I’ve been grilled!  Over some Smokin’ Hot flames.  :D  Actually, by a Smokin’ Hot erotic romance writer.  Fellow LSB author Kate Willoughby regularly interviews authors at her blog, and to celebrate the release of “Hounded” from “A Witch In Time,” Kate put me to the grill. :D  Hop on over and check me out, along with some of the other intriguing authors of sensual and erotic romance Kate interviews, as well as the books she’s releasing and stories she reviews.

In addition to being on the barbie, I’ve been participating in National Novel Writing Month.  Not that I don’t write every other month in the year, but for November, I use the “blast through and write like crazy” technique characterized in NaNo participation.  I turn off my internal editor and write just to start and end a story within the allotted time.  Since my laptop’s wireless card unexpectedly died last week, though, my great start fizzled out.  I’m still operating at half-impulse as I get things straightened back out (for the g33k squad out there, my old laptop used Gentoo Linux and Gnome desktop, my new lappy had a great start with Ubuntu linux and KDE desktop.  Long story short, I like Kdesktop, but Ubuntu just had too much of a learning curve.  Its package management system just wasn’t as robust as Gentoo’s is.  So back to Gentoo, but this time with dual-boot KDE/Gnome, for whenever I’m in a mood for a change of environment.  Thus endeth the g33k segment of our show).  So for the past week, I’ve had to choose between trying to catch up my story-writing, or doing internet things like blogging.  And since my internet time was exceedingly limited, I wrote…

…and yes, kept serious tabs on the midterm elections, because I have this inner political junkie that loves to watch how politics plays out.  I still love the first four seasons of The West Wing and could watch them for hours when Bravo runs the marathons.  I so wish Martin Sheen was president for realz.

But after the edge-of-the-seat night of watching CNN’s tallies scroll endlessly across the bottom of the TV screen, I realized I’m in Week 2 of NaNo, which is traditionally when people drop out of NaNo, because life intrudes, or they think their story sucks (of course it does–it’s in draft form…you’re vomiting words on the page at a reckless pace about twice as fast as a prudent person would–the idea is to revise and edit later). So the words are coming more slowly, and the time ticks by, and a rare summery day in November just can’t be wasted.

I’m a big sucker for goalsetting. Sometimes I’m an addict–I set so many goals and micromanage them that I don’t actually get anything done. However, NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) is different. There’s such energy–such knowledge that about 70,000 other people are doing the same damn thing as you–that you just can’t help getting caught up in the crazy.

Today I wrote a thousand words.

That I have to trash. Somehow, they turned into the Flashback From Hell, that my heroine can’t even have because she’s lost her memory. They were supposed to be a dream, but people don’t dream in coherency, and it aggravates me to read books where people dream so coherently you can’t tell it’s not an actual scene.

But today’s momentousness (the spawn starting school again, the second’s naptime coinciding with first’s school time, and over an hour’s worth of quiet, focused writing time) produced a flashback.

A friggin’ flashback!

Maybe I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. I mean, it hasn’t even been a week that I’ve had these little hour-long chunks of time in the middle of the day to write. Maybe I have to get back into it, and stop feeling all giddy and weird about having an hour to think grownup thoughts.

Or maybe I should take my own advice. I have these periods where I think, “ZOMG, everything I write is crap!” Usually, I’m wrong–only 95% of it turns out to be crap, but the rest can be salvaged to serve as kickass inspiration for revisions. NaNoWriMo in November’s biggest message is to “turn off your internal editor” and I thought, after numerous BIAWs and several NaNos that I’d finally figured out how to do that. But writing is a process, and it’s easy to slip back into editing habits I thought I’d busted.

I love starting out new stuff. It’s dangerous, in that I can easily fall into building new worlds and starting new stories only to never quite get around to finishing them (an ugly, all-too-common habit of many, many writers). But in this case, it’s okay. It means I’ve got fodder.

I started building an environment for “Hounded,” which is my contribution to a Halloween anthology in Liquid Silver’s Molten line, entitled “A Witch In Time.” I’m, as you may expect, the Future. Hounded is very hotly written - I’ve tried some things in there I didn’t expect I would try, much less have fun doing. Lin, my heroine, is very much a no-nonsense, brass-balled bitch. She’s got a mission, and nothing will stop her. However, she’s not averse to detours…

(more…)

There’s nothing quite like the thrill I get from building a world and populating it with people, customs, situations, and a history. I know we’re supposed to focus on character, and how plot is character and all that, but I just get this pumped-up thrill at coming up with a world for the people in my head to live in. Because the people in my head, to me at least, seem like everyday, average joes. But the worlds in which they live their “just trying to get by” lives are…special. Maybe it’s the armchair anthropologist in me, but I love seeing and imagining disparate cultures encounter one another.

I hate going to the grocery store. I’m there every week (sometimes twice a week), and it’s the same thing–buy food, yadda yadda. So I play this game when I’m there. It’s basically an imaginary game. “If I were shopping for provisions in ___, this would be like ____.” Sometimes I’m an Ancient Egyptian going to the bazaar. Sometimes I’m a Greek or Roman. Lots of time, I’m shopping in an outpost planet, far from the glittering center of my galaxy, and marveling at the lack of technology. Yeah, I’m a geek…so what?

What my little exercise encourages me to do is to step outside the boundaries of reference.  By viewing common activities through a foreign frame of reference, I end up distilling the essence of the experience, and understanding the underlying commonalities that lie therein.  The exchange of items of worth for goods and services on a (somewhat) equal value.  The fact that a little slip of paper can be worth nothing (my grocery list on the back of an envelope) or save me anywhere from one to five bucks (yay double coupon days).

It also highlights the effect that setting can have on a person.  My local grocery is laid out differently than the one a few exits down on the interstate.  In my imagination, the bazaar in Thebes is a vastly different place than the provisions shop and junk spacecraft flea-mart at the waystation just outside the jumpgate to the Perflaxian system.

Setting itself can have such a significant impact on a story that it creates a whole different experience, even with the same essential characters.  I’ve been working on an SF romantic adventure (yes, with hawt secks in it, too) that has gone through several iterations in the “noodling” stage (the stage after fleshing out characters where I “audition” them in several different plot scenarios likely to show up at some point in the story).  Recently, I ripped apart the setting and placed them in their current setting.  The entire story has changed, although the characters are the same folks.  They’re reacting differently, and the relationships between them are generating different conflict.

It’s an amazing thing, this writing gig.  I’m lucky I get to do it so much.

If you’re a writer, what’s your writing process like? Do you write, and pronounce it golden, having plotted out, hashed and rehashed your ideas before typing “Chapter One?” Or do you start from some arbitrary point and write whatever emerges from your subconscious, and then when the dust settles, you tear it apart, keep what works and chuck what doesn’t? Or does your writing process involve a combination of all three, and maybe a little something else.

Mine seems to change over time. Way back when I was young and foolish, I believed every word I wrote was Pure Gold. Now, of course, I realize that much of it was as cheesy as the K-Tel albums of the same name. Honestly, I couldn’t really figure out how to revise what I’d written, without serious outside help.

Many years later, of course, I now have a much better grasp on the mechanics of story–of plotting, and character arcs…and of revision. I know how to distill the essence of a scene and identify the points it makes and why it’s there…and sometimes even why it is where it is. To be fair, I did go to school for this a long time ago, but only for other authors’ work (authors who were, 90 % of the time, quite dead, and whose works had at least four hundred years to percolate through societal consciousness).

Right now, however, I’m currently caught between two processes. One is outlined by Karen Wiesner’s First Draft in 30 Days system. The system is actually a method for developing a very detailed outline in those 30 days, and counting that outline as the “draft.”  It’s very useful for people like me, who have limited formal writing time.    Having a scene outlined, knowing where it goes and why, and knowing what needs to be in it, is a theoretical savior of huge chunks of writing time and huge chunks of rewriting.  It allows you to perfect the plot progression before you write huge swathes of story that suddenly make no sense once you realize the story you want to tell isn’t the one you started out telling.
However, my second method is full of processes that are intrinsically appealing to me.  If you’ve ever been involved in NaNoWriMo - National Novel-Writing Month, or a BIAW - Book In A Week, you can understand the advantages of turning off your internal editor and just rolling with your instincts as far as they’ll take you.  For those of us who are obsessive about putting our characters in the perfect set-up, or who plot from a point that happens fairly early in the story, this “blast through until the end no matter how sucky it seems” approach helps us get past the obsessive noodling, and forces us to make the rest of the story into more than just an amorphous future blob of “To Be Written” brainmush.

I’ve just completed a novella for a Liquid Silver anthology slated for Halloween ‘06 entitled A Witch In Time.  My contribution is, of course, the futuristic portion, and came in at just over 17,000 words.  But I didn’t write 17,000 words.  It was more like 35,000.  I started the story, wrote it about halfway, and then realized that this was not the droid I was looking for.  This story wasn’t the one I was writing.

So I ripped it apart and started again.  And again.  And again.  Until finally, my critique partner, the lovely and talented and just a bit twisted Roxy Harte suggested that I do something just wacky and off the wall.  “I’d love to see some sex on a parade float,” she said.

And the current incarnation of “Hounded” was born.

So hat tip to Roxy for kicking my creativity in the head…or in her case, flogging it where it hurts.

I started out writing Hounded with the 30-days method of plotting, so I fortunately did have a plot–at least an idea of where I wanted the story to go, events-wise.  A few days with Rox faithfully flogging me to write this scene or that helped me get to the scenes I needed to write.  In essence, I took two extremes in terms of writing process,  and found a happy middle ground.

It still shocks me.

…too bad it seems to be on my head half the time. :/

So this past weekend, I attended Lori Foster’s Readers and Authors Get-Together and had a great time at this relaxed and informal event. Around 45 authors were in attendance and almost 3000 USD was raised for our local battered womens’ shelter. I got to meet and chat with readers and other authors, some of whom I met for the first time, and others who I’ve known for years through various channels. As soon as I found out I could attend, I began anticipating it, because I knew I’d be in the company of readers and writers…and I could have some adult conversation that didn’t center around my kids.

I don’t think anyone can adequately imagine the helpless horror I felt when I finally arrived at the event on Saturday…and not five minutes into my first conversation the talk turned to…my kids.

Back in the BC era (before children), I used to chuckle at my coworkers who came in with kid stories. Oh, sure, they were entertaining, because what’s not funny about flushing a peanut butter sandwich down a toilet, or finding silly putty stuffed in the toes of your dress shoes? Especially as these things weren’t currently happening to me. But I always wondered why people talked so much about their kids.

The joke is on me now…because now I know. I sort of sat back in fascinated horror and watched myself tell people kid stories all day long. Instead of discussing the trends in publishing, or the exciting life I lead as a writer of sexy love stories (shyeeah), or even the e-published versus print published perpetual debate, I’m talking about finding Legos in my underwear drawer and my constant battle to keep the sand in the sandbox on the patio versus having it tracked into my house. And on the drive home, I worry that I no longer have much in common with people who cannot recite the release date of the latest talking animals movie off the tops of their heads or have intimate knowledge of the entire cast of Spongebob. So if you’re reading this blog and I bored you with kid stories, please accept my heartfelt apologies. If you were by some miracle enchanted by my children, then bless your heart, I’m glad I’m not completely socially inept.

So. Here I am, under a tight deadline for a new anthology to which I have the privilege of contributing a Futuristic. The subject matter for me is a goldmine of ideas, and I’m suffering no shortage of them. My shortage, however, lies in words. This is supposed to be a novella, dammit. And an erotic one at that. Unfortunately for me, my mind has chosen to go hog-wild and ape-shit on building a world (or actually, several) populated with all sorts of creatures strange and wonderful. My characters whine plaintively for attention…

Now couple that with the almost constant feeling of brain-emptiness I seem to be experienceing these days and you get this mental El Nino that’s wreaking havoc with writing systems all over the landscape of my mind.  However, when the wind comes…the smart sailor rides out the storm, and if that sailor is clever enough, she can maybe ride on it.  But only if she’s got sails.  My sails are writing exercises that allow me to focus my thoughts and hitch a ride on the story waiting to be told.  I’m always on the lookout for new sailcloth, though…so…if anybody out there has favorite writing exercises to get the juices flowing, I’m all up for it.

I get asked all the time, “Why erotic romance?” by both writer and non-writer friends (I also get asked with the same frequency questions like, “What’s up with the hair?” and “When are you getting furniture in that house?” but that’s an entirely different saga). My answer, which I thought was simple, isn’t. In fact, I had to sit down and think about it.

To me, erotic romance is a tale told through sex. Characters develop and relationships grow through encounters of a sexual nature (although not solely from sexual encounters). All my erotic romance stories seem to have a theme to them of either a character’s development of his or her sexuality, or a character’s discovery of their full personality via expression of their sexuality.  If I took out the sex, there would still be a story.  It would be thin, and would probably suck to read (if not be outright boring and ignorant), but it would have the bare basics of story requirements.
Straight erotica is a different ball of well…sticky substance. :P  If I’m writing something that’s erotica, the story is the sex. The premise is sexual in nature, and the goals of the characters relate directly to sex.  The plot is directly related to the sexual encounters. If I took out the sex, there would not only be no story, but what is there wouldn’t even make much sense.
One of the enduring themes I love to tackle in writing is the idea of emerging self-awareness. What else is life, on one level, besides discovering who you are and all the many facets of your own personal Human Condition? Some of us who call ourselves writers just do it with other people. And, of course, a huge part of me is doing its part to envision an existence where people aren’t so damn hung up about sex.

She rose slowly, unsteadily, but quietly, to her feet. Every muscle ached, and her limbs twitched and trembled with the effort it cost her to pull herself upright.

She made her way to the door on shaking legs that screamed in pain and yanked the door open. Behind her, she heard Kenneth’s startled shout. “Holy–sh–Stop her!” She ignored it and fled clumsily into the night, aiming for the thick copse of trees that served as a picnic area for the complex’s workers on break.

The door slammed open behind her just as she reached the trees. She darted to her right, hoping to throw them off, but barked her shin solidly against what must have been the picnic table. She couldn’t keep a cry from escaping her lips.

“Over there!” The voice was too close.

She stumbled around the picnic table and ran again, reaching the deep shadow of the building next door. Behind her, she could hear what sounded like an entire army literally beating the bushes for her.
Her heart slammed into her chest, making the pain of her limbs throb in time to its beat. She forced herself to slow down, knowing that she was more likely to escape without sudden movements that would draw attention to her whereabouts.

As she approached the corner of the building, she heard a sound a little ways behind her and froze. She turned carefully around, needing to see whatever seemed to be on her trail.

Arms, out of nowhere, snaked around her nude body, one pinioning her arms to her sides, the other one covering her mouth with a hand. She was pulled around the corner of the building, out of sight of her pursuers.

Hot breath blew over her ear, sending chills throughout her body. “Screams are best reserved for pleasure, Lady. Do you understand me?”

She nodded. His voice triggered memories in her–hot, sweaty memories of earlier, before the world went to hell. Her body responded, liquid heat centering in her abdomen. The ache in her joints turned hot. She leaned into his body, aware of the hard ridges of muscle pressed against her shoulder blades, her buttocks, and her thighs.