destroying what little privacy there ever was to begin with

It’s a lot of work to be a nobody.

Trying to keep up with the world as it is today means being a public figure. (Don’t worry, I have zero ambition to become a politician.  I’m so accident-prone, I’d probably get impeached within five minutes for accidentally breaking something valued at a number worth more than my life and all my possessions combined.)  In today’s world, it’s nearly impossible to meet an American without connecting through some form of technology.

  • Desktops, laptops, “air” laptops
  • iPads, tablets, readers
  • Cordless phones, cellular phones, smart phones

Um… Since when did inanimate objects begin having fiercer competition than the Olympics?

The relationship between technology and its user is a fluid, living, organic being.  Technology can create, shape (and sometimes disastrously fail) its users.  Technology can make or break you.

One of my favorite director/producer/writer/guest lecturer and all-around smart guy, J. J. Abrams, once gave a guest lecture for Ted.com, discussing the idea of the “Mystery Box.” Now, although his lecture was not directly about technology, there was a portion of his lecture where he discussed YouTube and today’s technology, mentioning how he is excited about the videos on YouTube.

Are you kidding me? J. J. Abrams is glad about YouTube?

His comment was (and I’m paraphrasing his quote, here) when he was a child, video equipment was so expensive for a young filmmaker, that you could only have your movies viewed if a large production company was covering the bill.  With the advancements in technology, the ability to have access to technology is easy and cheap despite your background or home life, upload the video to your computer, feature it on your YouTube page and ta-da! Anyone can be a filmmaker.

You might think, he’d be worried about the competition. (Oh, please. Let’s face it. It’s difficult to compete stylistically with that guy. Abrams = Awesome.)  But no. He celebrates the fact that people of all ages, gender, background, income, etc. can make a film and publish it to YouTube and garner a fanbase.  (Anyone noting the correlation of this statement with the fact that I’m an unknown author with not-quite-yet-published work?)

How many vocal artists today have become international sensations due to YouTube?  Writers and authors (there’s a difference, but that’s also a topic for another time), are able to get their work out to the masses through self-publishing on places like Amazon and iBooks.

WordPress, anyone?  Hint-hint, nudge-nudge, wink-wink?  <Cough!>

Quick time warp to 1993: I remember looking at my grandma, wide-eyed and shocked at the fact that she had lived before cars were invented.

(Stay with me here, there’s a point.)

Slight flash forward to 2001: I remember babysitting a family friend’s 7-year-old daughter. We’ll call her Jazzy.

Jazzy was in the back of my first love, my car Bob (more on him another day), and her giving me the same wide-eyed and shocked look as she stated, “You were alive before the Internet?”

Do you see where I’m going with this?

Technology can change in a flash, or sometimes a literal spark depending on what tools you’re working with, and it’s important for one to keep up with the times.  Sure, starting a blog in 2012 is not necessarily rocket science.  In fact, having some sort of online presence is much more common than it is to go without one.

Here’s my point. Thanks for sticking with me.

Having a blog that’s sort-of out there isn’t enough. Taking the initial initiative by starting this blog was great, but now I need to push further.  That way, when (note: I didn’t say “if”) I’m published in the future, all of you (or maybe all five of you?) will have shared this journey with me.

You may be few, but you’re precious to me.  <singing> We shall overcome!

Ok… Sorry. I’ll stop now.

Our online relationship via technology can reach the next level. I get to share my joys (sometimes sorrows, but hopefully more joys) with me.  And I thank you for your loyalty even before I’ve gotten anywhere near my goal.

To boost more pre-publication fans and maintain my little corner of the virtual world, I’ve just setup a Facebook page!

Oh, Facebook. You’re truly a blessing and a curse.  You help me stay connected with my most precious loved ones (and some funny games), but curse me to review you constantly throughout the day.

Pityingly enough, my poor page has just little ol’ me on it.

Help me. I’ve ‘Liked’ myself.  That’s like giving yourself a high-five.  (Although, per my “About Me” page, we have already established that I enjoy high-fives.)

Please check it out, ‘Like’ my page, and let’s see if we can get this global!

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 8: What about their earlier school days? Write a scene of your character in grade school or middle school.

At the sound of the bell, Hallie packed up her notebook, slinging the padded strap of her orange backpack over her shoulder and headed out the door to get ready for another lecture on the French Revolution.

Slamming her locker shut, she turned and smacked face-first into a wall, her books falling to the floor.  The “wall” turned out to be a chest. She looked up. And up. And up. Being 5’3” Hallie was used to being shorter than everyone, but the boy attached to this chest had to be just over six feet.  He also happened to be the most drop-dead gorgeous boy she’d ever seen.

“Oh!” Words. Words would be good to use right about now.  “I-um… Sorry.  I wasn’t-… I mean… I didn’t look where I was going.”  Letting out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, she blinked a few times, temporarily forgetting how to speak.

A voice, deep and smooth, enveloped her like a warm blanket.

“No problem,” he replied. “Here, let me help you.” He stooped down to pick up her books. As she leaned down gathering the papers that had fallen out of her notebook, she stole glances at him.  His eyes shifted up briefly and grinned at her.

Oh dear lord.  Eyes a deep shade denim, with a straight nose, charcoal black hair, and lips that were so kissable they were causing her stomach do all kinds of backflips at the moment.

“Thanks… I, um… Yeah. Thanks.”  She gave him a weak smile and felt a blush crawling up her neck.  After returning her history notes, he cocked his head slightly and softened his grin as if amused by her lack of ability to put words together.

“I’m Wes.”

“Hallie.”

They stood in the hall, the sounds of the other students fading into the background to a soft murmur and stared at each other. Analyzing each other.  A very unconvincing coughing sound outside of their personal bubble space made her snap back to reality.

“Am I interrupting something?” Hallie’s brother Henry appeared. How long had he been there?  Henry watched both of them, switching back and forth from each face as if witnessing a tennis match.  Curiosity at her and with skepticism towards Henry.

death to the early bird and hand me my fucking coffee!

Just pass the coffee, will you?

If you haven’t noticed already, I’m a bit of a night owl. And that suits my purpose just fine. Some of my best work has happened at the odd hour of 3 o’clock in the morning. The blog says I may have made multiple posts on the same day, when in truth, I was up until the wee hours of the morning (also known as deep night, those hours between 12:00am-4:59am), writing a post, only to turn around and do another one later that evening.

Although, again noting no siblings, I look back on my youth. Remembering that I spent quite a bit of time in bed staring at the upper bunk.  My mind would drift as soft Christmas lights would change their blinking pattern and alternate their color combinations.  (Strung up Christmas twinkle lights were my version of a night light, and much prettier.)

Note to parents: Twinkle lights are awesome for dark-fearing children, because they can use the excuse that they love Christmas to their friends.

 Also, this was before the ‘fad’ that stringing up white lights along the edge of your ceiling was delegated as a ‘hipster’ thing to do.)

Many evenings were spent just lost in my thoughts. (Well, as deep a thought a youth can have, I suppose.) Replaying recent TV shows or movies in my head.  You could say this was the time I first began making up stories. Just me, under the safety of my Smurfs blanket making believe I was a princess, a spy, a farmer, whatever. There was a brief period of time when I aspired to become a fire truck.  Not a firefighter, the actual truck. (What, can I say? Sirens are awesome.)  Never had any issues with monsters under the bed.

Note to parents: The way to keep monsters out of your closet and away from under the bed? Show the kids how their closet is full. That the children themselves can barely fit in there, so how can a monster?  Roll out drawers for storage of off-season clothing fills up the space underneath the bed.

Monsters? What monsters? There’s no way a monster can fit under your bed with the enormous Christmas sweater Aunt Mabel knitted for you to wear next year.

What?

Yes…

Yes, you’re wearing the sweater…  Don’t argue with me young lady!

Aunt Mabel worked very hard on that sweater. Just because she has cataracts and made one sleeve a half of a foot longer than the other is not reason enough to ignore such a gift!

Bring back the sweater and those matches to me this instant, young lady!

Mornings, however, are the bane of my existence. I’ll admit to having the slightest, fleeting moment of homicide upon initial waking.  You know that woman, stumbling around in her bathrobe, hair sticking out worse than Einstein on a bad day, mumbling to herself and others around her the gentle, harmless sentence along the lines of:

Slowly hand me back my f****** coffee NOW and no one will be permanently scarred!

Yeah… Sorry about that. I was… um… not myself.

My ever faithful and dutiful husband, Pilot (sadly finding out he was part of THEM. The oh-so-dreaded “Morning Person” people), learned quite quickly that I require at least one hour of no agitation upon waking. On a time-crunched day, a reduced and painfully necessary reduction to 59 minutes of no agitation upon waking.  Don’t worry, he’s survived stitches before.

<Lightly shaking me awake to the vibration standard of 10.5 on the Richter Magnitude Scale.>

“Sweetie, it’s time to get up.”

Mmmm…

“Sweetie, your alarm is going off.”

Mmmm… <pulls covers up tighter, bats hand away from my shoulder>

“Sweetie, your alarm has been going off for ten minutes now, and… we have neighbors.”

Mmmm… <rolls over, shoves pillow on top of head.>

As you can tell by the timing of this post, I’m burning the midnight oil once again.

So, readers, I want to know!  Which are you?  A morning person, or a night owl? Are you the early bird who catches the worm, or a evening person who doesn’t have to deal with worms?

What are ways that help you get up in the morning?

Mine’s an alarm that sounds like an H-bomb warning system going off and provides a mild cardiac arrest each morning. Pilot has learned to accept this as exercise and getting his heart rate up a little bit extra each day.

Oh, and coffee.  Lots and lots of coffee.  (Did I mention I live in Seattle?)

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 7: FREE DAY! Write any scene you want!

The dry leaves crunched beneath their sneakers as the girls wandered along a compact dirt path. Hand in hand, they continued listening to birds chirp throughout the empty branches, beginning to settle in to their nests for the evening.

It was nice walking, Margaret preferred gentle quiet. Lorelei, not so much.  Usually Lorelei was babbling on about a new rock band or her friends from school. Whatever was bothering Lorelei tonight must have been weighing heavily on her mind. Margaret was patient. She knew that her sister would share when she was ready, and if it was causing Lorelei to be quiet for a change, it must have been serious.

“Mags?”

Lorelei’s voice appeared in Margaret’s mind familiar, but tonight was subdued. Her voice did not carry the cheerful spirit it typically held. Instead, tonight it was pensive and thoughtful.

“Yeah, Leelee?” Margaret looked over to her sister; eyebrows raised and tried to keep her face open.

“Do you remember mom and dad?” Lorelei had stopped and turned to face her now.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you remember them? What color their eyes were, what their voices sounded like?

Margaret thought for a moment. “Yeah, I do.”

Lorelei’s voice was small, and she was looking down at the ground now.  “I don’t sometimes.  Remember, I mean.” Margaret’s heart sunk deep into her chest.

“I was only five at the time.  Sometimes I try to think back, but their faces are starting to get fuzzy. Things like their noses, or their ears.”

Margaret put her other hand on Lorelei’s cheek and began to speak and try to console her sister. “Leelee-“

“What if by the time we’re adults I’ve forgotten them completely? It’ll be like they never existed or something!” Lorelei burst into tears and sniffed. Sliding her sleeve over her thumb, she wiped her nose with it.  Margaret pulled her handkerchief, their mother’s handkerchief, from her pocket and gently dabbed at Lorelei’s face.

“Leelee, do you remember when we were little and you took that entire bottle of caramel sauce and sprayed all of the walls in the house with it?”

Sniff. “Yeah.”  Lorelei looked up at her sister, her eyes puffy and slightly reddened from her tears.

“And what did mom and dad do?” Margaret looked pointedly at Lorelei with a small smile.  Lorelei burst out laughing.

“Daddy took my had and walked me over to mom and said, ‘Well, at least we know she’s determined! I was chasing her for a good ten minutes!’ And mom said, ‘I guess she just wanted the house filled with sweetness just like she is!’ ” Margaret and Lorelei were doubled over laughing at the memory, Lorelei wiping a tear away, this time not from sadness.

“You see?” Margaret put an arm around her sister.  “You haven’t forgotten them. As long as you remember they loved us no matter what, they’ll always be with us.”

gotta fill up those blanks!

Not much to post. I’m working on my outlines for my two-part series. Because trying to balance my need to write with a full time job definitely takes up most of the evenings! So here’s my DWC! (AKA, the prologue to Book 1!)

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 6: How was your characters childhood? Write a scene about them as a child. How was their home life? Their family? Their upbringing? Where did they grow up? What friends did they have? 

May 12th, 1996

Ahh, sweet bliss.  Liesle settled into her overstuffed chair pulling a book Abbreviated Potions: Shortened Spells for the Witch on the Go! up to her nose.  It was her scheduled day off from her shop The Bubbling Cauldron, and she welcomed the break.  The girls were helping Mrs. Stevens clean out her garage today.  Yes, a quiet morning to catch up on modernized spells.

Whirr! The sound of a blender pierced through the manor, shattering any temporary moment of peace, followed by the sound of giggles. 

“What are you two little imps up to? I thought you were at Mrs. Stevens’ house,” Aunt Liesle asked, crossing her arms across her chest and raising her infamous ‘don’t mess with me’ eyebrow.

A spatula that seemed to be swirling a mixture of gooey chocolate icing on its own fell back into the bowl with an anticlimactic splat. Eyes looking up and widening slightly, Margaret who stood behind the bowl, stopped twirling her finger, leaving it stuck in midair as if she was interrupting someone to make a statement.  Lorelei gasped, turning around to look at Liesle, losing concentration on the blender she had been staring at. The blender had a surge of energy before stopping altogether, its lid flying off causing the contents to shower the three of them.

“Of all the boiled rats!” exclaimed Lorelei, as she wiped the strawberry milkshake from her eyes.

“Language, Lorelei,” said Liesle as she looked down to examine the pink globs that now stained her sweater.  Rolling her eyes as if to gain power from an unknown source, she sighed and looked back down at the girls.  “Now what is so important you had to turn my kitchen into a bomb testing site for?”

Margaret glanced at her sister. Lorelei just shrugged, and Margaret made a face at her.  Then, turning back to Liesle, squaring her shoulders, she replied matter of factly, “We thought you’d gone to the store to do inventory today.”

“Claudia is doing the inventory, and that is not an answer.”

Lorelei glanced at Margaret again and whispered not very successfully, “Come on, tell her. Our cover’s blown anyway.”

Margaret’s shoulders sagged as she sighed in only that way a twelve year old could. Looking back and forth across the now ruined kitchen, she spread her arms wide, palms up and said flatly, “Happy Mother’s Day.”

Liesle blinked at them for a moment. All tension melted away and she felt the prickling of tears at the back of her eyes.

“Oh, come here you silly ninnies,” she leaned down and opened her arms.  Margaret let a small grin show and ran over to the welcomed hug. 

“Well that was close.”  Lorelei blew out a breath she’d been holding, wiped more strawberry milkshake from her forehead, and ran over too.

“But your kitchen…” Margaret’s lower lip started to quiver.

Liesle smiled warmly at her niece.  “Nothing we can’t fix. Or haven’t you noticed, it’s already clean?” Liesle nodded pointedly behind them.  Margaret turned to look at the kitchen, whose cleaning sponges lapped at the walls, and the mop started swirling soapy suds across the floor.

Lorelei put her hands on her hips. “Hey, no fair! How’d you do that?” An indignant look of frustration crossed her face.

“I’ll teach you that one when you’re a little older and your powers are stronger.  You girls still need to do your chores.”

“Hmph.” Lorelei now crossed her arms across her chest.  She mumbled, “I still don’t see why I have to wash the dishes by hand when we have magic.”

“Darlings, you know what I always say…”

Lorelei dropped her arms as she and Margaret both answered in bored, singsong voices, “Magic is a gift and must not be abused.”

“Right. You need to understand that we’re lucky to have magic, and you must always appreciate it.”

Margaret’s grin spread a little wider.  “Well, we appreciate you, so that’s why we wanted to surprise you with your favorite chocolate chip brownies and strawberry milkshake for Mother’s Day!”

“Thank you girls,” Liesle laughed. “You’ve certainly made it a memorable one!”

if I could turn back time

Nostalgia is the name of the game today. Yeah, it caught me off guard, too.

Amara is the first baby to be born on my side of the family.  Last Tuesday, my cousin gave birth to a healthy, gorgeous, snuggly and lovable little girl. (Perhaps one could say I’m biased, but I don’t think so.) Watching my cousin, we’ll call her Red, go through the wonder of pregnancy and incredulous concept of childbirth has been amazing.  I couldn’t be more proud of Red. I’m in sheer awe and so full of joy I could burst from my desk chair right now.  Being the second-youngest of all my cousins, it’s strange to recognize we’re all adults now.  Amara’s birth sort of cinched that concept to me. We have reached the end of a generation in our family, and a new one has begun.

You’re probably wondering why I’m saying, “cousins” instead of siblings. That’s because I have none.  I’ve always wanted a younger sibling, to protect, teach, (and of course) bug the living daylights out of.  It wasn’t in the cards for me and my parents.  I’m adopted, myself. During the adoption process for a baby brother, my father was diagnosed with an inherited heart defect and diseases, negating their ability to adopt anymore children.  Now that I am an adult, married and receiving the daily interrogation from my mother, demanding why I have yet to give her a grandchild, it brings new perspective on how difficult that whole process must have been for my parents.

As a woman, I try to imagine being part of a young, happy couple ready to take on the world, (not too difficult to imagine anymore), and being told that becoming pregnant could endanger my life.  Not only was starting a family one of the dreams my parents had for themselves, but to be told that this particular dream could kill one of them? Coming to terms with that… Making the decision to spend what little money they had to adopt instead?  Wow.  In case you didn’t know, adoption is a long, arduous process with unending interviews, red tape, home visits.  And it’s a hell of a lot better than it used to be.  Basically every step’s purpose is to tell you EXACTLY what you’re doing wrong and need to fix, otherwise some stranger will deem you’re unfit as a parent.

For the mothers out there, I’m not trying to compare childbirth to adoption. Childbirth is an experience that nothing can compare to the torturous pains of contractions. The point of all this, is the idea that life is so much chance and opportunity.  Sure, you can have all the talent and skill in the world, but if you’re hit by a bus the next day, where does that get you?

I think of my parents sitting across a desk from a stranger, being told that because of a medical condition, they’re not allowed to have any more children. Again. First because of my mother’s health, the second time, my father’s.  It took my parents several years of patience and waiting before winning the jackpot with Pilot. Pilot is part of an enormous family. He has an older sister, 10 years difference, and an older brother, 12 years difference, both married with three children, each. Our parents meshed well, even finding out my father’s family and Pilot’s mother’s family come from the same small village in Germany.  (Pilot’s eyes became round as sauces as he turned to look at me during this conversation of family enlightenment, to which I quickly dissolved his fear saying, “It’s ok, honey. I’m adopted. Even if we were technically related, it’s not by blood.”)

My mother and Pilot get on well together, and l believe she’s come to accept him as her own son. The son she never had.  You’ll notice I don’t mention my father here. He passed away a little more than a few years ago from his heart defect, but he lived to age 60. I think of all those years, another little boy could have had my dad as a father. Whoever was at that agency made a huge mistake. I can recall countless fishing trips on Lake Washington (including the time we ran out of gas, but that’s another story), learning how to change my first tire (yes, girls don’t have to be helpless when it comes to the dreaded automobile), tasting delicious smoked salmon he’d just brought in. These are experiences I wish I could have shared with an “automatic” buddy. My never-was-brother.

Don’t worry, it’s not all doom and gloom.  Pilot and I have been together for 10 years now. We were lucky he and my dad had their own healthy relationship, along with mutual respect before my dad passed on. I will always be grateful for that. The older generation is moving on, I’m (hopefully slowly) merging into the older generation, and a new generation is blooming.

So, now what?  Holding baby Amara this weekend, and definitely not getting enough snuggles and forehead-kisses in, I think about her having two amazing older step siblings.  I wanted to be able to learn more about this deep connection. These Daily Writing Challenges (DWC’s) sparked the idea of a siblings-focused story.

Of course, they’ll both be romances, but the heart of each book is about these two sisters’ relationship.  Here’s a bit that I might be incorporating into the stories later on.

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 5: Your character is getting ready in the morning. Write a scene of their morning (or even mid day) routine.

Feeling the warmth of sunshine touching my cheek, another cheerful Saturday greets me as I slowly open my eyes. Taking a moment to let them adjust from the bright white that first appears, right before everything warps back into focus. The sound of my clock radio is tuned to a station that plays classics. Ah, Summer Breeze. Yeah, it definitely makes me feel fine. Pushing back the covers, setting my feet down, I feel worn, familiar yarn under my feet.  It’s a rug my sister made for me as a Christmas present. A hook-and-latch kit with Snoopy on it.  (Did I mention my sister was 10 at the time?)  I glance at the clock. Eight fifteen. I have to meet Margaret at the Suds & Duds to help open by nine.

Filtering sunlight into the room, I gently nudge the sheer Tiffany blue curtains apart and peer out. A sigh escapes my lips as I lean my chin on my fist. Same old Saturday mornings. The mailman driving off, Mrs. Stevens is tending to her rosebushes, Old Man Matthews picking up his newspaper in his bathrobe again… Ew.

Suddenly, loud rock music starts blaring from next door.  August Brandt steps out from under the shadow of the raised garage door, carrying a sloshing bucket of suds and a scrubbing mitten. I can’t help but stare as he moves over to his Jeep. Bobbing his head lightly in tune with the beat, he sets the solution down. Reaching for the hose, he’s about to start rinsing it off when he glances up in my direction. Oh, crud. He saw me staring.

I can feel the blush raising up my neck, as I straighten up quickly. A slow, knowing smile starts making its way across his face, and before a I know it, he’s sending me a big grin, oh great he’s sending me a wave now. Quickly wiggling a few fingers, I step back from the window.

Great. I’m supposed to leave and meet Margaret in… now half an hour, and he’s probably still going to be out there. 

the muse, thank you’s and guest blogs too!

So many voices talking in my head, so little time.

First of all, I want to say a huge Thank You to those who have read my blog and joined in as followers.  It blows me away that in less than a week someone has actually read this thing.  A writer can write all she wants, even get published, but is NOTHING without a reader!  So again, THANK YOU!

Since beginning this blog on Aug. 31, 2012, this process of writing every day has not only helped start swirling ideas in my head, but it’s also helped shape some characters.  Due to this blog (and your support), I just began jotting down summaries for a two-part series!  I have the heroes and heroines all ready to go and a common denominator linking them together.  Hopefully by the end of the week I’ll have a good outline mapped out for the first novel.  Even better would be both books, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  I still have to put in the full-time job aspect of my life.  For now.

Speaking of jobs, it rhymes with blobs, and adding a “-g” you get blog.  (Nice transition, eh? My husband, Pilot loves The Music Man.)  Today marked my first submission as a “guest blogger.” Never been a guest blogger before. Then again, I’ve never been an actual blogger until this week. If he likes the article, then we can march right into successful guest blogger.  If my submission is given the “ok,” I’ll let you know.

Have any of you ever guest blogged?  If so, what was your topic?

Well, nothing else left to report. I’ve got a two-book series to start!

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 4: What world does your character exist in? Real or imagined? Scientific? Fantastical? Write a scene where your character is shown in their world.

This is a scene taken in a fictitious town, deeply hidden in the mountains.

Brigitte tends to her plot, her hands chapped and worn from removing weeds and clipping dead brush.  Standing back up, she stretches her back, lifting her hand to shade her eyes.  Viktor is here.

She looks down the path from her stone cottage.  Settled up the mountain a few miles from town, the view made her breath catch in chest as it did every morning.  The stream caught the light winking back its cool temptation to her.  

 Maybe he will join me for a swim.

Hearing hooves pounding the packed earth approaching her cottage, she dusted off her hands as a man on horseback appeared up the path.  Brigitte feels a warm smile spread across her face and waves in anticipation.

As Viktor opens his mouth in greeting, a piercing sound echoes from the nearby woods. Then, the thunderous roar of a bear. A sense of dread washes over her as she next recognizes the swansong of a dying man.  Viktor reaches out to her, his previously gentle face now hardened, his brow furrowed and lips pressed into a grim line.

“We must hurry.” It wasn’t a question.

She grasps his leathered hands and he lifts her in front of him onto the saddle. Each rider silently prays while flying through the woods.

The usual crisp mountain air is tainted as the forest holds a fog of sharp copper, flooding her lungs with its pungent aroma.  As they reach a clearing, the bear appears to have gone.  On the ground was a sight that made Brigitte’s heart drop to her stomach. The attack is apparent and unforgiving. Gashes from claws, sharper than any sword have stripped the trees of their bark, the deep impressions of fingernails in the soft earth leaving channels of a man being dragged against his will.

Facedown in a pool of blood, his shirt slashed and tattered, stained with the dark purple-crimson of a fresh wound, staining the lush moss littering the ground. His shoulder-length hair stuck to his face, tattooing his features with red. A stranger to these lands.

sharing the wealth, spreading the love

Ok, so I’m a big freaking coward.

Today I did it.

Yesterday, after posting my third blog entry, I hesitated.

If you haven’t noticed, I tend to be scared shitless. A lot. I guess that’s what happens when a facet of you is so personal, and yet not widely accepted as “Ok.” After saying I was going to share this with the world, I didn’t. Today, I had the bravery to move forward with opening my so-called ‘dark side’ to my friends and (some) family, along with fellow writers I’ve been fortunate to meet in my life (whether they were former classmates or favorite authors).

I have been a member of the RWA and GSRWA for over a year now. For those not familiar with the initialisms above, they are the Romance Writers of America and the Greater Seattle Romance Writers of America, the (if you haven’t already guessed) Greater Seattle chapter of the group.

To show that there is a business side to this type of writing, and to prove it’s not just a fleeting, romantic notion, (pun? Get it? Too soon?), I suggest educating yourself with some cold hard math from the RWA’s website.  Or, as one of my all-time favorite romance writers, Katie MacAlister would say, “I point out that romances comprise over half of the mass market paperback market, and that what’s good enough for authors like Nora Roberts and Janet Evanovitch is good enough for me. And then I smile. Knowingly.”

Review the stats, let me know what you think. Did you find anything surprising?

Also, consider all of those romantic comedies or romantic dramas you watch. I’ll bet you several, if not most, of them were based on a novel. Look at Nicholas Sparks. He’s made a living writing romance, and most have been turned into mass-marketed films. I’ll bet you’ve even seen one. The Notebook or A Walk To Remember, anyone?

What are some of your favorite romantic films?

My ultimate favorite romantic film is “Sabrina” with Harrison Ford. Mmm Harrison Ford. Yummy. Although I have a soft spot for Bogey and have a huge respect for Audrey Hepburn, the modernized version had music and scenery to die for.

Even if my blog isn’t your cup of tea, I wanted to share some of my favorite websites, blogs and forums that I frequent. Not (completely) on a daily basis.  Ok, maybe daily.

  1. Romance the Genres
  2. Smart Bitches, Trashy Books
  3. Romantic Geek Girl
  4. Book Chic City

These are real people, with real lives, all sharing a common interest. Like cooking or knitting. Ok, way sexier and hotter than cooking or knitting, but I’m sure in one of my future novels I’ll find a way to make those entertainingly sexy.

And below to stretch my literary mind:

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 3: Think about the character you created for Day 2. Write their seven-word biography.

 What happens when you live life twice?

embracing the first step to recovery

My name is Katherine and I love romance novels.

We’re talking about the “trashy” ones. The dirty, sexy books.  Sure, there is the occasional branching out to paranormal-romance, young adult-romance, suspense-romance, thriller-romance, urban fantasy-romance, etc. (Sensing a theme here?)  But basically I HEA’s and “steamy reads.”  Easily having read several hundred, and owning more than I should, they’re my addiction. I crave them. At my core, I cannot stop the adoration of HEA’s and “steamy reads.”  Every minute free, I’m typically reading romance or watching a romantic film.  The feeling of being weak in the knees, passion, typical boy-meets-girl scenarios, heart-stopping (and drool-inducing) covers that make people blush with one glance at that glossy paper.

The reason for this admission?

I also want to BE a romance novelist.

And what’s the problem? Well, this genre of novels is still not widely accepted as “socially acceptable.” Even today, I can’t bring myself to admit to my own family that I even own such a scandalous type of book. But to move forward with the goal of becoming a great romance novelist, I need to actually admit to those I care about, along with writing peers, about this facet of me.

The link to this particular post was shortly after sent via email to my friends and family.  You could go as far to say this might be my ‘coming out’ party.

But to know me is to understand the facts: I practically INHALE these less-than-clean novels on a daily basis.  I’ve always hidden them from view, changed out the covers, never let someone look at my iPad 2 because of aforementioned drool-inducing covers of such books. But there is a deep need for them to understand this incomprehensible joy I receive from meeting new characters. Enjoying the increased heart rate from their first meet-cute, mourning their loss when the hero and heroine are at odds with one another, only to revel and celebrate at them finding their way back to each other.Until the creation of this blog, admittedly it had been several months since I’d written a single page. After coming to terms with this, (cocktails and tears may have been involved in the healing process), I needed to find a way to commit to my writing as much as possible, and to not lose momentum.  So here’s my attempt at full commitment. I’m embracing the first step to recovery by admitting I have an addiction.
My name is Katherine and I love romance novels.

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 2: Create a character. Write a brief scene of them in a setting. Also use this paragraph to introduce the character to the reader by how they react to their setting.

Margaret chewed the end of her pen while trying to listen to Mr. Anderson give a lecture about…something.  Eyeing the clock all period, which was a few minutes short from the end of the school day, she sighed.  Typically the ideal student, never late, took good notes, and focused, today was different.  When the school bell was to ring, it marked the end of the day, and she wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow. Tomorrow was her birthday and she was dreading it.  This year was going to be even more embarrassing, because she was turning eighteen.

As usual, her Aunt Liesle would wake her up for the annual “Midnight Brownie Birthday Tribute”, which was always welcome.  However, on the evening of each birthday, her aunt and best friend, August typically took her out to some restaurant with bored wait staff singing poorly, and loudly, while making her wear some ridiculous hat. And Liesle had the wall of photos to prove it. This portion of tradition was less welcome.

catapulting over the ultimate brick wall!

Right here folks! You’re witnessing history!

Exhilaration tingled throughout my body as I bobbed and weaved through the jungle of I-5 traffic. Destination: Home, after a long and tedious experience of my Daily Life. For the first time in a quadrillion years, I looked forward to today. Perhaps it was because of the semi-decent hair day I seemed to have acquired, or that I scrounged together enough cash to buy a bagel this morning. Well, I’m pretty sure it had to do with the fact that yesterday, I took my first step into the blogosphere.

However, upon returning to my (very) humble abode, I rammed straight into the ultimate brick wall.

What the fuck am I supposed to write first?

I’m sure most bloggers begin with posting something poignant. Perhaps either to prove to others he or she actually knows something about the topic they picked, or maybe proving to themselves they’ll actually follow through with this blogging thing. With so many topics lolling around in my brain, it was difficult to select just one idea.

Review a recently read novel?

Post a status on my WIPs?

And what about tone?

Should it be serious? Insightful? Thigh-slappingly funny?

Similar to picking a favorite child, the choice was impossible and I was intimidated beyond all recognition.

Well, this is me, and this is reality. The Friday of a 3-day weekend comes along and flicks a switch in me, turning me into one of humanities greatest nightmares: a person with Vacation Brain.

Its symptoms are easily spotted by those not exposed to this debilitating and stupefying condition. Unfortunately, those who have been affected by Vacation Brain go through a serious case of “revertigo,” causing even the simplest of functions, like thinking, to become a feat similar to climbing Mt. Everest.  You’ve seen these people. They’re at your workplace, your hometowns. They’re the ones on a tour, standing in front of a sandy beach facing the water. Their guide dutifully announcing, “Here’s the Pacific Ocean!” To which they respond to said statement by pointing out the nearby lake exclaiming, “Oh! So this must be the Atlantic Ocean!”

So how does a newbie blogger attempt to write her first real post with Vacation Brain?

She doesn’t. She leaves home, grabs some grub with the hubby and goes to a hockey game.

You heard me! I threw on my team’s jersey, left the house (ok, apartment), and didn’t think about writing at all.  And, do you know what happened? A flash of inspiration illuminated my work-weary head, cleansing the obscenities about to be expelled from my lips at the referee currently ruining my sport of choice.

I realized I needed help. A guide if you will.  After searching the interwebs, I came across another blog someone posted with a daily writing challenge.

So witness below, my attempt at my first real post with Day 1 of the Daily Writing Challenge below. Under the duress of Vacation Brain, mind you. (No pun inte- … Ok, the pun was intended.)

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 1: Write a biography of your life. Only use a seven-word sentence.

  1. To make a biography now is presumptuous.
  2. With seven words the possibilities are endless!
  3. Refusal to live my life with limits!
  4. Accident prone, plus brutal honesty spawns creativity.
  5. Insomnia plus coffee addiction equals free time.
  6. Friend, wife, lover, writer: all are me.
  7. I am one; but who am I?
  8. Prepare to be assimilated; resistance is futile.
  9. I love all of the wrong things.
  10. I will always end up writing something.

and so it begins…

What the heck have I gotten myself into, now?

This is exactly what is going through my mind at this exact moment.

I have a love/hate relationship with myself. I love to give myself frank, honest tough-love to ensure I continue to grow as a person. (Ok, and also to keep from becoming too boring.)  And, typically, I hate going through every minute of it.

Allow me to explain:

Every so often, I give myself an enormously-heaving shove outside of my comfort zone.

As a child, it was facing my fear of heights to jump off of the high dive at the local pool. (I’m still ridiculously terrified of heights, but at least I did it.)  As a guarded, semi-nerdy college student, it was the decision to make new friends with a more open, positive attitude. (The first person I met was moments after making this attitude-adjustment decision. He is now my husband.)

And now as I gently drop-kick myself out of the bliss-bubble, I’m committing myself to this and forcing myself to put IT out there. For all of the internet masses to see. The highs, the lows, the real, the fictitious.

I just can’t keep it to myself anymore. Not if I have a snowball’s chance in Old Scratch’s homestead of being successful.

“IT” being the need to write. To breathe life into characters. To share a story. (Ok, and to sometimes commentate on my daily screw ups in hopes of learning from them.)

This is acting as the spark to my creative outlet in hopes of accomplishing my dream of being a successful romance novelist.

So join me as I flail out of the bird’s nest. Take a few minutes to read and have a laugh, as I try to grasp life’s lessons, even if I hit every branch on the way down.  Go ahead, pour yourself a glass of your favorite relaxation beverage of choice.

I’ll wait.