Tag Archives: fiction

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Hello from Grouchland

I’ve tried for days to write a blog post with a little substance. That’s something I do once in a while to keep you on your toes. But the truth is I’ve grown grouchier each of those days. I don’t know why. I can name a few things that have contributed to it, but not what started it.

Contribution #1:  As I said in my last post, work on my WIP was going well and continued for another two days. Then I realized that even after I add in the remaining pre-written scenes, flesh them out a bit, and fill-in any needed connecting scenes, I’m not going to make my 80,000 word goal. Grrrr.

Contribution #2:  What I consider the best story I’ve written has shown itself to be lacking. When I know a piece has problems, I expect feedback to confirm that. But when I think I’ve written something the best I know how, and that’s not good enough, it undermines my confidence. I start questioning all my work. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to assess my work correctly. Grumble.

Contribution #3:  I’m trapped in an alien body. For most of my adult life, people assumed I was younger than my years because of my skin. Now, it’s as though all those years caught up with me at once. So far, my face is not too bad, but that’s because I need to lose weight. I shudder to think how much more crepey my skin will appear as I deflate. Gripe.

Contribution #4:  Ominous people talk to me all night. I love to dream because I get story ideas from them. Of course, I have to remember the dream first. Lately, all I remember is that I dreamed and it wasn’t pleasant. At most, I retain a glimpse of the setting or a snatch of an event. This morning, I sat up before I was fully awake, and the words someone had just spoken stayed in my head long enough for me to grab the notepad and pen I keep by my bed. These were the words:

“The evil men do to themselves is often far greater than is done to them.”

The voice sounded remarkably like Frasier Crane’s. Ha! My subconscious, the psychiatrist. Okay, so analyzing that, I assume I’ve brought this grouchiness on myself. How? WHY? Grinding of teeth.

Oh, I know, tomorrow something fabulous could happen and I’ll zip right out of Grouchland. Maybe 30,000 words will drop out of the sky for my WIP, and a few little tweaks will make that story shine, and … well … I guess I’m stuck with this skin, but hey, it’s better than no skin.

As for bringing this grouchiness on myself—NAH—I think I’ve figured it out. I’m blaming the eclipse.

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Where in the world is that scene I wrote?

Thrice in the last few weeks, I’ve searched my notes in vain for a first-draft scene I’d written for my WIP. When I say first-draft scene, I mean dialogue with a few actions in place. And when I say thrice, I mean for three different scenes.

I have both a large notebook and a small one I carry in my purse, which I use to take notes when I’m away from the computer. Nothing in either. I create computer files, specifically for notes and partial scenes, for each novel and story I work on. Nothing. How can that be?

Every time I look in the mirror, my gray hair reminds me my brain is old, so these missing scenes freak me out. I’m determined to find the culprit because I really don’t want to think it’s my imagination. Did I “write” them while in the shower or driving? I often get inspiration or a breakthrough doing those things. Did I dream these scenes?

I don’t believe it’s my imagination because I can still see them clearly on my mental movie screen. Now, though, the sound is broken up. I haven’t had any computer problems (or SUE oops!) to explain their disappearance. So, apparently, I only thought I wrote them out.

Oh, wait! Maybe there’s a scene thief on the loose. Yeah, it must be that. I’m on the case.

And speaking of the world: The print version of The Brevity of Roses can now be ordered directly through the Amazon stores in the UK, Germany, France, Spain, and Italy. So, yay!

In other news: What I love about my community of writers is our willingness to help each other succeed. Often we’re not sure how much we actually help, but sometimes we get a special thank you to let us know how much our efforts were appreciated.

Dana Mason’s debut novel Dangerous Embrace is the first in a contemporary suspenseful romance series and will debut this October. A couple of days ago she said some nice things about me—elegant superhero?—and she awarded me this Random Act of Kindness award. Isn’t that sweet of her? Don’t forget to put Dangerous Embrace on your watch list!


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The Role of the Storyteller

I watch Harry’s Law, partly because the character Harriett (Harry) Corn is not young and whip thin. She’s a criminal defense lawyer, who also owns the shoe store on the street level of her building, and feisty as all get out. Sure, the story lines often stray from reality—no, on second thought, they’re probably as real as the scripted shows disguised as reality TV.

Anyway, I’m particularly glad I watched this week. One of the two cases in the episode concerned a British man under threat of extradition for a crime he’d committed twenty years earlier. In the years since, he’d moved to Cincinnati and bought a tea shop in a depressed neighborhood where he entertained his customers with tall tales.

Many of these customers came to court and testified in the shop owner’s behalf, saying how much he’d enriched their lives with his stories. In a moving defense to the judge, one of Harry’s associates illustrated how the man provided a humanitarian service to his community. He pointed out that the shop owner had taken his customers to places they’d never be able to go, given them adventures they’d never experience, made them laugh and given them hope.

I took that to heart. Since I published The Brevity of Roses, a  few people  have insinuated the book was beneath them, it was only a love story, fiction for the masses. Yeah. It’s fiction for real people. I won’t apologize for that. I’m real people. I won’t apologize for that either. I’m proud that I told my story to so many who let me know they liked it—loved it, even—and I’m happy I could transport them out of their life and into my imaginary world for a few hours.

So, I raise my cup to all the storytellers who’ve enriched my life. How small it would be without them. Won’t you join me?

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You Won’t Be Anonymous, And I’m Not Crazy

I’ve noticed that some of you who take the time to leave a comment have become somewhat anonymous. Since WordPress made changes to their comment policy last month, now, unless you’re a WordPress blogger, the avatar that appears next to your comment might not link to your blog. That’s unfortunate because the real reason you bother to comment is in hope someone will click your avatar and visit your blog. Right?

Okay, it’s not the only reason, but it’s a benefit. I don’t mind at all. And I discovered I can help you out. That is, if I know the address of your blog, I can help. I finally noticed that from my dashboard, I have the option to edit the email address or link-back URL in your comment. So from now on, if you leave a comment and it doesn’t link to your blog, I’ll try to correct that.

I’ve said many times on this blog that I find it necessary to edit as I write. It’s almost impossible for me to move on when I’m aware that a sentence is clunky, or I’ve made a poor word choice, or otherwise phoned it in. I’m not saying I never do those things, but when I know I’ve done one of them, I have to fix it before I can continue writing. It’s the same when I know I’m not going deep enough into a character, I fuss and fume until I break through.

But something weird has happened as I write my current novel. I know I’m leaving out things and I’m okay with it. In some scenes, I’ve skimmed the surface of my main character. I know there should be a lot going on in her head, but I’m not exploring it yet. She’s doing things, saying things, but she’s mostly shut me out of her head—if you know what I mean.

That seemed just plain crazy to me because that’s not the way I usually write. Always before, though I wrote the dialogue first, I’ve just as clearly known what my characters were only thinking. This new, seemingly chaotic, way of writing bothered me, but I’d delayed so long already on this book that I had to keep writing.

Then I started to feel excited about these missing pieces of narrative, as if I were waiting to open a gift. Recently, I’ve been hearing passages of my character’s thoughts, and they were worth the wait. I’m not sure where they’ll fit in the book yet, but I wrote them down. For now, what can I do but write and look forward to all my future gift boxes?

FREE BOOK: If you missed getting a digital copy of The Brevity of Roses on the free days in February, you have another chance. Tomorrow and Friday (May 3-4), you can download it free from Amazon. Remember, you don’t have to have a Kindle to read a Kindle book, just install the free reader for your computer or smart phone.

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A belated anniversary and a giveaway!

This time a year ago, I spent the days swinging from elation to terror. The Brevity of Roses had just been published, and my talent, or any lack of it, was on display to the whole world. One moment I felt proud of myself, and the next I was aghast at my audacity. To be honest, a year later, I still have my swinging days.

One difference is that, now, I’m better at separating the Author from myself, though maybe not in the way you might think. I’m the one that writes, but that person with her name on the front cover—the Author? Well, I try not to think about her much. She’s useless at the keyboard. I let her check the sales stats and reviews.

This separation has made me feel I’m waking from a long sleep. I’m excited about writing again. I have two books in the works—a short story collection and a novel. My Muse speaks to me regularly.

And to celebrate Brevity’s one year anniversary, I’m giving away a signed print copy!

To those of you who know nothing about The Brevity of Roses, you can click the cover photo to read more about it. Here’s the bit from the back cover:

Told in gorgeous, poetic tones, The Brevity of Roses will take you on a journey delving into three unique characters as delicate and beautiful as a rose itself. Lewis’ rich understanding of relationships is phenomenal.” – Michelle Davidson Argyle, author of Monarch

Grief, discovery, anguish, pleasure, rejection, acceptance, atonement, forgiveness—the rhythmic odes of marriage, friendship, family. A fine debut novel that reaches deep into a poet’s beating heart, lays it open, vulnerable to the bitter betrayals, and the joyful loyalties, of this thing we call Love.” – Kathryn Magendie, author of the Graces Sagas, Sweetie and Petey, publishing editor of Rose & Thorn.

Jalal Vaziri has looks, money, women—and a habit of running from reality. When he abandons New York and reinvents himself as a poet in a California beach house, he thinks he’s running from a father who hates him, a career mistake, and endless partying. A fresh start is all he needs. After an intriguing woman enters his life, he believes all his dreams are coming true, but too soon, that dream dissolves into nightmare. Jalal flees again. Only this time, a woman blocks his retreat and challenges him to finally face the truth about what he’s trying to outrun.

The usual rules apply.  You can have up to five chances to win! Leave a comment below to enter your name once in the drawing. If your email address is not linked in your avatar, be sure to add it in your comment. If you Tweet, Facebook, or Google+ a link to this post, your name will be entered again for each mention.  LIKE my Facebook page (click the link in the sidebar) and your name will be entered yet again. (You’ll have to let me know you’re eligible for these other entries.)

The contest will close at 8pm PST on Sunday, April 22nd. The winner will be chosen by Random.org and announced in Monday’s blog post. Sorry, but because of prohibitive shipping costs, this contest is open to U.S. and Canadian residents only.

Let the contest begin!

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My decision to quit writing

Last week, I had lunch with two other writers and came home totally depressed. I don’t blame them. They didn’t do or say anything directly to bottom me out. As I listened to them speak, I realized I felt disconnected from their world. That night I told my husband I’d decided to quit writing. He told me to sleep on it.

For four days I didn’t write a word, not even a blog post. Instead, I read. And I played a lot of games on Facebook. At first, that felt weird. I was anxious. By the end of the second day, I relaxed. It felt right not to be writing. I could just walk away. Let it go.

On the third day, I realized I’d returned to the way I’d told stories for most of my life— in my head. I continued with the story I’d been trying to force into a novel for months. It flowed without effort. I enjoyed it. But not until late on the fourth day did I actually “hear” the story, and when I did, I knew why I’d quit working on the version for publication.

Let’s back up a bit.

I’d been writing that novel in my head for months before I sat down to begin entering it into a Word file, so I wrote the first few chapters quickly. I opened with a short chapter in third person past tense  and then moved to first person present tense (FPPT) for the next chapters because that was the way I “heard” the main character’s voice. I would use three short third-past chapters spaced throughout the book, but the bulk would be in first-present.

Then I read that most current novels for the adult market are written in third-past, and a first person novel is hard to write well, and present tense is tiring or boring or some other negative for the reader. I questioned my wisdom. I revised. I changed all the chapters to the “best” person and tense. I pushed on.

I wrote a couple of chapters more, and then got distracted by other projects. I wrote another chapter of the novel, and then I worked on something more pressing. I wrote a paragraph or two for the novel, and then I got this great idea and worked it into a short story. I wrote a few words on the novel, and then … and then … and then I gave up on it.

I stopped writing the novel. I stopped writing. Period.

Why? Well, it seems if you stop listening to your character’s voice, eventually that character stops speaking to you. She says, “You don’t like the way I’m telling this story? Fine. Tell it without me.”

Silly me.

Do over. Stop being a sheep. Revise the revision. Start listening again. Write.

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One question too many?

Lately, I’ve spent more time thinking about writing than I have writing. Though exactly what I’m thinking about is probably not what you imagine. I’m questioning why. Why do I write fiction? Why does anyone?

Non-fiction has an obvious reason to be. What is the purpose of fiction? Would you say it exists to explore the human condition? To illustrate the beauty and complexity of language? To convey universal truths? Would you say those reasons best describe literary fiction?

So then, what of commercial fiction. Is this fiction meant to simply entertain? Does it matter that it’s only a temporary thrill, fright, mystery, heart throb? So what if none of these books will ever be deemed a classic, they serve a purpose, right?

Of course, many books fall in-between those two categories. Every book has its readers . And with the ease of self-publishing nowadays, all authors have the opportunity to share their stories. They don’t need permission. They’ve deemed readers as the gatekeepers now. Should they have?

I question why I write, why I think my stories have any reason to exist outside my own head. Is it an act of hubris to foist my imaginings on others? Who am I to take such a step? Who am I?

Forgive me for thinking aloud in this post. I’m not seeking affirmation. I’m just wondering. And I’m thinking this is something I should have questioned long before now. Don’t you think?