Swimming in the Indie pool

A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I changed publishers.  This happens more than we’d like to think.  So Former Publisher wanted a novella featuring Finley’s Mother and she wanted it for Mother’s Day.  So I did just that – for those of you unfamiliar with the Finley Anderson Tanner Mysteries, she has a rather challenging relationship with her mother.  I should also mention that old writing adage about ‘write what you know.’  So Finley’s mother, Cassidy, is a poorly veiled caricature of my mother.  The only difference is that my mother was more critical.  I used to snicker when someone would write a review insisting that Finley’s mother couldn’t be that bad.  Well, em, WRONG.  But I’ll save all the details for my therapist <g>.

So here I am with a completed novella with no home.  So, I decided – much at the urging of my agent – to go the indie route.  Sounds simple, right?  Well, it isn’t simple. I’ve spent a great deal of time finding an editor – and yes, after 40 books I still need an editor – that whole second pair of eyes thing.  Then I had to hire a cover artist (amazing person!) I got recommendations from other indie authors and their recommendations were spot on.  So now I’m waiting for the edit to come back so I 

can send it to a formatter.  Enter dear, old, friend @TraciHall

She’s been an indie author forever (and a very talented one), so I gave her a call just to make sure I was going about this correctly.  Bless her, she went through the whole process with me while I took copious notes.  Turns out I have a few more things to do.  So many thanks to Traci for taking time out of her Monday to help me.  Apparently I have to do a newsletter in addition to updating my website (happening now) and that blogs are going the way of the do-do bird.  So now I know what to look for from that formatter so I retain control over this project.

So, the point of all this is to remind everyone on the importance of networking and how much it matters to reach out and touch someone when you hit the wall.  With any luck, Finley should be live and yours for the paying ($2.99) in the next few weeks.  Then the goal is – depending on how she is received in this new format – more Finley Indies because I’m very in love with the character.  And coming from Grand Central – Peyton Tanner Mysteries – where you’ll meet Finley’s cousin.

Seriously????  We're supposed to mop while we walk? Is there no end to housework?

This little item came via my inbox and as soon as I finished laughing, I thought about the expectations it places on all of us.  Well all of us women - it doesn't come in men's sizes, though it does come in a rainbow of colors.  And then what?  you glide over to the washer and shimmy out of them without getting any yuck on you?  Or worse yet - what if you washer isn't within shimmy distance?  Do you have to de-mop and run barefoot through the house wearing the dirt on your hands?  I find this to be a troubling product.  I think I'll pass.

No Returns is now a reality, or it is to me once I see the cover.  Then it feels like a real book.  And I must say a huge thanks to Jess Dawson and Sara Lundsford for all their help. Of course I printed it and showed it to my dh and all he asked was who pays $750.00 for a purse?  Such a man thing to notice.


Had a lovely day yesterday with my critique buddy.  It helps when your critique buddy writes humor, lots of laughter as she shared her latest chapter.  Made me think about all the critique groups I've had along the way.  A critique group, or rather one honest person in said critique group, is responsible for me selling my first book.  I had spent nearly 10 years trying desperately to write a Silhouette Desire (yes, I go back that far).  I read every Desire released and I really tried hard to capture the feel and tone of the line.  Then one day, as we were carpooling back from critique group, the one honest person (who was and is a good friend) turned to me and said your action and dialogue and action are great but everything else sucks.  Have you ever considered writing romantic suspense?

Actually, no.  I'd never thought of it and even worse, I'd never read one.  So I spent a few weeks reading every romantic suspense released by Harlequin and Silhouette.  It was like a bulb turned on over my head.  I could relate to solving a crime while finding romance.  After all, who doesn't like a hot detective or PI?  So I set to work (on my typewriter) and the words just flew out of my fingertips.  It was almost effortless.  I'd always been a mystery reader and a true crime reader, so I was in my element.  And writing sexual tension was so much easier for me than writing actual sex scenes.  I had found my nitch, all because a dear friend had done me the favor of being honest with me.  Oh, and after 10 years of failure, I sold the first romantic suspense novel I ever wrote.

I tell this story and some people gasp at the notion that she told me my stuff sucked.  First, she was a good friend and didn't mean it in a nasty way.  Secondly, she knew ten times what I knew about the business of publishing.  I often think about how that single sentence changed my life and I am forever grateful to her for her input.  And I try to pay it forward.  I learned from that experience that sometimes you can be so close to a project that you don't see how it isn't working.  I also learned not to say sucks, unless it's a good friend.

So thank you my Sunday writer ladies for your input and your honesty!

A funny thing happened on the way home . . .

After being held hostage in a hospital for a week, I was finally cleared to leave.  Not as easy as it sounds given the fact that I required most of my creature comforts from home during my stay.  I had everything - from several pairs of jammies to my water pic.  So per hospital policy, my box of necessities and I were wheeled to the parking lot.

As soon as my husband started the car, he turned to me and said there was something wrong with the car.  It had started the night before.  "What?" I asked.

"I don't know," he replied as he backed out of the parking space.

I rolled down the window and heard a rhythmic thump as the car moved.  “Sounds like a tire,” I said.
Darling husband said no, that he’d checked the tires.  Muffler? I guessed.
Again he dismissed me.  Which is common when it comes to anything manly.  The only problem is my husband has no man skills.  He can barely use duct tape.  But he had a plan.  He’d drop off the 8 new prescriptions, take me home, then take the car to the dealership.  Sounded good.  The car kept making that death rattle, so I thought the plan was sound.  We drove about 5 miles to the strip mall where the pharmacy is and as we drove by the ever-present homeless guy, he called out “Hey! You’ve got a flat tire!”
Darling husband parked and we both got out of the car and sure enough, the rear passenger side tire was as flat as a pancake.  “I thought you said you checked the tires,” I admonished.
“I did,” he insisted.  “But only the ones in the front.”
Who does that? I wondered as he dashed into the pharmacy to drop off the prescriptions.  So he comes out and I told him we had to take it to the tire place immediately.  I’m thinking he’s probably ruined the rim since he’d told me the noise started the day before.  And to make matters worse, we have AAA.  It wasn’t even like he had to change a tire himself.
So we drove across the street to the tire place.  Even the sales guy laughed at my husband.  He was also stunned that darling husband hadn’t ruined the rim.  Said it would be about an hour and a half, so instead of sitting in the tire place, we walked next door to Chili’s to eat and kill time.  So there I sit, wearing hospital bracelets as my accessories with some serious bed head.  And while in the hospital I’d been on a very strict diet, so the smell of spicy food was very appealing.  Note to self: lay off the Mexican when you’ve been consuming chicken broth and tea for a week.
$128.00 later, we were on our way back to the pharmacy, then finally I got to reunite with my own mattress.
The only thing that makes this story worse is it isn’t the first time its happened.  Ten years ago darling husband had ignored a service light on the car when he came to collect me from a hospital.  The engine quit at a stoplight in the heart of Baltimore and we ended up hitching a ride home with the tow truck driver.  All because he had failed to maintain the car properly.  He sees those lights on the dashboard as suggestions.  A dangerous philosophy when you don’t even know how to check a dip stick.
I have friends with handy husbands and I must admit, I get a tad jealous.  Anything more complicated than hanging a picture and I have to run to the yellow pages.  I even had to pay an electrician to change the light bulbs (fluorescents) in my kitchen.  Darling husband didn’t know how to twist them into place.  He can’t even grill.  When I say he has no man skills, I mean none, zero.
But he has other wonderful qualities that make him a keeper.  He’s the funniest person I know, which off-sets his lack of other skills.  Now, if I could only find a decent handyman . . .

Back from the dead

I'm ready to come out of hiding.  Well, I wasn't hiding so much as I was taking a long look at my career.  It just took me 2 years to do it.  Well, not really 2 years, I had a lot of interruptions.  My daughter is now a college freshman and since I married a man with children, this is the first time in my 33 year marriage that we've had an empty nest.  (And thanks to college girl, empty wallets <g>).

So the last couple of months I've been working on a deal with Grand Central (shout out to Donna Bagdasarian) and we finally got things all worked out.  At least I think we did.  That was the day my pool motor committed slow suicide, making this awful, deafening sound because the water was so low but I'm pretty sure I got it right.  But it was a Lucy Ricardo moment.  I was cradling the phone with my shoulder and went toward the clump of bushes where the pool controls are hidden.  I wasn't alone.

There on the top of the hedge was a black snake sunning himself.  Or herself, I have no idea how to determine snake gender and I'm not about to learn now.  I needed a plan B.  So I decided to just get the hose and add water, all the while praying that my pool didn't have a crack or a pipe issue.

All this comes on the heels of my house attacking me.  Last week the garage door broke.  My hubby pulled on the red emergency cord and snap - it was lying limply in his palm.  We called the installation company but it would take them 3 days to come out.  So we waited for the grounds service and asked if they would venture back inside the bushes to shut down the pool motor.  Nice guys and happy to do it, even when Snake 1 and Snake 2 slithered out from beneath the hedge.  I'd love to meet the person who determined that snakes are more afraid of me than I am of it.  What a crock. Seeing those snakes was enough to make me pee myself.

Turns out the garage door only needed a new fuse and rip cord and the pool was nothing but evaporation from the strong winds.  And I'm counting the days until I can move into condo because the only person more afraid of snakes is my darling hubby.

More on my return to writing  - including the release date for the next Finley adventure - NO RETURNS!  Finley faces the most difficult case of her career - herr mother is the prime

When you wish upon a Star . . .

And my stars are pretty big.  A few years back I went indoor skydiving with fab NYT best-selling author Leanne Banks.  It was basically the two of us jumping on top of a jet engine, bouncing around.  Too fun.  So since then, I’ve dreamed of doing the real thing.  Except I’d be that granny who falls out of her chute and lands panties first on YouTube.

I’m a DAR member and my Patriot (that’s what they’re called) is from London.  I’d love to go spent a few weeks there tracking any distant relatives.  Oh, and I might have a pint or two while I’m at it.  I actually like dark room temperature beer.

I’d love to learn to fly.  Not so interested in crashing, though.

Lastly, the one I have no control over – I’d like to write a NYT best-seller.  Is, it’s a lightning strike but hey, a girl can hope.

Setting goals

So this is it for me in 2012.  Even babes have to prep for Christmas so after this week we’ll be silent for a couple of weeks.

I’m a huge believer in coals, long and short term.  However, they have to be under my control, doable and realistic.  Saying I want to write two manuscripts this year is a good goal.  I can control it; I know my writing speed so it’s doable and realistic.  Saying I want to write a New York Times bestseller is a bad goal.  It’s based on orders and you can’t control how many copies of your book are printed.  That goes for all accolades.  Think of them as lightning strikes and not part of the norm.

Here’s a great way to incorporate goals into your world.  First, see above.  Second, write them down and place them somewhere in your line of vision.  Make long term (3-5 years) and short-term (1 year or less) goals.  Create almost a contract with yourself.  One of my goals for 2012 was to try to break into a new market by writing at least three proposals.  Since I can’t control editors, all I could do was make myself work toward what might get me in front of editors.  (Notice I didn’t say sell).  Another of my goals was to try a different (for me) genre.  Not only did I find out I loved it (Sorry Babe Amy who is kind enough to proof for me but hates gore a goo), I also found out I can carry it off.

My long-term goal is almost always the same – network more.  Unfortunately I live in the middle of  chapters so my choices are to spend an hour driving 3 hours back and forth from STAR getting in well after midnight or getting up at 5AM to dress and shower and drive 3 hours to make an FRW breakfast meeting.  Yahoo hates me so I’m pretty bad at loops, too.  But again it will go on my goals list.  Just because you didn’t make it one year doesn’t mean you can’t keep reaching.

Happy Holidays!