1-900-blog

No, I haven't suddenly embraced the dark side. I haven't made some crazy life changing decision that will horrify and embarrass my family. And I haven't taken up new hobbies that I can't post about on Facebook or Twitter. No, those are definitely things I haven't done.  

What I did do? I brought up the topic during a tense discussion at home. I suggested there was a way I could "earn my keep" since being a writer isn't the most profitable profession at the moment. But I certainly didn't think I'd actually deliver on this thinly veiled threat.

The truth of the matter is I'm tired of feeling like an unequal partner. I'm tired of feeling like I don't contribute equally to the household. There just doesn't seem to be anything I can do to rectify the situation when you compare apples to apples, or dollars to dollars as the case may be. I'm doomed to an eternity with the words "starving artist" tattooed to my forehead.

The problem is, people are forever making the assumption that being a published author means you're rolling in royalties, but the truth is usually quite the opposite. Having a few books under your belt doesn't always add up to much of anything in the grand scheme of things. Certainly not enough to compete with some of the other fields out there. Oh sure, I have high hopes...but that's all they are right now. Hopes. Dreams. Delusions of grandeur.

In the end, I still don't measure up to the requisite expectations. And maybe I never will. And maybe I'm ok with that. Maybe it's not all about the money. Just maybe seeing your name printed across the bottom of a book, and seeing that book get amazing reviews is compensation enough.

Until the next time...I'll be writing. 

a moment of darkness

I'm the fluffy romance girl. Always good for a laugh. Not today. Today, I'm the bearer of darkness. 

Well, not exactly. But I did have this dream last night...it was so vivid, so real, I decided I just HAD to write it down. So I've spent a large portion of the day capturing the little town of Peach (made up for my story) and the mysterious goings on within the city limits. I don't know how it'll turn out, but I know it's worth taking the ride.  

Now, the question would be, why? Why has a dark story taken hold of me? I can't really answer that...I simply don't know. But when the voices speak, the writer listens. This time, the voice is that of a twelve-year-old boy named Nick. And there's not a drop of romance within the pages.  Stay tuned, if things work out, I may share more later.

For now, I'm going to stick to my crappy little borrowed laptop and write for a while. If I'm lucky, I'll work through the darkness and get a little sleep.  

One can only hope. 

Until the next time...I'll be writing! 

another day closer

I don't remember the first thing I wrote. Probably because I've been making up stories since before I even knew how to write them down. My parents used to talk about my imaginary friends and my elaborate tales, and flights of fancy. Thank goodness they've reached the age where they've forgotten all about those and moved on to other embarrassing memories. I'm sure the first several (hundred) stories I wrote were silly and ridiculous. I say that only because the first few I do ​remember were. Hell, I still venture into the silly and ridiculous from time to time.

My significant other (also known as the IDP, or Imaginary Dead President for those of you out of the loop) likes to tease me about living in an alternate universe...the place I spend most of my time. I try to rationalize it as a writer's prerogative, but maybe I am ​just weird. Hey, if I am, so what. I'm a writer.

Basically, I've always ​been a writer. It's more than what I do, it's who I am. And in just a few more days (four if you're keeping track) for the first time since those first goofy stories, I'm going to see one in print...with my name in bold letters across the bottom. My book.

Come Monday, it's gonna feel pretty damn good. I can't wait to write all about it.​

Until the next time...I'll be looking forward to my last weekend as an unpublished author.​

To Katie With Love - Cover

I'll bet Hemingway didn't have to deal with this crap

Being a writer has many perks. 

I have an instant escape vehicle that transports me to faraway places without having to leave the safety of my bed…or my pajamas.  I can engage in adventures that I would never be brave enough—or foolish enough—to engage in within the boundaries of the real world.  I can be anyone I want to be—from the heroine to the villain. And people actually expect me to indulge in the occasional cocktail, a la Hemingway and his daiquiri fixation. So, pour me a frosty cold beverage, and pass me the laptop, I think I'm on a roll.

But that being said, life as a writer is not without its drawbacks. 

When you are a writer, everyone wants you to help them with their research papers…essays…or dissertations. They ask for help spelling words they've never even used in the proper context before (and with good reason). And they plop down beside you with a ream of paper containing the next Great American Novel (handwritten, of course) and since it's a well known fact you spend your days lounging in your pajamas, they ask you to "take a peek" at it in your "spare time." 

The thing is…I really don’t mind helping.  In fact, I like it.  It makes me feel useful.  Needed.  If I was a mechanic they'd probably ask me to look under their hood, or change their oil. Ok, so maybe I'm not the best person to pass off that handwritten novel, but a little proofreading or helping write a simple paper is much easier, and cleaner, than fixing a loose timing belt.

Until they assume that I'll write the whole thing. 

And hey…my days of having to do homework are long past me.  I don’t want to research a paper.  I don’t want to read a boring book and then do a report on the contents.  Especially when I can’t take credit for the A I'll undoubtedly earn.

Then again…once I get started, I can’t stop myself.  The writer in me takes over.  I start to get excited about the topic.  I suddenly feel the need to make everything sound perfect.  And I’m hooked!  They’ve got me…and the perfect paper begins to take shape.

And I still can’t take credit when I get an A. 

Oh well…I suppose I should just stick to creating interesting characters…and writing blogs. 

And maybe the occasional research paper here and there.  You know…just because.

Until the next time…I’ll be working on a little romantic comedy for a change.

​

a day in the life of a romance writer

I roll out of bed at the crack of noon when sunlight filters through the slats in the thick black out blinds, waking me from the best dream ever. Seriously, this dream would make an awesome book and I promise myself I’ll write it down later…once I’m fully awake.

But first, I go in search of a bowl of cereal, cursing my family for having eaten all but the last few crunch berries in the box of Cap’n Crunch, forcing me to either crack into the unopened box of Raisin Bran or dig through the cabinets for something more appetizing. That’s when I spy a glint of foil across the room and remember the chocolate chip cookies I baked at three am and stashed behind the stack of mixing bowls. I almost forgot about those. I stumble over the discarded milk carton the dog pulled out of the trash, and nearly trip over the stools poking out from under the island before I reach my destination.

I peel back the foil to discover half the cookies are missing (I’ll deal with that later) but there are still plenty enough to satisfy my need for sustenance, and I down at least three before making my way back toward the fridge for a glass of ice cold chocolate milk.

Once I’ve had my fill of sweets, I contemplate taking a shower before lunch. Ultimately, I decide against it because of the unnecessary effort it would take when I’m only going to be writing in my pajamas all day anyway. So I head back to my office—me and my laptop spread across my bed—and tackle the first project on my growing list of things to do. Guest posts for my upcoming blog tour. But since I’m a professional procrastinator, I decide to surf the net for a while first, and end up engrossed in Twilight fan fiction for half the morning…I mean, afternoon.

After running out of fresh things to read, I actually get to work (mostly plotting out things I haven't written yet, while I try to figure out who does what with whom) then I bang out a running commentary that ends up being useless to the blog I'm trying to write for someone else, but surprisingly perfect for the blog I wri​te for myself. Then I revisit the idea of a shower, and as much as I’d fought against it, I'm glad I succumb to temptation. There is nothing quite as nice as a hot shower on a cold day…especially when it’s Tuesday. Tuesdays mean karaoke. Too bad my ninety-year-old house has equally antique wiring and I can’t use a blow dryer without taking out more than half the circuits.

Somehow, I manage to style my hair and throw on make-up to make my way out the door to the local pub, where, not only does everyone know my name, but they’re relatively happy to see me. This is a big deal when you manage to piss off your significant other on a daily basis.

The evening out is a much needed break after a long day of making stuff up while wearing pajamas. Because that’s essentially my job…sitting around in my pajamas all day while I channel the voices in my head until I come up with something that makes at least a little bit of sense. But to the outsider (or the non-believer) I’m just wasting time, slacking off, lazy…basically one step away from a pot-smoking college student with a White Castle craving.

Nah…I’m none of those things. I’m a writer.

​

ding dong my edits are done

I think I might have convinced my hus...I mean the IDP...that this whole writing thing is actually a job. I've spent the better part of a month, maybe two, working on edits for To Katie With Love.

The good news is, the edits are done. The book is amazing. And in less than two months it will be released! And I will officially join the ranks of all the other writers who managed to get a book published and into the hands of total strangers. And maybe then I'll get to take a nap.

Or not. There's still so much to be done. I have to write a dedication, an acknowledgement, a few guest posts, interviews, and if I can find the time...another book. ​

Yeah...definitely a job.​

Until the next time...​I'll be writing!

if you want things done write

A smart woman once said, if you want things done right, you should probably do it yourself. Where was she about a year ago?

Do you know that awkward moment when you discover something that could, potentially, be very embarrassing—toilet paper on the bottom of your shoe…a big piece of spinach in your teeth…your fly is open—but by some minor miracle, you discover it before anyone else…and you’re saved?

Yeah, that’s not what happened to me.

Once upon a time (because all really good fairy tales start that way, right?) I started a blog, and a website, and through the joys of social media, embarked on this crazy journey of mine. In fact, it was just two years ago when I wrote my very first blog, and I have written every day since. Crazy, right? Some people think so. But that’s not the point I’m getting to…

So I started my journey with tools such as Twitter and Facebook, and I started a website and gained a small following. And as I blogged away, my tiny empire began to grow. My followers became many, my Twitter account grew beyond the hundreds, and writers from all over agreed to friend me on Facebook. Life was exciting. So exciting, my husband decided to help me along by opening other accounts for me. Things like StumbleUpon and LinkedIn. Places I had never heard of, and therefore, had little interest in. But it made him feel helpful, so I smiled, and nodded and let him have his fun.

This is the place where the happily ever after should go, right?

No. This is where I stumbled upon my LinkedIn account to discover my husband had set up a wonderfully lush profile for me, littered with misspelled words and inaccuracies.

Oh no he didn’t!

Oh yes he did. I read my profile with wide eyes and an open mouth. The meticulous grammar queen…the imaginary spelling bee champion…the all-around writer that I am, was listed as a writter.  

A writter. Someone who writs, apparently. And I couldn’t spell curently, or writting, or several other words that my spell checker refuses to allow me to misspell in this very blog. And I laughed. What else was I going to do? Only seven people wanted to be my friend on LinkedIn, and now I know why.

Who wants to friend a writer who can’t spell writer?

I quickly set to work fixing all of the spelling errors and profile inaccuracies. It didn’t take long. But it was long overdue. I have been on LinkedIn for almost a year.

Of course, I told my husband about his handiwork…asking him how someone with his technical expertise could be such a bad speller.  He just shrugged, as if it was no big deal…until I reminded him I was a writer. And according to LinkedIn, I was a writer who couldn’t spell writer! His laughter shook the windows. Tears streamed down his face. And the man who fears my blog more than I fear spiders, actually begged me to blog about it.

So of course, I did.

Until the next time…I’ll be writting lots of things!