my kid's poems in with the grown-up poems.

Kids poems are:

Stevie Spinelli and His Fondness for Jelly
Sweet Marie
How to Wash an Elephant
I hope if you have kiddies, that they enjoy these podcasts too.

The other poems are for grown-ups only, sorry! But you can listen to them when you are alone.

Well that's all the time I have for the moment.

Toodles!

Tirz

Werewolves in The Garden (Fiction)

I wrote this story a couple of years ago and I like it. It's a blend between horror and humor. Although enjoyable to read, it'll never be quite good enough to publish. But this is a fun, fun read.

I'm posting the full story here for my readers to read for their pleasure.

WEREWOLVES IN THE GARDEN

A large gray werewolf was taking a dump in my garden next to the oversized holly bush that I hated and couldn't afford to remove. I can only assume it is a werewolf. It was large, bigger than my ten-speed, with ragged gray hair and eyes that stared at me with offended intelligence.

I started to look away to give it the privacy it demanded but, hey, it was depositing a mammoth amount of poo into my backyard.

I rested both trembling hands against the sliding glass doors, reassuring myself that the cool wall of glass still stood between me and the beast. The hairy animal had now finished its delicate business and was loping in my direction. It's stride was long and easy, it's lean neck outstretched, mouth open, teeth flashing.

My trembling turned into violent shaking. Every instinct I had told me to run and to run fast.

I backed away from the approaching creature, back into my white and ivory living room, and wondered wildly where I'd left the cordless phone. I needed help. I could see the beasts sharp fangs flashing at me in a silent threat. Shaking, I froze in the middle of the perfectly lighted room.


For once, the lovliness didn't sooth me. What to do? What to do?


My terror was interrupted by the impatient ringing of the doorbell. Shaggy paws were leaving dirty streaks against the glass of the doors, it was standing on its back legs, pressing inward with it's front paws, wanting into my house, wanting to get me. My breath came in hard, heavy pants.

Oh God, I was going to die.

The doorbell rang again. Startled out of fear, I ran to the entry way, my strappy Jimmy Choo's clicking on the terra cotta tile, away from the werewolf. I flung open the door and crashed into the muscled chest of an irritated male. I tried to push past him, all human concern for my fellow man thrown aside in the hopes of saving my own life.

He looked like a tough guy, strong, with well-defined layers of muscle and a hard, intense face. I'm sure he'd be fine.

The man grabbed my arm and pulled me unwillingly back into my stylish monochromatic living room. If my body hadn't been throbbing with fear, it might have been throbbing for a different reason when I notice how attractive my dark-haired captor was. But no time to get his digits, I had to get out of here.

"Let-" I gulped air, "Let me go."

I tried to yank my arm loose from his grip but he didn't seem to notice. I heard a muted snarl followed by the thud of a large body being thrown against the glass. A strangled scream escaped my lips. We both wiped around toward the sliding glass doors.

The fanged animal was now throwing itself against the clear doors. The man growled low in his throat and kicked the front door closed.

"It found me," his voice was like double dark chocolate, attractive and bitter, sprinkled with danger, "Damn wolfhounds."

Still slightly confused, I asked, "It isn't a werewolf?"

He looked at me like I was a raging idiot. I'd never seen a werewolf before so how was I supposed to know what they looked like? So like a man. The 140 pound monster in my backyard looked like he'd qualify for the job as a creature of the night.

Especially since ropes of drool were now dripping from dog's fangs as he threw himself against the glass, over and over. The thump of his body made my skin tighten. Fear clawed at me, I needed go and go now.

"No, that's not a werewolf. That's a wolfhound. It belongs to a hunter."

"Hunters?"

What would they be doing in my subdivision? The Homeowners Association would have a fit. I stared dumbly at the man gripping my arm. I tried to tug free of him again but he didn't seem to notice.

"There isn't much time," he shoved me against wall, crowding me with his large, hot body.

His fingers came up, stroked down my throat, and then ripped my shirt and bra strap with one hard pull. I inhaled hard. I realized that a strange, large man was in my living room, looming over me.

I opened my mouth to call for help but it ended in a squeak when he ran his rough tongue across my jaw, then he dropped his head and nipped my shoulder. Confused, frightened, I began to try to squirm away but he trapped me with his weight and I could tell he liked it when I moved against him.

What was I doing? I went still against the solid warmth of his body then pushed hard against his chest but instead of letting me go, he licked a slow warm path up my neck. I trembled as he paused, nibbled at the curve of my jaw.

I opened my mouth to tell him to stop, to stop right now but the protest came out in a moan. He groaned in response, wedging his himself between my thighs. Oh my, this was really wrong. I'd stop in a minute. Probably. His mouth grazed mine and I parted my lips for him.

The most erotic moment of my life was shattered by breaking glass, my would-be lover turned just as the wolfhound leapt for us. He twisted, shoving me behind him. The animal sunk its canine teeth into his upthrust arm, their combined weight slammed back into me. Pain bloomed through my body as legs and claws kicked at me. Luckily, the man quickly rolled both of them off of me and back into the dining room.

I began to crawl, trying to reach the front door without being noticed. I paused, feeling guilty about leaving the fellow to be mauled to death on my berber carpet. I hesitated.

Just as the guilt started to make me do something stupid, the man began to change. He seemed to expand, bursting through his clothes, his teeth elongating, hair rippling across every exposed surface, his features contorting. The large dog now seemed small and weak as it confronted the larger monster. Oh crap.


I was whimpering, beyond any level of terror I had ever experienced. I scurried away on hands and knees, quickly moving away from the bloody nightmare that had taken over my house. Then I heard a thrumming noise, turning back to the action I saw an arrow sticking out of the chest of the wolf-man. He ripped the arrow with one hand, his snarls deep and furious. I opened my mouth to wail but I couldn't get any air.

The thrumming noise came again and again. Arrows piercing the wolf-man, walls, my Masterson's print of *The Windmills*. I was never going to be able to get another.

The man-wolf fell to his knees, bleeding from eight or nine arrow wounds when a smaller guy with a large bow stepped in from the garden and whistled for the wolfhound. The dog, a dirty, bleeding mess, limped past hunter and settled down on my new white armchair.

The archer pulled a small ax from his belt and threw it, end over end; it embedded deeply into the wolfman's throat, cutting cruelly through the flesh. Shuddering, I curled in a ball by the front door, wanting badly to run but afraid to attract the hunter's attention.

He planted a booted foot onto my would-be lover's now hairless chest and pulled loose the ax with a wet sucking sound. Then, the killer came toward me but there was no compassion in his eyes. My muscles tensed, wanting to run, wanting to be saved.

He readied the ax for his swing. I covered my head with my arms and he hesitated, "You're not changed yet."

His hard, green eyes burned into me, "No matter, nits make lice." I peeked at him from beneath my arms as he readied the ax for a killing blow. Just as I was sure of my painful death by ax, I heard the wolfhound snarl a warning.

The wolf-man, drenched with blood, slammed into the hunter, burying his pointed canines in the hunter's throat. I finally screamed, long and hard, and woke up, sweating on the couch in the living room.

I stared, confused, at the half-eaten slice of goat cheese pizza still sitting on the coffee table. I looked around the room, still uneasy. Then, relief poured through me like a river;a dream, a terrible dream.

I stood up unsteadily, walked over to the sliding glass doors, their unbroken beauty shining, and looked out to see a large wolfhound sniffing around my holly bush. I felt a tingle of awareness zing painfully down my spine, as I pressed a hand against the cold glass and watched in horror as rough claws sprang from my fingertips.

_________________________

Okay, it's not Hemingway...lol...but it was fun, wasn't it?

Stop Writing Passively

If you're like me, you have a tendency to drift into passive voice without even really meaning to.

The lovely 'to be' verbs show up unexpectedly like your Cousin Dennis after you've won the lottery. Unexpected and unwanted. Only they won't steal your lawnmower. Instead, they steal excitement from your writing.

What do I mean by 'to be'?

Example: I was thinking about going to the party. It would have been a great time, I know it. I was going to wear my green party dress.

This whole statement is in passive voice. Verbs such as was, is, would have can remove the action from your story. But don’t get out your red pen yet.

Not all passive voice is bad. So you shouldn’t remove it willy-nilly.

In things like dialogue, passive voice usually is the way to go. People normally speak in passive voice, not active. However, if you’re not doing dialogue, you need to watch out for the tricky ‘to be’s’.

Corrected Example: I thought about going to the party and wearing my green party dress.

See how the corrected version is more immediate? Now if only there really was a party. But then again, the only party dress I have is a 1980's puffy cocktail dress from some forgotten high school prom.

I'd be sparkin' hot in that.

What was that, a passive verb?

Ack! They're everywhere.

How can you see how much passive voice you're using?

You could reply on a fellow writer to review your novel for you. But for some reason, not every writer wants to read 80,000 words of a rough draft. I can't understand why. And not every writer is great at spotting passive voice. Writers like myself.

So instead, you should try a fun website like Aztekera.

You can paste sections of your novel into Aztekera, click on the check button and get both a percentage of 'to be' verbs and a listing of the individual lines.

Now, Aztekera won't tell you which passive sentences you should keep, if any. It's not your mother. It won't make you chicken soup when you're sick either.

But it will give a quick way to see if you're writing actively or passively.
Don't be a Passive Patsy!

Check out Aztekera

~ Tirzah

Excerpt from 'A Father Knows...' (Fiction)

It's loud in the evenings in Morganstown. Cars drift by, music blaring, a mix of Mexicana and rap that swells into a headache behind my right eye. I feel the beat there now, pounding. Or maybe it's my heart that pounds out, "No, no, no" but I feel the answer, a cold bubble of truth that lodges like a knife in my gut.

I know but I don't want to know.

He's standing on the steps of his mother's apartment building, his teeth flash as he laughs with a skinny boy with FT shaved into the back of his head. But I don't see that other boy; I see him, my son.

"Darius."

Just his name and he freezes, his dark eyes wide, the dimple disappearing from his cheek.

I grab his arm, digging my calloused fingers into the plump flesh underneath.

"Dad?...Dad?" someone calls but I'm already dragging him across the street, ignoring the screaming horns and swear words. His skin is slippery with sweat but I yank him after me, not stopping when he stumbles. The music beats in the background like an accusation, ringing in my ears.

"Dad?Dad?"

In the park where I took him to play as a kid, I stop. He trips and falls to his knees, blubbering. The swings sit empty and silent behind him as big sloppy tears pour down his cheeks, leaving wet circles on his blue t-shirt.

That bubble of cold breaks in my belly and spreads through my bones. I'm trembling. He's trembling.

"Darius, don't lie to me, son. Did you do it?"

"Dad..."

He's on his knees, his eyes rolling wildly, looking at anything, anyone but me. To me, we are the only two people in the world. The vein behind my eye throbs. I yank the gun from the waist band of my jeans and I press it against his forehead. He moans. The cold wraps around my heart until each beat of it rips a bigger whole in my chest.

"Darius, I will know if you lie. I'll know."

"Daddy..."

To be continued...

How to Write Naked

Put your pants back on, it’s not that kind of naked.

Writing naked is to write without fear.

When you’re writing, do you hear a little voice in your head that says things like, “What if your mother read that?” or “What would the people at work think?”? Most writers have those annoying little voices, mine sounds like a constipated grandmother. You can’t write good prose if you write in fear.

So how do you teach yourself to let go of all that anxiety?

I suggest sitting down and writing about the most embarrassing, disgusting, or scariest thing you can think of. Go ahead. Start with one sentence. Something you would never let yourself say out loud because it’s not the polite thing to do.

My first sentence, “I hate my mother.”

Do you have that queasy feeling in your stomach? That’s a good thing. It means you tapped into a part of your thoughts that makes you uncomfortable. If you edit what you write before it even hits the page, your characters will be stunted in the long run.

If you can’t get past that fear that someone will judge you for it then tell yourself you can tear up the paper the moment you’re done.

Are you writing?

If you don’t have any idea of what to write, I suggest a very explicit sex scene. If you’ve never written one before, you’re hand will shake, you’ll sweat. You might even wheeze a bit but it’ll be good practice for you.

For most people, writing an explicit sex scene is as naked as you can get on the page. Just don’t write the actions, write the parts that frighten you. Do an S&M scene, write a raunchy scene. Be bold. Put your Grandmother in a leather thong and give her a feather whip.

Writing about sex doesn’t scare me much. However, I find emotional nakedness to be frightening. I’d much rather write about boobs and butt than write a character that kills dogs or drowns newborns. I find that kind of character repulsive. But if I can’t get beyond that instantaneous fear, I hurt my writing.

Don’t let your internal editor stifle what you want to write. Perhaps you aren’t interested in writing about sex. Fine by me.

What scares you?

Does your character secretly find her newborn annoying? Does he have sexual fantasies about the family priest? Does she want to drown her mother in a soup tureen?

Remember, nothing you ever write has to be read by another person. Write it exactly the way you want, be mean, be sexy, be nasty. Tell people you want to pee on kittens. No one ever has to know.

Always write as if no one will ever read it.

Then put a lock on the file for a couple of weeks then take it out and read it again. Is it good? Do you feel that you were being absolutely honest on the page?

If you were a stranger, would this piece of work speak to you?

If the answer is yes, you’ve won the battle. You’re on your way to becoming the kind of writer others only dream of being.

You may never publish this writing but you’ll know you can. You’ll know the next time that you need to write your evil, disgusting, strange characters, you’ll be able to do it.

You’ll be able to be bold and write without fear. Now you can take off your pants…just kidding.

Remember to Write Naked!

Finish Your Book Already!

Do you know what keeps seventy-five percent of all aspiring authors off the bookstore shelves?

It’s not getting an agent, putting together a killer query, or even writing a bestseller. What keeps them off the shelves is quitting before their book is finished. I’m no different from those writers. I’m insecure about my talent. I’m a bit lazy at times.

I like the idea of publishing my book but the work involved is daunting. First, you have to have the idea, then develop it, write a minimum of sixty thousand words on it. When you finish all of that, you get to start editing and then edit again.

I don’t think anyone ever finishes editing, they merely stop.

Writers get frustrated, I get frustrated. This is why most people quit before finishing Chapter 7 of their rough draft.

Go on, admit it, you have a half-written novel either in your desk drawer or on your computer right this minute, don’t you?

I thought so.

Don’t feel bad, I have two.

Those two novels starts were mostly dry runs where I tried to figure out what I wanted, what I wanted to write, who I was as a writer. Mostly, they were crap. But…if I spent the time to finish and edit them, they might be publishable.

I dropped the ball and that is completely my fault.

My current novel attempt, Plum Crazy, benefited from my failures. I have a better idea of what I want and expect from my book. I’m clear on the general plot including start, major climaxes, and ending but I left a lot of room for improvising. I like to improvise and you have to go with what works for you.

Recently, I’ve doubted my idea, my writing, my voice, basically everything about this book. I stopped writing. Not because the book was bad but because I let my own insecurities strangle my creativity. I let me get in the way of me.

I’m forcing myself to write the next chapter even though I think it’s horrid. Sometimes, I’m convinced that a three year old monkey with a typewriter writes better prose than me but I’m putting the ink on paper. Why? Because you can edit almost any piece of crap into a readable story if you have patience and a dab of talent.

But you can’t edit blank pages.

So if you want to be published, your first and most important task is a simple one. Just finish your darn book.

And while you’re at it, could you write the next chapter of mine?

Thanks!

Tirz
*Also published under my collaborative blog, Journeys in Ink.

Blog Pick of the Month: Rachel Gardner/Literary Agent

BLOG LINK
Click on the link above to visit the blog.

Blog of: Rachelle Gardner, Literary Agent



One of my favorite blogs for writers. If you haven't started reading this one, you should. She has everything from designing your blog to catching the eye of an agent. One of the useful blogs for writers.

Some topics covered:

Questions to Ask an Agent
Books I've Sold to Publishers
How to Write a Book Proposal
How to Write a Query Letter
List of Writers' Conferences
List of Freelance Editors

Blogger Profile

Rachelle is a literary agent, a writer and a book editor. She is the wife of a firefighter, mom of two amazing daughters, and a follower of Christ. She loves music, books, Starbucks, American Idol, and everything outdoors.

Tirz

Hey Writer, You Suck!

You suck.

Well, it’s true. All writers suck at some point in their careers. Even your hero, that literary genius who composed sonnets in his crib and gave a stream-of-consciousness book report on Atlas Shrugged for his third grade book report; he sucked. If you don’t believe me and he’s still alive, sneak into his house one night, gently wake him up, and ask him.

While you’re waiting for the cops to pick you up, I think you’ll discover that compared to his current work, he’ll say that third grade book report sucked. Sucking isn’t the problem, it’s the degree of suck. All writers start with some degree of talent. Some have an ocean’s worth, some have a drop. But that talent has to developed, has to be worked.

A writer with a drop of talent, who writes, workshops, and continues to grow, will have fifty times the success of a literary genius who sits on his butt and waits for opportunities to show up at his door. It’s a combination of work, talent, and sheer stubbornness.

Don’t believe me?

I can prove it. Go to your local bookstore or library and look through the paperback novels. Now stay away from your favorite authors. Just randomly pull ten books off the shelf that you’ve never read or heard of. At least one of those books will be utter crap or at least as good as the crap you write.

You know what the difference is between you and this published author is?

And no it’s not blackmail photos of someone at Random House, it’s commitment. Most writers get rejected. Expect to be rejected. Think of yourself as girl with the neck boil and the lazy eye who wants a date to the prom. If you don’t have a guilty cousin doing you a favor, you’re going to have to ask more than one boy. You’ll get hurt, you’ll cry a bit.

But eventually you’ll figure out that a turtleneck sweater, a pair of tinted glasses, and a push-up bra gets you what you what you want. It’s the same with writing.

It won’t be easy.

You’ll have to work hard to improve your writing flaws, learn to enhance what’s already good and minimize what isn’t.

But it’s not impossible.

Will you get a five book deal and get to tell your current boss to suck it? Probably not. But can you get published? Probably yes.

But are you stubborn enough to keep at it?

Because that’s what it’ll take, sheer stupid stubbornness.

I can do that, can you?

Remember when you suck, Koontz, King, Steinbeck, Hemingway, Rowling, Whitman, Austen sucked too and you read their books, right? Right.

Be proud.

Keep sucking.

I know I will.

~ Tirz

Are you Insecure? Writing a Novel

Me too! Me too!

I'd stretching the last few years and I'm trying to write a novel. I'm much more comfortable writing poetry. And if you'll excuse the conceit, I'm a decent poet. Not startling great but decent.

Novel writing is not natural for me but it something I really want to do, at least once. After a few slow starts, I found a story that seems to appeal to readers and appeals to me. But I'm so insecure about novel writing, I hamper myself.

My workshop reviews tie me up in knots for hours. I start to wonder if I'm kidding myself. Maybe I'm not meant to write a book. Maybe the story is idiotic. It's not a traditional book. I'm not a traditional girl. But maybe I went to far down the wrong path?

I get overwhelmed. I don't know what do half the time.

Part is my concept. The book I'm writing is an grown-up adventure story. Each chapter starts with a hook and ends with a hook, much like a child's adventure book.
The larger plot is very loose, the adventure is more important than the destination. Once again, this is not how most books work.

Plus it's first person and the narrator is unreliable. The reader can't always trust her perceptions. It's like being on a roller coaster run by an eight year old hyped on sugar.

My whole concept hinges on voice. The voice of the narrator has to carry it all. But people want explanations. They want everything to be boxed off and clear and concise. But I don't think this book will ever be completely normal. But does that mean it won't be satisfying?

I really don't know.

I have tense problems. That I can fix.

The mis-spellings I can fix.

But when you're doing something new, how can you trust someone on plot? I may be wrong. What I'm doing may not work in the long run. I may never find a publisher.

But I want to finish.

Yet...

I'm so afraid of failing. Of being a disappointment to my readers, I find myself not writing. Which is worse?

What do I do?

When you don't know how to dance and people give you conflicting instructions? Who do yo listen to? Or do you set down on the dance floor and just cry?

I know the book has moments when it works. I'm not lying to myself there but is that enough? If you can't give the reader the whole meal, should you even bother with the appetizer.

I don't want to fail.

But I feel like such a loser. I keep losing the voice. The character keeps going silent on me.

I feel like I'm writing underwater and all the lines are blurred.

Did I use enough metaphors here? Hah.

I'm not one of those novel writers who lives for my novel. It's not my life's blood, poetry is that for me. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe that's it. Maybe I don't love it enough.

Maybe you need to be in love with your novel.

I don't know.

I'm making myself finish this. I will write this novel.

If only to tell myself that I can write one.

But it shouldn't be this hard.

It shouldn't.

Maybe I am a failure.

I don't know.

Tomorrow is another day and another chapter.

Tirz

Back Up Your Writing!

Ah, you write the last sentence of the final paragraph of your 200,000-word epic American Novel and you hit save. You’re exhausted, you’re elated. You’re just a little bit smug. I’m sure you’ve hit Twitter to brag to all your writing frenemies out there in the web world.

Then, the next morning you push your computer’s little ‘Go’ button and the screen remains mysteriously black. Mmm, that doesn’t look good. You check all the cords and it’s plugged in. You hit the button again, several times. Because repeatedly hitting it always works…lol. Still, just a black screen.

Now, your heart is pounding, little droplets of sweat start to stream down the crack of your ass (the sign of real desperation).

You call all your friends, a couple of enemies, and even your sister’s idiot husband who thinks he’s good with computers. Nothing works.

Nearly hysterical by this point, you get in the car in pajamas and flip-flops and drive to the nearest computer fix-it shop. You hold your broken laptop out to the 12-year old with the name tag and blubber, “ahbubhabib broken, boghsdiguy novel”, which he understands as ‘My computer is broken, please retrieve my novel.’

Only three hundred dollars later you know your laptop is dead forever. The boney kid swilling AMP at nine in the morning manages to save a couple of files. You have the draft of six chapters, about twenty-thousand words.

You literally lie down on the sidewalk and wait to die. God is not merciful.

Eventually, the police make you get up. Authority figures rarely understand the pain of losing your writing. And it’s best to go the heck home to start all over on your novel or to throw yourself on the bed and scream. Whatever works for you.

If you’re in an apartment, I suggest you scream with your head buried in your hypo-allergenic pillow. Neighbors don’t understand creative pain either.

Next, you’ll twitter all your friends about your bad luck. Several of them have the nerve to snicker a bit at your expense.

Don’t let this be you!

How can you avoid the humiliation?

First, back up your writing in multiple places. At the very least, set up a free yahoo or g-mail account and email each chapter to yourself. This way it’s waiting in a third party email account that you can access from anywhere.

Second, put it on a flash drive. Then put your flash drive where children can’t flush it down the toilet. Don’t trust the dog around it either. My male dog did something unspeakable to my flash drive that I can’t even repeat here for fear the porn police will arrest me.

Third, put it on an old-fashion disc. There’s a reason we used those things all these years.

Fourth, sign up for a third party writing site that allows you to load your writing but not display it. I use a couple of these sites to ‘store’ my writing for emergencies.

And the last thing to remember is not to dwell on what’s lost. It’s gone. Have a good cry, a beer, or kick a stuffed teddybear but get over it. Either re-write it or write something new.

And back your writing up!

But if you forget and erase something, remember to tell everyone how great it was. After all, they can’t prove otherwise, now can they?

Good Writing!