I'm happier when I'm writing. I get antsy when I'm not. I have many things in my life I love and devote myself to, family, friends, church, my martial arts (without which I'd be in a padded room). But I need my writing. "Between books" is a state I work towards. I aim for it. Can't wait for it. Because it means I've finished my work in progress. My "baby" is fully grown and all I have to do is sit back and admire it. "Between books" is when I'm supposed to be reading. I love reading. But it's not writing. It usually takes me a few books to get out of my "editing" mode, so I can get into someone else's world, flow with their "voice", become a character not of my making. Five books later--maybe a week, considering "between books" is also when I cook, clean and do errands I put off until my work in progress is done--I tend to relax into my books and can enjoy myself.
Not this time. It's frustrating me. Maybe I'll read Linda Howard's "Prey". That will jump-start me out of this "not writing" funk.
Tomorrow I'm going to begin a new book. I have to.
I showed my daughter my webpage today, excited to see what she thought, and she said she'd never seen it. I've been talking about it for months now as I've been struggling to figure out the ins and outs of blogging. Me, on the other hand, could tell you to the moment what's been on her mind, what she's accomplished and why I should think it matters.
She took one look at my page and started laughing. My portrait on the header next to my book's cover was jarring to her. She pointed at the two gorgeous models in the throws of a passionate embrace, and then pointed to my picture, and said, "you look like a mother." I said, "I am a mother. I'm your mother."
Image, identity, and how it's valued was summed up in her one remark. "You look like a mother." Laughing behind her hand.
I was sitting next to her wearing jeans, a "Walden" T-shirt, sneakers, a baseball hat, no make-up, and glasses halfway down my nose. I pointed at the picture on the screen and said, "I'm not that either. Look at me." I was trying to make the point that we're not our image, we're the sum of our choices, our thoughts. She nodded and said. "Yeah. Your hair is longer."
Parenting is not easy.
I think people spend their lives whittling away at who they are until they're the person they want to be. When you write, you get to explore who you might have been if you hadn't shed those skins, if circumstances had been different. Every character I write is me, just not the me I choose to be.
Harlequin Intrigue Noir is buying my new romantic suspense novel, The Agency: The Seduction of Lucy. The contract is waiting in my email inbox now! (I never, ever thought I would be so busy writing that a contract to buy a book would sit in my inbox, waiting, but here I am! Living the dream!) They've given it a February 2015 release date! Awwwww! I love my life!
More news later... Yippee!
#writing #amwriting #lifeisgood
“Ode to a Sticky Bun”
Sweetly you pass my loving palate and lie
Pecan chewy nestled O how sublime
How long have I waited for you to raise yourself high
To be gently enfolded with spice, love eternal, syrup divine
When the heat of necessity golden brown your facade
A stretch of intention your fiery essence safely met
Injurious one be kind, heat beguiling needful retard
I wait, oh how I wait, until Father Time is set
You are mine, yes, you are mine, do not ask me to be sate
Oh you sweet, tasty bun, how I rapture with thee
Druthers are mine and buns are mine fate
Repped by Louise Fury at The Bent Agency.