Day Job Versus Dream Career...

For many of us new writers, writing full time is a luxury we don't have. So what happens when our day job or family obligations rob us of the few precious hours we have to write? Or even worse...once we find the time to write, job or family stress invades our thoughts, preventing the creative juices from flowing freely.

In times like these, I take inspiration from anywhere I can get it. One source I have used more times than I can remember is a column written by science fiction author Robert J. Sawyer at www.sfwriter.com

He writes a terrific article on the Six Rules of Getting Published, and how out of 100 people, only a few follow all of the rules. Knowing that I am already following five rules and working on the sixth, keeps me plugging along in the face of everyday adversity.

If you're having trouble staying motivated, go to the above website, scroll down to the bottom and select How to Write then Heinlein's Rules.

So how many of the rules are you following?

Karilyn and the flat tire

Growing up my dad owned an auto salvage with his dad and brother. I used to spend summer days out there learning all sorts of things. Mainly my twin cousin and I would take the Green Machine - a Pinto minus the hatchback, the hood and the doors - and drive it up and down the rows in between wrecked cars. Our fathers, who were supposed to be watching our 12-year-old selves, thought this would be a safe activity, considering we couldn't really damage the GM and the rest of the cars were already wrecked. The GM didn't go very fast and supposedly taught us how to drive (if you ever saw Cousin drive, you'd think twice about this assessment).

Little did they know what we did with it.

At the time, Dukes of Hazzard was a really big show. Not the cheesy movie either, but the real Mccoy, with Bo and Luke Duke. Hoo-wee. Gotta go get my fan. Okay, I'm back. Anyhoo, since the Dukes could leap into a traveling car, Cousin and I figured we could too. So one of us would hop behind the wheel of the GM, gun the puny engine until it whined in protest and the other one would run as fast as her legs could carry her and leap, mostly gracefully, into the car. The driver would then tell the other how fast she could run.

Lots of good old-fashioned fun.

Despite all the fun, Dad did insist I learn something. God forbid that his girl go through life without knowing something about cars. So he'd spend hours showing me how engines work, what a drive shaft was, how to make car repairs. And yes, until I got my little Saturn I used to do a good number of car repairs, all under the watchful eye of Dad.

So the other night my friend and I were out and about and hopped in my shiny red Saturn to mosey home when the steering went out. I backed out of my spot, heard this clicking noise and the car started to veer to the right.

Great. More money that needed to be spent b/c it looked and felt like the steering was completely out.

Friend and I drove home and the whole time the car's veering to the right. When I got home, I looked under the car, convinced something had to be hanging off of it. Nothing was. So, I thought, gee, maybe it will spontaneously fix itself overnight b/c I really can't afford a steering problem. It could happen.

When I hopped in the car the next morning and backed it out, more noise sounded, so loud I think it woke up the few neighbors that weren't awake. I pulled it around to the front of the house and figured I should look under the hood.

Embarrassingly enough I couldn't get the hood opened. So now my hands are covered in dirt but luckily I'm at home where there's soap and water, no problem. But it's obvious the car won't make it to the dealership b/c said dealership is like 15 miles from my house. So I think, hey Firestone is down the street, only 3 miles, no problem. I hop back in the car, that is now making so much noise that the radio can't drown it out, and start driving. Noise, unbelievingly, gets worse. I panic. Keep driving car though. Stop at traffic light. Kind Lady rolls down her window and starts hollering, hey lady, you have a flat.

**mentally hits self in head several times** Tells Kind Lady thanks and pulls off road into Sonic parking lot.

Now I can put into use all those skills Dad taught me more years ago than I'm going to mention. I hop out of the car, pop the trunk (yes, unlike the hood I can get the trunk open), pull out the spare and jack and drag it up to the tire. The tire is smoking, nice white smoke and smells like it's been set on fire. The wrench is on the jack and I cut my finger open getting it un-attached.

The wrench won't open so each time I twirl it around, little metal pieces of my hubcaps come off. Blood is dripping all over and grease is coating my hands. Now, you might not realize this, but I'm a wee bit OCD and all I see is dirt. Like the character in Macbeth - out, out damn spot. I start to hyperventillate b/c there is dirt on my hand and in my cut and I'm in my nice Scooby scrubs and they're going to get dirty and there is no place to wash my hands - did I mention all the dirt?? - and it's way before 8 so no place is open and who do I call around here and why the hell won't the lug nuts unscrew - what is wrong with them?? - and there is DIRT and I can't touch anything b/c of the dirt and I'm going to have to call my hubby b/c of the dirt b/c I can't change the tire with all the dirt.

So much for Dad's lessons.

The hubster leaves work at my panic dirt-filled call and comes and changes the tire b/c dirt doesn't bother him and the lug nuts come out for him.

I feel like a dumb blonde. I know how to change a flat. I used to change tires with Dad all the time. And there I sat completely immobilized by dirt.

But I did get the tire fixed by Discount Tires who had me on my way in 15 minutes. Great place if you've never used them. They even let me clean my hands using their special soap. It took 5 washings but the hands are clean now. Skinless, but clean. :)

Ever had a flat?

life sans adversity is like a book sans conflict

OMG, that alpaca commercial is on AGAIN! what is the deal? does anyone else ever see that on TV?

that's not what this blog is about, but i find that commercial completely jarring.

real blog starts now.

for the past, i don't know, YEAR, i've been wondering how much adversity i must overcome before i "pass" the test. now maybe it really isn't a test. maybe it's karma, maybe it's bad luck, maybe i'm too snarky and this is punishment, maybe it's just something i as a human am not privy to because this "test" is preparing me for something later in my life, or even my afterlife, but for heaven's sake! there are days when i'm like, dang it, can i really pick myself up - AGAIN? and AGAIN? and AGAIN?

the answer is always yes, but i still ask myself that same question - every time. now i know i'm not the only one facing adversity. i know there are people out there going through more difficult things than me. but i'm a writer; i live in my own world a lot of the time.

despite the adversity, here i am - still. still getting drop-kicked in the e-mail and/or mailbox, but i keep trying. i love to write. i want to have a baby. i want the career, the man, EVERYTHING - just like my heroines. so, i'll just keep trying. even if some days it seems so damn hard. even when it seems so much easier for other people. even if other writers get published with stories that include petticoats, fanny packs, and leather deck shoes.

it's obvious i'm supposed to learn something specific while on this journey. well, i know the adversity is worth it. i've learned i'm tough enough to handle it. so what else am i overlooking?

You, Me and Aunt Louis

My life revolves around writing, family and the military. If I'm not writing or hanging out with the family, I'm handing out cold sandwiches and taking notes for my sporkncork blog down at the USO. I love my Sunday job mostly because it provides me with so much material but also because it's a nice thing to do.

I'm full of stories and embarrassing moments from my 4-6 hour Sunday shifts. This past weekend I had the chance to try on one of those ginormous backpacks those guys have to lug around. I fell on my ass. It's a pretty funny story and even my Mom was in tears when I shared my latest fiasco with her.

I'm telling my aunt - who may no longer be my aunt because she's divorced and no longer married to the family, but I still love her - about me and Air Force guy and I tell her that I told him (he said, that she said, that I said...) that if he ever picked up a novel and recognized himself it was purely coincidental and there was no need to call a lawyer.

Aunt: I didn't know you write!
Me: You proofed my baseball story.
Aunt: I thought that was school project.

Side note: I'm not in school, when I was I was never asked to turn in a full manuscript for a grade and my aunt is border line c-r-a-z-y.

She says she has a friend who has a sister that is a published author. Oh, no. Here we go again.

Aunt: Do you want me to have her call you?
Me: No, really it's fine.
Aunt: She's a romance author. She could help get you in the door.
Me: HUGE GIANT SIGH

I tell my aunt that would be great because I don't have the heart to explain that this author, that we all know because she is also a member of DARA, is probably really busy staying in the business of being published and probably doesn't want to talk to someone she has met in passing so she can help get her in the door.

What is wrong with people? Bless their hearts, I know they are only trying to help. If only it was that easy.

My infomercial monologue will read like this:

You too can be a successful best selling author! It's so easy and my program will tell you exactly what you need to do to get in the door. I'll share with you all the inside secrets that agents and publishing houses DON'T want you to know. blah. blah. blah.

The secret? "Just meet a published author and BAM! You're published. Foot in the door. Over night success. How FREAKING easy is that?" In really small letters I'll add: 'Sorry no refunds' and 'the results exhibited in the infomercial were not typical'.

What. Ever.

Seriously.

Groupies or stalkers?

As some of you may know, I got to meet my Favorite Author last weekend! Way cool. In the interest of not naming names, I'm going to create a blog with no first names. Or try to.

Anyway, FA is a wonderful person for those of you who know who I'm talking about. She's really friendly and bubbly and she rebuilt a 1964 and 1/2 mustang from scratch. In between being a best selling author and globe hopping for all these events that come with being a best selling author. You've gotta admire a woman who can rebuild a car.

My money bought me a visit to the author's reception Saturday night and then out to dinner with FA. Sunday included getting to sit at her table at the literary event. Nine of us won this privilege.

Needless to say I was a bit excited. I got all fancied up and drove to the hotel where we're to meet. I'm one of the last to arrive so everyone has been sitting around chatting and getting to know each other. When I arrive, all names are thrown at me, as if I can remember names, and I smile and try to look like I really want to be best friends with them all. Two women describe themselves as FA's stalkers. OOOkkkkaaaayyyy. I look around for the cops, but none are to be found.

Then FA shows up and we all pile into a van. Think of opening a sardine can, to be rather cliche. I scrunched against the wall, but I'm two seats down from FA so who really cares. The lady sitting next to me is one of the self-admitted stalkers and the entire time we're squashed together she is talking to FA about FA's life. FA is chatting away with her, obviously not as freaked out about this as I am. The entire time this lady, let's call her stalker lady, SL, sits next to FA and has to be the dominent in the conversation. So if you ask FA a question you can tell she's not a happy camper b/c now FA is paying some attention to someone other than SL. SL doesn't like that.

However, get SL away from FA and she's really nice. Just one of those people that has to have all the attention on her and she draws that attention by making herself sound more important by knowing all this info about FA. Interesting pychology study.

The other "stalker" was more as I'd describe myself. Fairly normal, but a huge fan. The difference between us is that she goes to all these FA author events. But the other lady was freaking ME out and I'm not even a famous author.

Oh well. FA is wonderful, love her books and she's just as nice in person as she seems in her books.

But she had apparently had enough too b/c during the tea she stuck SL across the table from her.

So, are people like me who go to these things groupies or stalkers? What's your opinion?

things that make you go hmm ...

and i'm not talking about the 90s song from c+c music factory.

some of these "sights" i saw on our cruise. some i think could really facilitate some dialogue among us. so, i'll be interested to hear your thoughts on ...

leather doesn't make it any better.

flapping running shorts is like a low-cut shirt on a woman - hopefully nothing slips out.
when mosquitoes are bad, you don't care about fashion. maybe the above 2 guys were trying to scare mosquitoes with reverse psychology?
meet my next hero. al paca.
from my hometown newspaper. i don't think i could even dream up a scene like this.

please vote for your favorite.

i got 99 problems and PEACH is no. 1

tip(s) of the day: if you’re going somewhere close to the equator, take bug spray. and always, always take bug spray when you go into the jungle. any jungle. even if you are wearing long sleeves. even if you tight-roll your jeans like 1991. even if a guy named hey-seuss offers you his bug spray. take. your. own.

well, no jerky mishaps like angie, but i did gather plenty of bloggable stuff during our cruise. there were lots of “characters” on the ship. in fact, biscuit started a simple naming system in which to identify these characters—all male characters, by the way. i will save this jewel for another blog.

since this was a “love” cruise, i lovingly decided to leave my laptop at home. this decision made my eye twitch for most of the cruise and leaving it at home in the barb room was almost as sad as leaving my two young sons (my dogs) at their lavish canine resort. nonetheless, i was excited to read a new book. i really enjoyed the first book in this series; you guys probably remember me questioning the white jumpsuit thing, but aside from that, i loved the story. well, the second book … not so much. the author obviously did a lot of research and i learned lots of new things, which I always appreciate—but, because there was so much “research,” i felt like the story suffered. the dialogue was just not up to the caliber as the research and because of that, the whole story seemed off-balance.

then there was the issue i always have issues with: the characters’ fashion.

disclaimer(s): blogger is not a fashionista. blogger is simply opinionated and confused based on the author’s fashion choices for her characters based on the current date and time in which we live—2008.

… O. M. G. biscuit and i would be sitting there in our cabin—yes, on a love cruise and not on the lido deck playing shuffleboard, but him watching the UK vs. Alabama game on TV and me reading this book—and i’d read biscuit the outfit causing confusion and he’d shrug his shoulders and say, “i don’t even know what that is.”

let me back the bus up for a minute. while on this cruise, i saw things i’d never seen before. “characters” that made me stop, analyze, and reflect. characters that wore the things i have serious issues with. let me break this down even further—girls, i saw leather deck shoes in person!!!! in real-time. even when i poked biscuit on the arm and said, “oh my gah, look, LDS,” and he said, “huh?” and i clarified, “leather deck shoes,” and he was like, again, “i don’t even know what that is,” and i was like, “LOAFERS. LEATHER LOAFERS. ON THE LIDO DECK! WHAT IS WRONG WITH FREAKING FLIP FLOPS!”

then he got it.

but back to the book. this author didn’t just dress the heroine in peach, she dressed ALL the female characters in peach. i kid you not. every outfit was peach—for every freaking female character. peach, peach, peach. even their nail polish was peach. first of all, i have nothing against peach. as in the fruit. but the color, as in the peach crayon found in a 64-count box of crayolas, nope. not working in 2008. when i go to stonebriar, i do not see lots of peach-colored attire on the racks. this story was set in a certain large U.S. city that is not located near a beach where one might potentially spot peach-colored attire. and the female characters were all in their early 30s. hello? at least there were no peach-colored sarongs or thongs.

now, it would have been different if the heroine or another female character wore a cute, peach-colored babydoll shirt or maybe a peach-colored sundress or even a peach-colored sweater from ann taylor. but no. we're talking blouses. what is a blouse anyway? that word sounds suspicious to me. i call them shirts. short-sleeve shirts, long-sleeve shirts, sweatshirts. some are dressy shirts, some are T-shirts. some are tank tops. blouse is like using the word caftan instead of a lounge chair or chignon instead of bun.

there was one exception to peach … when the hero was wearing navy slacks (when i say “slacks” out loud it sounds as if i have a crouton lodged in my larynx) AND a navy SILK T-shirt. yes, a SILK T-shirt. when i think of “T-shirts” i think of 100 percent cotton with screen-printed lettering on it, like one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.

anyway, it’s not that big of a deal, but the fashion distracted me throughout the story. maybe the author wasn’t even aware that she was using the same color over and over and over and over, but I noticed. i know, i know, i pick up on anal things, but that’s what i do. writers are supposed to be detail-oriented.

let’s look at some acceptable ways to work peach into a story:

she was a lightweight and ordered a dekuyper peach tree schnapps, but when a hot guy walked in, she needed something stronger. like tequila. “hey, bartender, make it a peach margarita instead.”

after working out, jill stopped at the gym’s café and ordered a peach smoothie.

jeremy was clueless. what the hell had he been thinking, offering to cook dinner for natalie. that was easy. he hadn’t been thinking jack—he’d been staring at her body. damn, she had a body. the woman clearly spent a lot of time in the gym. fruit. yeah, he bet she liked healthy stuff, like fruit. strawberries, grapes, peaches. and probably something tropical like papaya or kiwi. maybe he could pull this off after all. jeremy slipped on his nike flip flops, grabbed his keys, and headed to whole foods.

melanie squeezed her eyes after her mother stepped out of her 1991 coupe deville. what in the hell is my mother wearing? a peach moo-moo with kitty cats? i gave her a generous gift card to talbots. why, mother? why? you're meeting my boyfriend for the first time today and now he'll assume this is what i will look like in 30 years! ugh.

my great-grandmother loved that movie, a league of their own. back in the day, she was a rockford peach.

kate turned up the volume on her ipod when prince came on. peach. awesome song. the next song that came on had her rocking out to the steve miller band … you’re the cutest thing that i ever did see, i really love your peaches, wanna shake your tree …

i rest my case.

next time you go to victoria’s secret, i challenge you to ask an associate to show you a bra or teddy (not a bear) in peach. if she whips one out of the drawer in zero to three seconds, i stand corrected on peach being a universally accepted, fashionable color in 2008. however, if the associate cocks her head and looks confused, FACE!

Tomfoolery

Isn't that word AWESOME! Props to Christie for using it and props to me for stealing it for my own blog post.

I tried to upload an adorable image of an english sheepdog with so much POOF you couldn't see his eyes. Bless his heart. Now I know how Trinity feels about the uploading picture thing.

Okay, so to continue Christie's line of thought from last week, I'm going to talk about sorta the same thing. How amazingly easy it is to pen a novel and get it published and be in LOVE with the entire process!! I mean who doesn't love waiting for months upon months for that 'We really liked your work but..." letter that shatters all your hopes. Are you perched on the edge of your chairs? Don't be...that was completely tongue in cheek and I don't want you to be disappointed in the long run.

Now, let me apologize upfront to my friend who probably won't appreciate being the subject of this discussion but she is a perfect illustration of what Christie was so delicately pointing out.

There are very few people who know I live the secret life of a tortured writer. In a nutshell, I agree with Trinity - it's just easier than having to explain (or in our case - DEFEND) what we are trying to accomplish. Smirks, snide remarks, and basic school yard bullying is just not worth it. But when I'm published, I'll be wearing that badge for all the world to see and God help whoever decides to open their mouth because I have 32 years of pent up anger just waiting to be released.

My friend went to see a multi-published best selling author, one whose books are ALWAYS made into major motion pictures, speak when he was here in town recently. The next day she explained to me how disappointed she was in him. What? Come again. MULTI-PUBLISHED. BEST SELLING. MOVIES. I see nothing to be disappointed in.

She explains that she got the feeling that he just wrote books to have them made into movies. I tried to explain the writing is a business. Oh, sure it can be a hobby, but the truly dedicated souls that slave night after night while their family is off in fairy dream land know, they know, it's one of the most competitive businesses probably in the world.

For most, we write because it is what we are made to do. I wrote my first short story in the third grade. We were asked to write a paper on what would happen if the sun suddenly decided not to shine. I turned in a five page story. FIVE PAGES and I was EIGHT. Why do I remember this? Because later I would realize that was when I knew what I was supposed to do and that was write.

I am sure there are authors who don't give a rats ass about what they are doing, they were somehow blessed with a natural ability to plot and form sentences that make marketable manuscripts, but I bet they are fewer than we think in the fiction world. This particular author might well be one of those few but who cares? When it all comes down, it is still a business.

You write because you can. You publish because you either have a great agent that pushes your work endlessly or when a tired editor happens to read your manuscript while drunk and you sign the contract before she sobers up. I'm kidding, but I think you understand our chances are slim, slim, slim. Luck has to play a huge part.

After you publish, you hope for a movie deal (insert snicker) but you don't wait for that because you are already pounding away on another manuscript that you hope keeps the publisher interested enough to give you some heavy marketing or you end up at a bookstore with only your fellow spanksters alternating autograph requests with sympathy shining in their eyes.

And guess what? You write that next book with the same damn dogged determination that I had when I penned that short story when I was eight. Not because you can, but because you have to. At least for me. It's like OCD. Gotta write. Gotta write. Gotta write.

Sometimes I'm so sick of it I quit. Stop writing for months but I always go back. Because I have a story to tell. Because Muse Bob won't stop nagging about how much time we are wasting reading and blogging and youtubing when we could be producing. And then you go to meetings and hear things like "Five thousand dollar" advance for first time authors and I want to throw my laptop off the roof. Do they know how much time I spent on this thing? Anyone done the math? Is that kind of pay even legal?

It shouldn't be about the money, but how can it not be in the long run? It's a business. I don't live in a village where other people pay my mortgage because I need to finish my manuscript. I'll take that advance but you can damn well bet I'm gonna make sure my next work is worth a hell of a lot more. And more after that.

We can't work two jobs forever, and that's exactly what writing is for me. A second job. I love it (and hate it) but I spend hours a day plotting and planning and penning words that float around in my head all day long.

It all boils down to this for me: don't make a judgement call against a successful author because he has the talent to turn books into movies because then you are judging me.

I have six, seven if you count the trash I wrote in high school, manuscripts. Some complete. Others still in progress. I have a book of poetry I began in middle school. I have a notebook that I literally use rubber bands to hold together full of ideas I may never use.

Yet...

I have never won a contest. I have never been offered a publishing deal. I don't have agents beating down my door throwing Range Rovers in my face begging to represent me.

Until you've walked the world seven times over in my shoes don't tell me what writing should be about. Sometimes I hate the words I've written. Hate the characters I've created but if someone wants to buy something I hate, then heck yeah, I'm gonna be all over it. In less than a heartbeat.