Lynn Raye Harris

Woefully, I shall not be writing about writing tonight. The military is scrambling my brain with action verbs designed to make me list my accomplishments (achieved X, analyzed X, implemented X, researched X). Really this is aimed at the retiring military member, but since I’m sitting beside him and have my own workbook, I feel compelled to complete the assignments. Not for nothing did I graduate magna cum laude. (Please don’t even talk to me about why it wasn’t summa cum laude. I was robbed by unfair policies designed to benefit transfer students is all I shall say on the subject. Ahem.) I am an anal retentive, complete all assignments in triplicate sort of person.

Anyway, last night, in a tired stupor, I watched Capote. Oh wow. I have purposely avoided reading In Cold Blood for years. I am a wimp, a person who does not/cannot/will not watch the various horror movies offered over the years. When I was a teen, those awful Freddy movies were the thing. Not me, never watched a one. Friday the 13th? Uh-uh. I get skeered.

But now that I’ve watched Capote, I may have to read the book. And, in truth, as shocking as the crime was then, it’s pretty routine (unfortunately) today. We hear as bad or worse in the news.

I did not empathize with the killers. But I understood how Truman did, how it tore him up, how he used them and got his story. Philip Seymour Hoffman deserved his Academy Award (much as I liked David Straithairn as Edward R. Murrow). The performance is riveting.

One of the funny moments is when Nell Harper Lee gets a contract to publish her novel. “Congrats, Nell,” says a guy at a party. “What’s it called? Kill the bird? Bird killing?” Well, that’s a paraphrase, but still. Hilarious. That bird book. Oh dear.

So, if you’re at a loss for what to watch, rent this movie about a writer (an arrogant, queer–uh, both senses actually–little man) who obsessed his way into a book that destroyed him and changed the way people wrote non-fiction narratives. ICB made Truman even more famous than did Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

And he never completed another book.

My husband is retiring from the military soon, and while that sounds like he’s ancient or something, he’s not. Twenty years goes fast, believe me, especially when you signed up at 18. So, we’re off to the military’s set of briefings for the retiring and/or separating military member. The AF is enlightened enough to let spouses attend (stops all that “So what did they tell you, honey?” for the poor military person). I’ve sat through VA briefings, medical briefings, state briefings, and educational briefings today. Tomorrow, I get to sit through resume writing. That should be a kick for me, considering I haven’t worked in a while.

Not that any of this relates to writing. Except for one thing: I do not like getting up early, showering, putting on clothes, fixing my hair, and going out into the world. I prefer getting up early, getting my coffee, and plopping in front of the computer. So I better get damn busy selling some books, because I sure as hell don’t relish the alternative.

Hawaii weather report: rain, rain, and more rain. Gloomy, gray, icky. Stay home. Don’t come visit us for another month.

I was perusing Romancing the Blog today when I came across a post about paranormals versus historicals. This sentence caught my eye: “How is an author going to know the rules of shape shifting without first doing some research?”

LOL, that made me giggle. You can research that? I thought it was up to the individual author writing the story how this stuff worked. Man, talk about your basic ignorance (me).

But isn’t it true that different writers have employed different rules on their vampire worlds, fer instance? Some let them be awake during the day, others are more traditional. I don’t know how they decide this, truthfully.

I’m not a big paranormal reader, but I was first on the boat with Linda Lael Miller’s vampire romances back in the day. Who could ever forget Valerian??? I admit to not sampling them much today. Heck, I don’t know where to start. When Ms. Miller was writing her trilogy (or whatever it turned out to be), they were fairly unique on the market. I was sucked into the first one, Forever and the Night, and read the next three. None got to me as much as Time Without End (Valerian, sigh). I never felt the urge to write them, however, much to my everlasting regret. Still don’t. But a lot of folks do.

Do you think paranormals are the new historicals? I’m not sure I agree, though OTOH, I mostly stopped reading historicals a few years ago. Too much sameness and too many damn lectures about the workings of the medieval castle or the Regency ton. (There are always exceptions, or writers who are so brilliant they can describe hay drying in the field and I’ll read it.)

I know the writer has to set the scene, and I sure enough did it in Lord of the March, but to the regular reader it gets old fast. I guess it could get old in paranormals too. I read a contest entry that spent 30 well-written pages telling me how the heroine traveled through time. It was nice writing, but boring as heck. If it’d been a book, I’d have skipped to the action.

How do you get past that stuff when writing? Do you imply it and hope the reader follows? Or do you think it needs in depth explanations? I’m in the implication camp, but that’s my preference. Do we face the same issues in contemporary novels or do we have it easier because readers are already part of our “story-world”?

[PS I'm off to *gasp* a work-like situation for the rest of the week! Okay, so there's no work involved, but I am required to wake up, get dressed in casual business attire, and be somewhere at 0800 sharp every morning for the rest of the week. This is shocking to my system! Therefore, my posts will probably be somewhat more scattered and goofy than usual. Or not.]

What a busy weekend! Renee Fleming was fabulous, of course. Mike was tolerable, though he did express a desire to hear her belch (figuring it would be pretty powerful, I guess). Renee was gracious and funny, and she came back for 3 encores, finally performing my favorite aria ever: O Mio Babbino Caro. (Okay, so I’m not a sophisticated opera buff; I just know what I like.) You can listen to a comparison of Renee and Charlotte Church singing this song here. I prefer Renee. Her voice sounds more mature to me. I also like Sarah Brightman’s version of the song.

Mike brought binoculars, as usual, and that always makes it more fun. Renee’s jewelry could light its own universe. She wears a diamond on her left hand that must be in excess of 10 carats. It was huge. Her gowns are custom designed for her, and she looked every inch the diva in the two feathered versions she wore. As I listened to her sing, I kept thinking of Bel Canto, which I read rather recently and loved. I later found out, through reading Renee’s bio in the program, that Ann Patchett listened to Renee’s albums and used her as inspiration for Roxanne Coss. Cool.

Though this has little to nothing to do with writing, I did think about characters while listening. As I perused the orchestra with the binoculars, I landed on this girl playing French horn. She looked young, attractive in a European cream complexion way, and totally bored with the singing. I began to tell myself a story about her. I may take it to paper at some point, just for the fun of exploring how she could be listening to, and accompanying, one of the world’s top sopranos and be so unmoved at the same time.

The other thing I did this weekend was attend a booksigning by Jennifer Archer. I’ll post more on that later, including a picture. Jenny and her husband Jeff are visiting Oahu from Texas. Jenny found out, just the day before her signing, that her book The Me I Used to Be is nominated for a RITA! We had a great time chatting about writing and other stuff.

Congratulations to all the RITA and Golden Heart nominees!

I did go downtown yesterday, and I did take the Alphasmart. First, I went and dropped off my Grandfather clock weights, then I swung by the Blaisdell box office for tickets to the symphony. Tonight is Renee Fleming! Mike and I are going, though he’s not a big opera buff. He’ll sit through two hours of Renee belting out Beethoven, provided he can have wine during the intermission. I am happy to accomodate.

I love going to the symphony in Hawaii. No suits, ties, or evening wear here! We wear aloha attire. Men will come in aloha shirts and shorts or slacks. Women wear mu’u mu’us or dresses or slacks or shorts. Some folks dress up, some don’t. Many wear fragrant leis. If you come to Hawaii for a visit, and you like the symphony, I suggest you go. Our pops conducter, btw, arranged the music and played the saxophone in the fabulous George Clooney movie Good Night and Good Luck. The man is a talent.

But anyway. I got out of the house, went to observe humanity. I ended up in Barnes and Noble with the Alphie. I had a chai and wrote 1 page. Whoa, was I smokin’ or what? I observed an old man with a dangly earring, which I thought was funny. I observed how people hog the tables in the cafe by getting one drink, piling magazines on the table, and then stay there forever. They will even get up for 20 to 30 minutes on end while they go look for other stuff. They’ll leave everything piled on “their” table so no one takes it. How annoying.

And, yeah, I sat at my table for a long time after I finished the chai. I was probably there for an hour and 15 minutes or so. Staring into space, typing and hitting the delete key, and perusing the latest RWR and The Writer. No one came through looking like they wanted a table, so I didn’t feel too guilty. And I don’t get up to go find other stuff. I’ll go to the bathroom if I have to, but I come right back. I feel guilty taking a table and then going to browse the store.

Do you go to cafes to write? If so, do you think you get more or less done that way? I think I do less, but then sometimes getting away from the house and its distractions (laundry, cats, dishes, etc) is the only way to get anything done.

[Update: Here is the official Renee Fleming website. Apparently the one linked above is a fan site. It was a great concert. I'll report more in depth later.......]

Okay, so I got behind the power curve last night and didn’t write a post for today. And though it’s early here (7 AM), it’s noon on the east coast. Y’all think I’m a slacker.

I have nothing original to say today. I’ve got to head into Honolulu in a little bit, so that’s on my mind. I’m waiting for the morning rush hour to be over. We have horrendous traffic on this little island, believe me. If I can avoid it, I will.

So, two things. First, the New York Times is reporting on the move to trade paperback originals for literary novels.

“In the last four or five years, it’s gotten hard to publish fiction by lesser-known authors, and even by some better-known authors,” said Morgan Entrekin, the publisher of Grove/Atlantic. And when a book fails in hardcover, booksellers often will limit their orders for a paperback edition, making it harder to sell the author’s next book. “When you’re taking back 50 to 70 percent of the hardcover copies you shipped,” Mr. Entrekin said, “the stores — rightfully so — are not willing to take another chance.”

As the article points out, many folks don’t want to spend the $22 in hardcover for authors unknown to them. $13.95 is more reasonable. And, I gotta admit, I’m the type of person who waits for the paperback. Partly, it’s the military mindset: we gotta move with this stuff. I don’t need hardbacks taking up my weight allowance. Second, $22 is a lot of money, to me, for one book. I ain’t independently wealthy here.

Anyway, read the article. The numbers are interesting, as are the thoughts on the review process.

The second thing is another fabulous blog post by fellow Aloha Chapter member Tess Gerritsen. (I know she’s much more than a fellow chapter member, but hey, it gives me a thrill to say she’s in my chapter.)

When you write, you are opening a spigot from your brain, pouring out memories and thoughts and dreams onto the page. Leave that spigot on too long, without refilling the source of your creativity, and what you get is a drained and exhausted writer.

That’s how I felt when I turned in the manuscript for THE MEPHISTO CLUB. Emptied out of all my creative juices. I call it writer’s anemia. Real anemia leaves you weak and exhausted and pale. Writer’s anemia is much the same — except that the pallor shows up on the page. Your writing loses all color. Your plot feels dead. Your characters wander through the story like ghosts of themselves.

The only cure is a transfusion — not of blood, but of real-life experiences.

Isn’t that the truth? (Oh, btw, Tess uses this post to announce she’s going to Libya. Whoa, cool!) Often, I can stay holed up in my house for a week, refusing to go anywhere because I want to work on my book. And I feel it at the end of the week. I don’t want to be off every day having coffee at Starbucks or haunting Waikiki in search of stimulation, but I do have to be open to life experiences. This week, I gave up my Wednesday night group. I missed it, even though we usually don’t accomplish much. I missed the conversation and the bookstore.

So, today, since I have an errand taking me into town anyway, I’ll try to meander back home, maybe stop at B&N or Borders. Borders has a balcony from which you can see the ocean (of course it’s a cloudy, rainy sky and a leaden ocean these days, blech). I have taken my Alphie and written up there in the past. Maybe I’ll try it today. Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll just have a coffee and a magazine and watch the people. Aloha nui loa.

Though it’s embarassing, I’m jumping on the first book bandwagon. Diana Peterfreund has posted an excerpt from her first novel, as have Gena Showalter and Jill Monroe. And you know what, it just seemed like fun, so I decided to join the fray. What follows is the prologue from my first completed novel. It was the first book I ever attempted, and I finished it, so that’s not a bad thing. This version is pretty polished. I had an earlier version that has long since been relegated to the dustbin of history, so can’t share the first rotten attempts. Suffice it to say there was a carriage, a rocky crag, a castle, an enigmatic lord, a frightened heroine who was sacrificing herself for the good of her family, a stormy ocean, and a love scene by page 50. ROFL.

The stats:

LORD OF THE MARCH
By Lynn Raye Harris
Began 1994
Finished 1995

The publishing history:

Agent full request 1995 (rejected after 9 months and one rewrite)
Rejected on partial by Pocket, Avon, Dell (and at least two other agents)
Rejected on query (with a request for something else) by SMP
Shoved into drawer

My reaction:

Author retreats from public eye, sequesters self in European village, cries for years, gives up writing forever.

Okay, not quite. I wrote another complete (Regency hist), a time-travel novella, started another medieval, started another Regency hist, took time off, started an MA, started writing and completing contemps (which is where I am now–less research, doncha know, and heroines who actually do something in the book instead of react to the shitstorm flung at them). [I mean my heroines, not historical heroines in general.]

The contests:

LOTM placed 2nd in the TARA, 2nd in the Emily, and won the Happy Hooker contest (sponsored by GEnie Romex back in the day). I got a 10 and a 3 in the GH, and everything in between. It’s funny now, but sure wasn’t then. I entered the Maggie twice with this, never finalled. I also got critiques from two NYT bestselling authors, one who tried gently to tell me that I could probably cut the first 100 pages and not lose anything. The other tried gently to tell me I had some clichés going. No kidding, but I sure couldn’t see it back then.

This is so embarrassing. Heroine doesn’t appear yet, and I feel the need to tell every blessed tiny thing that happens to make the hero friends with the king. It could have been backstory for pity’s sake. And oh the melodrama! Oh the revenge! The cursed revenge! The exclamation points! The modern voice! Read and snore….

PROLOGUE

Acre, Kingdom of Jerusalem
June 1272

When the hell was Prince Edward going to give up this absurd Crusade?

Richard de Claiborne, sole heir to the Earl of Dunsmore, gazed at the city of Acre spread out below. The hill upon which the English army encamped commanded a sweeping view of the sun-bleached buildings and dusty streets. Beyond lay the great expanse of sapphire that was the Mediterranean sea.

A breeze off the water, so rare this time of day, stirred across the camp. The hair on the back of his neck prickled inexplicably.

From air pregnant with silence, an explosion of sound erupted. The tent walls rippled. The crash of furniture and the muffled grunts of men hung in the oppressive stillness.

Richard’s heart leapt in his throat as he bolted for the opening. He threw a prayer to the heavens, begging God to take him instead of Prince Edward, and darted inside.

A turbaned man struggled in a death embrace with the heir to the English throne. Blood spattered the two mens’ clothes, a knife flashing between them as each tried to wrest it from the other. A parchment lay on the floor, the seal broken, forgotten in the fight. Cushions were scattered wildly, chairs upended, the table toppled.

The Saracen forced Edward backwards, the knife perilously close to the Prince’s throat.

Richard lunged. Grabbing the assassin, he jerked him off Edward and wrapped an arm around the man’s neck, yanking the Saracen’s chin toward him with his free hand.

One clean jerk, and it would snap.

Edward seized the man’s wrist, wrenching the dagger free with his remaining strength. The arm of Edward’s tunic lay open, slashed. Blood spurted from a deep gash that ran from his elbow to his wrist. He sank to his knees.

“Who sent you?” Richard demanded, twisting the assassin’s neck until his veins bulged. The man gave a strangled laugh, babbling in Arabic.

Richard tightened his grip.

“Sultan Baibars of Egypt!” the man spat in thickly accented French.

Edward swayed. “There is no honor in Crusading anymore. Saladin sent a horse to my great-uncle, Coeur de Lion, during the Battle of Jaffa, when his was cut from beneath him, so much did Saladin admire him for fighting a hopeless battle . . .” The Prince’s eyes were glazed, his voice soft.

The assassin laughed. “He is a dead man . . . the blade is poisoned.”

Jesu, no! Richard felt as if the earth were dropping from beneath his feet. Edward Plantagenet, the man who would be England’s king, the greatest warrior-king since Richard the Lion Heart, could not die!

Edward looked up, his eyes focusing on the messenger. With a swift movement, he drove the dagger upward into the man’s gut.

Startled, Richard let the infidel fall in a heap. The man jerked convulsively, blood gurgling in his throat and spilling from his mouth, before he was still.

Too late, men swarmed into the tent, voices raised in confusion. A woman screamed. Princess Eleanor rushed to her husband’s side, sobbing in her native Spanish.

“Send for a doctor!” Richard cried, yanking a white linen cloth from beneath the table.

He wound it around Edward’s arm while Eleanor held her husband’s head, stroking his hair and crying. She did not seem to notice the crimson stain seeping into the rich silk fabric of her dress.

Edward struggled to get up.

“Rest, Highness,” Richard said, pushing him back.

“You saved me, de Claiborne. I will not forget it, will make you the most powerful earl in the realm when I am king.” His voice was a whisper as he grasped Richard’s sleeve.

Richard nodded numbly, the assassin’s words echoing in his ears.

The blade is poisoned . . .

# # #

Richard entered the Prince’s tent quietly. ‘Twas three days since the attack. The sight that greeted him made him want to recoil in horror.

Edward was no longer the glorious Plantagenet prince, shining brighter than any star in the heavens, but a frail man lying close to death. Fever burned on his brow, his eyes blackened pits in his gaunt face. His arm swelled grotesquely out of proportion to the rest of his body.

Eleanor held his hand, weeping softly. Physicians hovered at the end of the bed, their voices but a murmur in Richard’s ears.

Several of Edward’s intimates, men of rank and power, sat nearby, glaring at Richard.

His heart pounded in his breast. Dunsmore was but a petty earldom when compared with the might of Gloucester or Richmond.

“Come,” Edward rasped.

Richard started forward slowly. “Highness,” he said, kneeling at Edward’s bedside.

“Even the Moor surgeon does not know the poison used,” Edward said, motioning feebly to the knot of men. “I am to die in God’s very bosom it seems.”

A small sob escaped the Princess.

Richard could not move, could not spea
k. He stared at the bloated hand lying only inches from his face.

“You tried to save me, my friend. God will not forget that. Eleanor will that see my father rewards you when you return to England.”

“Highness?” the Moor ventured, sliding into view next to Richard.

“Aye?”

“There is perhaps a chance. If I were to cut away the decaying flesh, it might stop the poison from spreading. ‘Twill be painful–”

“I counsel against it, Your Highness.” Another doctor, one of Edward’s own, stepped forward. “ ‘Tis heathen and cannot possibly work!”

“What say you, Richard?” Edward asked.

Richard turned to the Moor. “ ‘Tis the only chance?”

“He will certainly die otherwise . . . and he may die anyway.”

“‘Tis your decision, Highness, but if there is no other option . . .”

“Do it then,” Edward commanded. “Stay with me, Richard.”

“Aye, Your Highness.”

“Eleanor, love, you must go. I cannot bear your tears. And take these wet nurses with you,” he added, casting a scathing look at the anxious lords.

“Nay, Edward, I want to stay with you,” she sobbed.

He motioned to the two knights standing in the door. They came forward and tried to lead Eleanor from his bedside.

She screamed. The knights turned helpless faces on their future king. His jaw clenched, but he nodded. They picked up the screaming princess and dragged her, kicking and scratching, from the tent.

Richard could feel the enmity flowing from the barons as they filed out. Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, was only six years older than Richard, and yet even at eight and twenty, Red Gilbert was the most powerful baron in all of England. His face was every bit as red as his hair as he aimed a look of fierce hatred at Richard before disappearing through the flap.

The doctor finished heating the knife, then gave the Prince a piece of wood to bite upon.

“If you value your lives, do not interfere,” Edward said to the other physicians. He looked at Richard, his blue eyes suddenly grim. “Pray for me, my friend.”

Richard nodded.

At the first touch of the hot blade, Edward passed out. The smell of charred flesh filled the tent. Richard swallowed the bile rising in his throat, prayers tumbling over one another in his mind as he sought to ignore what was happening before his eyes.

“It is done,” the physician said at last.

“Will he live?” Richard asked.

The Moor shrugged his shoulders. “ ‘Tis in Allah’s hands now. We can only wait and see.”

Richard squeezed his eyes shut. It was two years since Prince Edward and his army of gallant one-thousand had sailed from England.

The voyage had been leisurely. They’d made port in Aquitaine and Brittany, Lisbon and Tangier, Rome and Sicily. They’d traversed the Greek Isles; Corfu, Crete, Rhodes, where the sun was blistering and the sands bleached white, and where the water shone vibrant turquoise.

To pass the long days at sea, Richard worked beside the ship’s men, honing his body to razor-sharpness. It did not matter that he was an earl’s son and would one day be an earl himself. To simply breathe the tang of the salt-drenched air, to feel the sun’s kiss on his skin, to know the sensation of back-breaking work were the things he needed to keep his energy focused.

His visions of glory had not dampened in the one and a half year journey to the hot and dusty land of Christ. He’d set foot upon the hallowed ground of Outremer determined to turn the infidels to God and to wrest the birthplace of Christ from their savage hands.

But, in the months he’d been here, his conviction had seeped away, leached from his body by the scorching Mediterranean sun. Infidels and Christians mingled freely in the streets of Acre and Jerusalem, and the Christians did not seem gladdened to see the English knights who would once again attempt to conquer the heathens. Indeed, the English army’s victories at Nazareth and Haifa failed to bring any aid from the knights of Christendom.

Gallantly, Edward had struggled on, refusing to allow the dwindling numbers of his army and the lack of reinforcements to discourage him. King Henry sent paltry excuses where he had once sent vast sums of money.

And now it had all come down to this. Richard opened his eyes to gaze at the unconscious man in front of him. He didn’t believe in anything anymore — anything except this man.

“I swear upon my honor that if you live, I will never desert your cause, whatever it may be,” he whispered fiercely.

###

Edward recovered quickly, although he remained weak for some time, spending the lengthening days of summer resting in his tent. Sultan Baibars, seeing he could not rid himself of the Prince so easily, agreed to a ten year truce. The army worked diligently to prepare the ships for the return voyage to England.

The afternoon was sultry as usual, and Richard reclined on a cushion, sipping a cup of chilled wine. He was a constant companion of Edward’s now. The Prince welcomed him into the royal circle enthusiastically, frequently eschewing the company of his other lords. Richard knew it did not endear him to the powerful barons to be so favored by the next King of England.

“When I am king, I intend to subjugate Wales and Scotland,” Edward was saying. “One island, one kingdom. Prince Llywelyn will pay for tricking my father into giving him dominion in Wales whilst my father was Simon de Montfort’s prisoner.”

“Welsh savages have no honor,” Richard repeated by rote. He stroked his short beard with a bronzed hand. The months spent beneath the sweltering eastern sun had burnished his skin to a copper so deep it would never come out.

“You grew up in the March. What do you think Llywelyn’s weakness is?”

“His chieftains fight amongst themselves constantly. Not all of them support him. My father is friendly with Gruffydd ap Gwynwynwyn, lord of Powys. There is no love lost between Gruffydd and Llywelyn, and Gruffydd is his most powerful vassal.”

Edward toyed with his cup. “I cannot declare open war on Prince Llywelyn, but if what you say is true, an opportunity is bound to arise that I can use to my advantage.” His eyes took on a zealous light. “You must help me, Richard. I want you to lead the Marcher lords. Gilbert is a poor choice. He changed sides twice during the Barons’ Revolt. I cannot entrust men such as that with the good of the realm.”

Richard reeled. Jesu, Gloucester! “Red Gilbert holds more lands than my father. He owes the crown more rents than any other in the kingdom! How can you do it?”

Edward smiled a deadly smile. “When I am king, none will challenge my authority as they do my father’s. By elevating you, the others will see their positions are not so permanent as they might think.”

Richard’s hand strayed to his sword hilt. “To think my father did not want me to come with you.”

Edward laughed suddenly. “Aye, my friend, we have much in common. My father begged me not to leave England. But, we do what we must, eh?”

“Aye, we do what we must.” Mayhap now, his father would admit he’d been right to go. Just because the old earl had never gotten over the death of Richard’s mother was no reason to always try and keep his son by his side.

A messenger appeared in the open flap of the tent. He handed missives to Edward, bowing deeply before being dismissed with a nod.

“I will leave you now,” Richard said, rising.

“Nay, nay. ‘Twill only take a moment.”

Richard sank onto the cushions. Edward broke the seal on the first document and poured over the contents. He paused, raising his eyes to Richard briefly, before continuing.
/>Edward cast the letter aside and passed a hand over his face. “‘Tis from my mother.”

“Is King Henry . . .?”

“Nay, he is ill, but the doctors think he will not die yet. I . . . I do not know how to tell you,” Edward said, his blue eyes searching Richard’s face.

Richard sat up. “What?” he asked, apprehension washing over him.

“Your father was killed in a border skirmish, the beginning of spring. I am sorry.”

Richard closed his eyes. God’s blood, almost three months! Guilt stabbed through him, sharp and cold. His father had feared for his life, and now he was the one dead. And Richard hadn’t been there.

He swallowed the painful lump in his throat. Despite the victory he’d just gained, he’d failed his father miserably. William de Claiborne would never know what his son had achieved.

Hot tears pressed against his eyelids, begging to spill free. He would not let them. When he was only seven, and his father’s mournful wails echoed through Claiborne castle after a night of drinking and drowning in memories of his dead wife, Richard had wiped away his own tears and sworn never to cry again. It was a vow he’d never broken.

“How did it happen?” he asked quietly. His father had ridden the border for years. It was hard to believe the Welsh had finally beaten him.

“Ambush, it seems. One survivor, and he swears it was Llywelyn.”

Richard clenched his teeth so hard it made his jaw hurt. Goddamn Welsh savage! In that moment, a hatred so intense was born that his first thought was to shrink from it, to hide from its brilliant white-hot glare. But he embraced it instead, locking it into the depths of his heart and finding comfort in it.

Prince Llywelyn would pay dearly.

***

If you’re still here, can you guess whose kid the heroine is? Yep, forced marriage between Llywelyn’s daughter and our hero. But not for 10 more years. Chapter 1 begins five years later. The marriage doesn’t occur for another 5 years beyond that (which, I believe takes us to page 100). What was I thinking?!

(But you know what, I still have a fondness for this book. It’s like the ugly baby that only a mother could love.)

Yesterday was one of those days. You know the kind, the ones where you keep trying to do several things at once and none of them are getting done very efficiently and you’re getting frustrated and depressed and wishing it was tomorrow already because today isn’t going your way. If, in looking back at the previous post, I am considering my husband’s routine and comparing mine, I’d say it went wrong at the coffee stage. Too many urgent emails requiring attention (chapter and other business). A couple of phone calls. More emails once the first ones were answered. The worst opening paragraph about Mrs. Dalloway ever in the history of thesis writing–wrote it yesterday, today it sucks. And so many things I need to do that are weighing on my mind like the proverbial sack of bricks.

(But, one good email in which I won a book over on Alison Kent’s site! Yay!)

So, as far as new routines, today not so good. I couldn’t beat the old system very well, though I limited the blogging once the email took over my morning. *sigh*

I don’t have to read those digest emails, I know I don’t, but I’m the kind of person who doesn’t throw things away because I might find a use for it later. Likewise, I can’t delete the digests unread because I might miss something I need to know.

And therein lies the trouble. The conversations are driving me nuts. They also somewhat reflect conversations I’ve had with individuals, which may be why they’re pressing my buttons.

Why oh why does everyone think that the “rules” don’t apply to them? Why do they argue and make statements like, “If such and such doesn’t like the way I do it, then I didn’t want them for my agent/editor/publisher/pal anyway”?

I kid you not, I’ve been privy to conversations that discussed the personal preference for Bookman Antiqua 14 over the old standard Courier New or TNR 12 and how they didn’t think they ought to have to change the font. Me, I think if the editor wants it in Wingdings 20, they’re getting it that way. To hell with what I prefer. (OTOH, Miss Snark says that writers worry about format much more than agents/editors. They just want it readable. Though, over on Anna Genoese’s site, if you send it to her in Arial, she’s sending it back.)

But, I guess what really gets me about the rules conversations is that almost universally, people think the rules don’t apply to them. Oh yes, they see the need for them, the reason romance is, for example, generally 3rd person POV, but they think they are the special case in which it doesn’t apply. They are allowed to write the only 2nd person romance in the history of mankind while the rest of us must follow conventional wisdom. (This isn’t the best example, but hey.)

And, by golly, I’m not saying some of them aren’t the exception! But we can’t all be the special case. We can’t all trot out Strunk and White and say, yes but it doesn’t apply to ME because I know HOW to break the rule. Which, inevitably, is what you hear. And can I let you in on a little secret? Most of the people saying it aren’t yet published by a major publisher. Things that make you go hmmmm.

I think it does newbie writers a disservice to tell them they can write the story any old way they want without learning what the rules of grammar or even genre are. Yes, even literary writers have stylistic conventions/rules/whatever you want to call it. How many literary writers do you know that exist in a vacuum? No, they often come from academia or from MFA programs or writers’ workshops. Writing is like piano playing. You don’t just wake up one morning and do it. You have to learn it and practice it.

Writing can be shaped. I admit that the rules can also interfere with a person’s natural writing style, which isn’t a good thing. Perhaps it’s not the rules so much as the timing of the application of them. If a new writer joins a critique group and takes her first chapter and gets told that you can’t headhop and you can’t include the dog’s POV, etc, and then she’s at a standstill because she’s confused and wary and stuck, that’s not good. I think the secret is that first draft isn’t the place to be critical. But that’s another one of my peeves.

No, we do not all want to sound alike and I’m not advocating we do. Slavish devotion to ANY rule is probably a bad thing. But, by golly, if Strunk and White is good enough for Stephen King, it’s good enough for me.

But when is something wrong? When is it NOT okay to write 30 pages of the heroine going about her business before she meets the hero? I believe, btw, that Wendy Wax does this extremely well in Leave it to Cleavage. I’d never argue with her about when the hero shows up on the scene. I also think Nora Roberts writes limited 3rd POV well (aka headhopping) and that a writer like Susan Elizabeth Phillips can write several pages of the heroine telling her backstory to a dog (Ain’t She Sweet). Jenny Crusie writes situational comedy plots that no one else could probably get away with, and Marsha Canham can pack a story with history and still make you read along. (I’m sure we can all think of examples.)

But when is it not okay? Can’t we just admit that not even Mozart was born with the ability to write “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” on day one (or day 1500)? Beethoven wrote the “Ode to Joy” at the end of his life. They studied, they worked hard, they learned the conventions even if they did their own thing. Why should writing be any different?

Okay, so that’s my opinion. I’m sure there are folks who disagree. And don’t even get me started on people who tell newbie writers that you can’t write a chick-lit/historical/romantic suspense because the market is saturated or you have to know SO MUCH to do it well so you might as well not even bother. Grrrr.

Mike and I had a talk over a bottle of wine this weekend. My hubby is the best, most supportive guy in the world. He didn’t say to me, “Go get a job.” He never does. But he did say some other things, like “You’re spinning your wheels.” How can he tell? Because, he says, when I’m working on something and I’m deep into it, I’m bouncing off the walls when he gets home (in a happy way). Apparently, I haven’t been bouncing lately.

So then we discussed our routines. He has specific things he does at work, from the moment he gets his coffee to everything else that happens in his day. At the end of the day, he makes a list of things that he has to do tomorrow. Sometimes, all goes well. Other times, he gets thrown off by an early meeting or an urgent directive from higher up. He understands distractions, but thinks I have too many of them.

My routine consists of coffee, email and blogs. Then comes the writing (my brain won’t leap right into the story; I need warmup time). But sometimes I get sidetracked by massive amounts of email I must answer (chapter business), and then I get caught following the loops, which in itself can be frustrating and time consuming. Sometimes I think I should take myself off digest on these things. Except Chaplink.

Anyway. Ahem. I don’t shower at a set time. I like the part about being able to write in my jammies, but Mike says I should get “ready” for work. One writer I know gets up, showers, does her hair and makeup, puts on her jewelry, and goes to her home office (she puts comfy sweat clothes on though). I am NOT putting on makeup and jewelry for writing, though I could be persuaded to give the early shower a try. I like being an unwashed unpublished (just kidding, Diana!) but I’ll see if washing helps me think better. Ha!

We talked about how long the email/blogs takes. I think it averages around 3 hours a morning. Mike said, “That’s almost half the work day gone.” Whoa, I never thought of it that way.

He’s right, darn him. He says I should look at my day and set it up with 4 hours dedicated to the book, 4 hours to the thesis (which will be over soon enough anyway, especially if I get off my ass and finish it), and take breaks like I would at a job. I can save the house cleaning/laundry/reading/etc until evening. I should either limit the morning email/blog routine, or move it to evening. Yikes.

Now, I’ve explained that the creative brain doesn’t necessarily work when you force it to. Sometimes, you have to stare off in space. He agrees. But, he says, he wants me to give it a try, see if I can work with a new routine. I think he’s right, so I’m trying it. Can’t hurt.

I’m also taking a hard look at the “other” things I do. I’m going to have to eliminate or cut down some of them. For instance, my Wed night writers’ group (we spend a lot of time talking). Once a week is too much for me right now. I have too many irons in the fire (and an impending inlaw visit, part of which will be spent cruising the islands on the Pride of Aloha). I need to finish this book. I want the thesis done before the cruise. I also have personal tasks that need completing. My husband is understanding and supportive, but I know he’d like it if I could manage to spend time with him and take care of household things here and there. No one likes eating soup or grilled chicken 7 nights a week.

Interestingly, PBW was talking about prioritizing recently:

Make the work the first priority. I know I keep harping on this, but the writing has to come first. When you’re not writing, someone else is. When you’re not pitching, someone else is. When you’re off getting drunk in the Tiki bar at Paradise Con, someone else is at home mailing out a submission to your editor, or querying your agent.

Oh dear, certainly makes you stop and think, huh? (I can’t believe anyone writes this woman hatemail! I love reading her posts.) Writing comes first (or as soon after coffee and limited emailing/blogging as possible). All else is secondary.

Is there anything you’ve eliminated to get the writing done? Any routine you’ve hit on that works for you? Share away! I can always use ideas.

The way Hawaii is supposed to look. It doesn’t look this way lately. Hasn’t in a month or more. (I shall return with a regularly scheduled blog post tomorrow….)