Lynn Raye Harris

I started following this story about Cassie Edwards’s copying a couple of days ago, and I’m still shocked, dismayed, and yeah, even sympathetic to what she may be going through. No, I absolutely do NOT condone plagiarism. But I can’t help but wonder what she’s feeling right now and feel kind of sorry for her. I doubt she copied reference works maliciously, but the fact remains that she copied them almost word for word. And now she’s got Nora Roberts pissed off.

I’ve had my own brush with plagiarism. In college, a fellow student copied my A paper and turned it in as his own. He only got caught because I got suspicious when the professor said the same things to this student, in front of the class, that he’d said to me two weeks before. When I brought the matter up to the prof, he compared the papers and found that, except for a couple of odd verb changes, they were identical.

So what happened to this guy? The dean begged the prof to let him write another paper and not to fail him. The prof, who became a dear friend of mine and remains so to this day, was pissed off but had to comply. A few months later, the student got arrested for stealing from his church. The two aren’t necessarily related, but if he’d failed the class, if he’d learned there were consequences for dishonesty, maybe he’d have thought twice about stealing church money.

What will happen to Cassie Edwards? No idea. Her publisher initially claimed that she’d done nothing wrong, but that was before Nora got publicly involved. The side by side examples of the reference works she used and her own work are damning. The words are the same, with a couple of changes here and there.

I read the examples and I feel like Jane Bennett in Pride and Prejudice. Lizzie tells Jane, when she keeps trying to make Darcy and Wickham into nice guys, that they can’t both be good if the facts are as Darcy has related. I keep trying to make CE into a blameless victim, and I know that’s not right. She typed the words she read in her research books as her own. She typed them. She either did a cut and paste, or she sat that book open on her desk or her lap and she typed. And that is clearly wrong.

Should writers of fiction be required to list bibliographies? I think a lot of historical writers wouldn’t mind because their research can be very extensive. But to cite chapter and verse in the manner of an academic paper? Uh, no. If I had to do that, I wouldn’t write. No reader wants endnotes in her fiction. It’s ridiculous.

Do you think, if you’ve read the examples, that she should have known it was plagiarism? Or is there room for people to be confused about what “put it into your own words” means? I’m clear on what constitutes plagiarism, but do you think it’s possible for someone not to be clear on it? To think that changing a couple of words makes it okay? Or am I being too much of a Jane Bennett?

Update: The more I think about this, the more I’m coming around to thinking that apparently Mr. Wickham did do some bad things with full knowledge they were bad. I keep picturing this writer with her research books open on her lap and transcribing what she’s reading into dialogue for her characters. How could she not know that’s wrong? How could she not want her characters to sound like HER characters? I know so many fine writers, and as I prepare to head off to a Heart of Dixie meeting tomorrow, I just can’t imagine any of our published authors sitting down at their desks and doing the same thing CE has done. Their work means too much to them, as listening to them talk about writing for the past year has made apparent to me. Same with the fine unpublished members we have, of course.

It’s a myth, right? Life is life. It happens, it’s messy, it does what it does. And yet I can’t help but be seduced by the myth of a perfect life. I think that if I had a housekeeper, a scheduler, a decorator, an organizer, a life coach, etc, that things would go really smoothly.

It’s a new year, and I’m already looking at the pile of junk mail on my kitchen island and wondering how it got so damn big. And there’s the little matter of a technical thing I need to attend to that’s worth, oh, a lot of money to the bottom line (by the end of January). There’s the laundry, the decorating, the appointments for things I’d rather not think about (dentist, for instance) that need to be made.

There’s damn HGTV seducing me with the idea of the perfectly decorated house, the awesome and fascinating party I should host, and the stupid commercials where spraying Febreze makes like ohsoperfect. When does it get perfect in Chez Harris? When does myth meet reality and make it all a snap? I’ve sprayed the Febreze, rearranged the furniture, and tried the new recipe. Life ain’t perfect.

Oh, it ain’t bad. I’m very thankful for what I have, thankful I can bitch and moan about Hollywood ideas of perfection, but I still wish they’d give me a break from the idea that my life could be perfect if only.

This, I think, is why I write fiction. My characters’ lives aren’t perfect, but I control their world. I am the demi-god who makes life or death decisions for them. Maybe that’s why my real world seems so chaotic. In the fictional world, I have control. Here, I can barely organize a closet, much less my response to a Febreze-scented nation. Jeez.

What about you? Feeling the pressure of a new year and new expectations? Or have you figured out how to make your own way in this perfection-obsessed world? If you’ve got the secret, I’d sure like to know…

I forgot how much I enjoyed 80+ degree temps at Christmas. Alabama isn’t bad in the winter, but it was in the 30s last night when we drove to my parents’ house for dinner. Brrr! To think that just last week, I was wearing a bathing suit…..

Here’s a pic of Nassau. Doesn’t that look inviting? No one warned me about the Straw Market. In consequence, I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t take enough cash off the ship and only managed to buy two purses instead of the 5 or so I would have liked to buy.

Some people don’t like the hassle of bargaining with merchants. Some people don’t like the close quarters of the market. But I loved it. I have no problem saying no and no problem walking away. Therefore, I think my designer knockoffs were a bargain.

Next stop was St. Thomas on Christmas day. Isn’t it gorgeous? Reminded me of a cross between Hawaii and the Amalfi coast in Italy. I would definitely love to spend some time in the USVI. It’s much closer than Hawaii, and just as lovely.

Finally, here we are with the famous coconut monkey cups. Yes, they are tacky tourist tchotchke. They are over priced. But I teased my hubby one too many times about getting sloshed on coconut monkey drinks. So he went to the bar and bought two (with margaritas inside) just to shut me up, I think.

All in all, the cruise was fun. The difficulties I imagined in traveling with both sets of parents were just that — my imagination. Everyone got along fabulously. No one felt pressured to do anything they didn’t want to do. We spent whole days doing nothing. When the ladies wanted to go shopping, we went. When the men wanted to lounge around doing nothing, they did it.

I think I will cruise again. I enjoyed being waited on, enjoyed lounging around reading books. I tried the casino, but wasn’t hooked. After I lost $50 in the slots, I was cured of any desire to keep trying. I also went to an art auction, but I set my number on the table, face down, and put my sunglasses on top to keep me out of trouble. It worked, thank God. Not so much for others, though. Someone in the room spent eleven grand on four Peter Max prints. PRINTS, not oils, not one-of-a-kind paintings. Then there were the Rembrandt woodcuts for 15K. No one bought them.

I only read two books on board (though I took about 10), but they were both very good. I finally read J.R. Ward’s Dark Lover. Yeah, I’m hooked, and I don’t even like vampires that much. It’s her characterization. Fabulous. I had some quibbles with the story, but not enough to make me stop. That’s good writing, when you get mad at the characters but are too interested in their story to stop reading.

I also read Maria V. Snyder’s Poison Study. Another winner. Great book, and now I have to buy the sequel in trade paperback because I can’t wait for mass market. I took along a J.D. Robb, but didn’t get to it. Hubby read it, and he was hooked, but ultimately didn’t like it. Too much romance for him. Still, Nora had him turning those pages.

What did you do over the holidays? Get everything you wanted for Christmas? Make any new resolutions? I have to think about mine. I purposely didn’t take a computer or Alphie on the cruise because I wanted time away from writing, so now I’m getting my brain back into gear and thinking about what I want to accomplish this year. If you’ve figured out your goals, please share!

I’m gone until the New Year. Here’s wishing you a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Let’s hope for great writing in 2008, and the strength and perseverance needed to get that elusive contract.

See y’all on the flip side!

Whilst working on my GH entry, I decided I needed a non-writer opinion. Now, I know my hubby doesn’t read romance. I know he’s not going to understand everything about the genre and he may be a bit, well, confused with how much emphasis there is on the romantic relationship as opposed to car chases, gunfights, and space ships (or some such).

*sigh* You get what you pay for. He read every word, he laughed in a couple of places, and he gave me comments that were helpful. But he didn’t love it. It’s not his genre, and I know that, but I guess I still expected him to be wowed. His comment? “It’s not bad.” ROFL. I’m secure enough not to disintegrate over that, but still. Is it a bit too much to ask for some enthusiasm?

I think of Stephen King and his first reader. He says he writes for his wife. It’s her he wants to entertain. If she doesn’t like something, he’s disappointed. And I know how he feels, I guess. I can’t write for my husband since I write romance and he doesn’t read it. But I’d like it if he was amazed and stupefied by my brilliance, you know?

In his defense, though, he has always promised to tell me the truth when I ask him to read my work. I prefer that to platitudes and blind acceptance of everything I’ve written. He even once gave me the perfect plot twist on a short story. I value his opinion, but I still wish I could wow him. Maybe if I write an intergalactic space ship chase/gunfight/political thriller/horror novel combination, I’ll have the ideal first reader. Until then, I guess I’ll have to settle for It’s not bad.

Do you have a first reader who’s a non-writer? Do you share your work with your spouse, or another family member? Are you disappointed or helped by those opinions?

I just found out that my manuscript is an Honorable Mention in the Romancing the Tome contest! I was one of the top 5 non-finalists in any category. I’m pretty happy about that! And my judges comments were very good, so who can complain? Not me. This is a good day in my book.

For all the detractors who claim romance novels are unrealistic fluffy trash meant to be devoured at beaches when you want to give your brain a rest from the hard parts of life, this anonymous letter ought to make you realize that romance writers aren’t lumpable into a single category, nor dismissable as hacks. (NOTE: This letter is not for the faint of heart. I believe there is a warning when you start reading, but if not, consider yourself warned.)

For a look into the life of a brilliant, beautiful, and talented romance writer, this article about my fellow Hawaii chaptermate Jane Porter shows you just how smart and well-spoken a romance author can be. Yay to Jane for not making excuses about her writing! She tells a good story and she’s proud of it. She’s an auto-buy for me, not simply because I know and admire her, but because she writes thought-provoking stories that resonate with me.

I’m not really blue about the company being gone. The holiday was great, we had a wonderful time, but I just can’t work with people around. Maybe if they lived down the street instead of in another state. But since they come so far, and are here for about a week each time, I feel like I need to be available to go sightseeing and shopping and stuff.

The hubby was off from Thurs through Sun. We stayed home on Thanksgiving, naturally. Friday, we drove to Tennessee and went sightseeing at an old mill. We also headed up to Sewanee and enjoyed the beautiful grounds of the University of the South.

Saturday was this place. I bought an espresso machine. Saturday evening, we toured the Galaxy of Lights.

Sunday, we went to visit my parents and see how their house is coming along for the Christmas Tour. I’m tired just recounting all we did. This morning, my house is quiet. Oddly quiet, though I usually like it that way. But it takes me a little while to get used to it again.

I have to get my GH entry out the door this week and I don’t feel like doing any of it today. But I have to. This is the danger zone, that period of time between when you work hard on a regular basis and when you take a break that’s a little too long, a break that makes you start thinking maybe you really aren’t cut out for this business. One rejection at a moment like this could set you back for weeks.

I’ve been there before, been vulnerable and listened to the demon of doubt when the Christmas Eve rejection came in the mail. I won’t do it again, but it’s easy to think I might on a gray, cold morning when the house is quiet and my mind hasn’t yet settled down to business.

Do you have trouble getting into the groove again after time away? Or do you keep working even when the company is there?

Does it get any better? I’m admittedly behind the times with television, but when I saw this guy on my favorite channel, HGTV, my brain just kind of stopped working. Carter Oosterhouse, carpenter, model, and humanitarian, host of “Carter Can.”

Oh dear.

He has so got to be the inspiration for one of my heroes. Just not sure which one yet.

My personal hero, the hubby, was out of town this week. He returned yesterday. And I realized something while he was gone. I cannot be a hermit writer, much as I like to think I can. I love being home alone all day, working on my writing, but I really need that evening time with my honey.

Long days stretched in front of me with nothing but time to write? Nope, need the hubby to come home at the end of the day and make me think about something else. It’s amazing how tangled up your life can get with one person, but we’re like the roots of two plants that have grown together and entwined to such an extent that one can’t survive without the other.

And that’s what I love about romance novels. Love is the most wonderful, important, life-altering emotion in the universe. Amazing how romance gets bashed as “those little books” or “bodice rippers” or “easy, mindless trash.” Really? Love is mindless trash? Interesting thought.

Got any thoughts about love, romance novels, or fabulous hunks? Do share!

I’ve had to rethink my Sven goals just a little. I didn’t realize that revising the first book would take as much time as it has, so I’m not actively working on the next WIP.

There seems to be mass confusion with the GH requirements. Some folks say to worry about the 55 page entry only, because if you make it to the finals and your book is requested, they’ll give you a chance to provide an updated copy.

Others say the book should be revised all the way through and as polished as you can make it. I guess I’m erring on the side of caution, but it’s making me quite unhappy to work on this thing non stop. The more I revise, the more I see what I could change to be even better.

And I know that’s a trap.

True story: when I was about 6, I had a playmate who was four years older. She had the patience of Job, because I remember one day wanting to play Barbies. I got Barbie and she got Ken. And I made her reenact the “meet” so many times it wasn’t funny. I came up with all sorts of scenarios, including casting Barbie as Jeannie and Ken as Tony Nelson (I Dream of Jeannie for you whippersnappers). I was never satisfied, and we replayed the meet over and over. Finally, I think she gave up.

But as I revise, I remember my 6yr old perfectionist. And I tell her we don’t have time to rewrite this story in every possible incarnation she can imagine.

How do you revise? Do you have a limit, say two times through, or do you revise until you’re satisfied? How do you resist the perfectionist inside (if you have one)?