CRAZY LIFE!

By Caroline Clemmons

Non-writer friends often ask me how I think up all the stuff in my books. What really happens is our crazy brains conjure all these characters and situations. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. And we’re not really insane, either. Well, most of us aren’t. I’m not naming names, but there are a few people on my Probably Certifiable List.

And there are those (lazy?) people who say, “I’ll feed you ideas, you write the book, and we’ll split the royalties.” Uh, no. Not happening. The idea is the easy part. In fact, I have more than I can list. Writing a cohesive book with a credible story line is the hard part.

Then comes the hard part. Some parts of writing become easier with each book. One part that does not is making basic plots fresh, giving a tried and true idea a new twist. People argue over how many basic plots there are. The number varies from nine to twenty-seven. Supposedly, any book is a variation of one of those basic plots. And the more books and author has written, the harder that new variation becomes. Yeah, bummer.

How to make feisty, spunky heroines differ from those in past books? How different is one handsome cowboy from another?  How many ways can Tab A insert into Slot B? You get the idea, right?

Hero and I used to joke about a favorite author who repeated her basic plots. We would say, “This one is plot A.” Or plot B. The city and names varied, but little else. At the time, we had no notion of the difficulty of a fresh plot. And , hey, she sold a gazillion books and still sells even though she’s passed away. Not bad, right?

The main problem I encounter is that life keeps slapping me upside the head. Literally, if you count the last fall I had. You know the usual: dental appointments, doctor visits (or your prescriptions won’t be refilled), and all the errands necessary to function. Plus, the complex world we’re in with this pandemic forcing changes in our behavior.

Many people think that if you work from home, you can stop and do this or that because, after all, you don’t have a “real” job. Sigh. This is why Debbie Macomber said she decided to have an office away from her home, by the way. If we stop writing, we lose our concentration, our “groove”, and have to reread the last portion we wrote to bet back into the zone.  Fortunately, Hero understands this.

I try to vary settings and events so that my books appear fresh, even though they are always in my style and voice. With the exception of one novella set in Georgia, they’re always set primarily in the West and they always end happily. They’re the same, but different. Each main character has a journey, both external and internal. The same, but different.

I’m sure you’ve heard that writers are either writing or thinking about writing. It’s true. We can’t help ourselves.  For the next few days, I’m thinking about writing. And decorating for Christmas. Have you put up your tree yet?  

Speaking of plots (sneaky segue), I have a book release coming soon and hope you have preordered my upcoming book, MEG, Angel Creek Christmas Brides book 20, releasing December 18. You can get it here: https://mybook.to/McClain

Be safe, be happy, keep reading!

Our Flight Was Cancelled -- by Vonnie Davis

Calvin and I flew to Columbus, Ohio for our granddaughter's wedding. We could have driven, but with Calvin's advancing age and my upcoming cataract surgery in 3 weeks, we decided to fly. We flew from Lynchburg, Virginia, to Charlotte, North Carolina. A layover long enough for lunch and ice cream and we boarded a plane to Columbus. Both flights took about an hour.

The wedding ceremony was held in a gazebo in a lovely park redolent with the fragrance of flowering trees and bushes. Folding chairs were set surrounding one part of the gazebo where John had proposed to our Eleni last fall.

Our four days there was a much needed time of grandma hugs and catching up with my two oldest grandsons and granddaughter.

Then we drove our rental car to the Columbus airport to catch the first leg of our flight home. We soon found out our connecting flight in Charlotte was delayed. Once more, we had a meal and watched the flight schedule board. An announcement was made. "Due to mechanical difficulties, our departure gate was changed from E-46 to E-17." This was in a different concourse. We grabbed our carry-ons and hoofed it down one long hallway to make a turn in the airport maze to the concourse or wide hallway containing our new departure gate.

We took seats and waited.

Caught our breath.

And waited.

An hour later...Calvin said, "One of us needs to ask something."

I walked up to the airline desk, ticket in hand, and inquired about our flight. I was told it was cancelled. "Cancelled??!! Why weren't we told?"

"Look, I don't have time to talk to you. Go sit down until I do," The rude woman in the American airline's uniform told me.

The redhead in me came out. "No! You'll talk to me now. We have tickets to get home. Your airline didn't hesitate to take our money, now you'll damn well take the time to give us tickets on another flight home."

She glared.

I scowled back.

We were directed to the American Customer Service Desk where we stood in line for an hour and a half. Finally, we got tickets home the next morning, a voucher for a hotel room, and a voucher for a shuttle ride to the hotel.

We went outside to wait...and wait...and wait. Over an hour later, our shuttle van shimmied in front of the airport. I say shimmy because it rattled as if every bolt and screw in it was loose. Eight of us scrambled in--tired, hungry, and sweaty.

Meanwhile, although my body was exhausted, my mind had sprung to life. Two strangers trying to get home to the same city. Their flight gets cancelled. They talk...then...and by the time we were checked into the hotel and I'd gotten a shower, the first chapter of a book was roughed out in my mind. While waiting for our flight early the next morning, chapter two was mentally taking form.

So, where do most of our story ideas come from? They come from life.

Or they come from your editor who says, "We need a series of wounded warriors, preferably SEALS, set in Texas." Book one of this series releases on July 19th.

https://amzn.com/B0174PTMU2

HOW I WRITE MY NOVELS: KNOW THE ENDING FIRST

By Mary Adair

To begin writing without an idea of the ending of my story is like driving on a deserted road at night in a car with no headlights. Knowing how my novel will end helps me remain focused throughout the writing process. Now, my ending doesn’t have to be etched in stone, but I should have some idea of the ending. However, using an ending for an ending’s sake would undermine my process as well.

END ON AN EVENTFUL AND EMOTIONAL NOTE

Ambiguous endings are just as detrimental to the writing process as not having an ending at all. An example of an ambiguous ending would be something like: Vanessa knew what she had to do: let go, and allow Rick to love her. That’s not a clear ending. The solution is to end on an event or physical action that expresses that idea. Emotionally, end on a note that expresses the fact that she has let go. Something as simple as an embrace between Vanessa and Rick with her crying is both a physical and emotional ending that could work, especially if Vanessa has refrained from having any physical or emotional contact with Rick throughout the story. Of course I can build up to that moment throughout the story. But that’s the point. I have something tangible that I can build towards while writing my story. Now I could create all kinds of physical and emotional tension as I build towards that ending.

Vanessa loves Rick

HOW TO GENERATE IDEAS FOR ENDINGS

A good rule of thumb in trying to come up with an ending before I write is to start with a premise and end on a conclusion that opposes that premise. For example, if I want to do a story about a bright, beautiful recent med school grad who has never had a boyfriend (something she’s sworn off since she witnessed her father cheating on her mother years ago with her grade school teacher), then my premise could be something like: Love will never find a place in Amy’s heart. That is a premise, and the end will ideally confirm or refute that theory or premise. So, a simple ending could be Amy marries Mark. Notice how the ending is tangible: marriage.

Amy and Mark

Simple enough, right?

Here are some other examples of endings: Chloe and Bill make love, Jason proposes to Erin, Lisa arrives in Paris where Blake is waiting for her, Nicky introduces Rob to her parents, Marley and Eric take a vacation to the Caribbean after she’s informed that she no longer has cancer.

Those of course can be fleshed out in more detail, but those are concrete events that can signal a story’s ending. Notice how they can guide the writer from the beginning. 

How I might look writing my novels,
coffee in hand.

Writing a novel without the guide of an ending is very difficult. Inspiration will only get the writer so far; writing without an ending in mind will get me to page 20 or maybe 30, however I won’t really know where my characters are headed. Knowing where I’m headed can take the pressure off while writing. As one published writer put it: “send your characters to hell and back, as long as you know where back is.”

TIPS ON WRITING THE MIDDLE OF A NOVEL

By Mary Adair

Let me start off by saying I am a “Die-Hard” fly by the seat of my pants writer. Not the easiest way to write, but it is fun. I decided this month I would talk about writing “the middle” of a novel. For me this is the hardest part of a novel to keep a handle on.

Indeed, I believe for most writers, the middle portion of a novel is the hardest part. It’s that “mushy” middle that can stall and keep a potentially great novel from getting completed. The beginning is easy enough, just start off with a bang…a steamy love scene, a contentious first meeting, an adulterer gets caught in the act.  The end, to me, is also fairly simple. But the middle?

No, the middle is sometimes annoyingly complex. It’s where theme is explored, secondary characters are developed and the main character is forced to confront one or several of his or her worst fears. Diving into the middle of a novel is like wandering deep into the woods with no clear way out. 

It’s easy to lose steam trying to find a way to the ending, but it is also the most exhilarating part of writing for me. This is where my characters really come to life! It seems to me, the characters that give me the most problems turn out to the most interesting.

I often need to step back and take a broader look, view it as more of a series of events that push the main character(s) to the climactic end. I just love to throw a huge wrench into the main character’s plan. 

Example…A good friend dies or an old or new threat to your main character’s life takes center stage or for the characters I write, bring in a new threat to their love interest.

The more stumbling blocks I throw at my main characters the more secondary characters appear. As these people make themselves known, a beautiful thing happens. The story begins to build on itself and flesh out.  This sometimes means there is much too much “story” for one book. 

Oh yea! The beginning of a series!

   

My Sons Called My Daughter a Moose by Vonnie Davis

Writers have active imaginations. Sometimes too active, too comical, too bizarre, but it's how our minds are wired. When folks ask us where our story ideas come from, often it's from our over-active imaginations. We see an ordinary--or not so ordinary--thing and it touches something in us, setting off a stream of "what if's."

Like the day Calvin and I were sitting at a sidewalk cafe in Paris. I had an "umburger" (the French do not pronounce the h in the word) halfway to my mouth when a guy on a Harley slowly eased by. This was 8 years ago and most weren't wearing helmets at the time, so the air lifted his shoulder-length hair, causing it to drift back like the models in model shoots with fans blowing on them.. But what caught my eye were the angel wings attached to his back. Big, long, alabaster feathers that dragged on the cobblestone street. Now picture me, "umburger" stilled inches from my mouth, which was gaping open at the sight, while the photo shutter of my mind clicked and whirled, taking mental pictures of this guy and his angel wings. He became the opening scene of a book five years later. An undercover agent, working among Parisian's avante garde, searching for a terrorist.

Friends of ours own a cabin in the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina. Driving up those mountain to get there is a nerve-wracking ride for me, but the view is well worth it. So are the long walks through the thick forests. I've never been to Scotland, but I imagine the sights, sounds and smells are much the same. I use my imagination to turn the Smoky Mountains into the Scottish Highlands as I write, sitting out on their deck. Book one of my Highlander Beloved Trilogy releases from Random House Loveswept August 19th.

Facebook posts conjure up story ideas, too. My husband's niece once posted that their dog had gotten sprayed by a skunk. After researching online, her husband discovered that Messangil douche was the best thing to remove the odor. Well, once I stopped laughing, an opening scene for a book came to mind. Harper just told me Firestorm, book two of my firemen's series releases the beginning of January.

My daughter took saxophone lessons for a year in elementary school. Her younger brothers called her Moose because...well...the saxophone just was not her instrument. There's no shame in that. In fact, I took her experience and wrote a scene around it for To Catch a Flame, book one of my Firemen's Wild Heat series. This book releases the end of August. I even got her blessing on it.  

First, a bit of intro. Cassie has been in love with Quinn since she was 18 and he thought she was an annoying kid. Well, she's 21 now and is determined to get her man. She's got Quinn a tad scared 'cause he's fallen in love with her over the years AND she's his best friend's baby sister. For some reason, guys have this don't touch your BFF's little sister code. So he's moving out of town and she's just found out. Whew! Is she one angry woman. They had words at the U-Haul trailer, and the dummy had the nerve to walk away from the woman while she was in full rant. Now, I ask you, ladies, what kind of man does that?

Had she given up and gone home? He carried the box containing his microwave into the living room and peered out the sliding glass doors overlooking the parking lot.

Holy Mother of God!

How in the hell had she gotten his Harley untied and out of the trailer? She’d pushed it onto the small patch of yard in front of the apartment building. All of his neckties flapped from the handlebars and what looked to be his jock strap was stretched across the back of its seat. Jammed into the ground at both ends of his bike were his water skis. The rope that had secured his bike upright in the U-haul was now strung from one ski to the other with all of his damn boxers hanging from the rope. In a semi-circle around the bike sat his high school and college football trophies.

His gas grill had also been dragged from the trailer, and hanging like dogs’ ears from the closed chrome lid was every sock he owned. He narrowed his eyes as his blood pressure exploded through the stratosphere. Because there…there…in the midst of all his previously packed boxes was the object of his wrath, kicking each of the cartons, arms waving, mouth moving as if she were cussing someone out. And he had a damn good idea who that lucky son of a bitch was, especially when she scowled up at his balcony and shook her fist.

Just what the hell did she think all this chaos would do?

She stormed back to the trailer and crawled into its cavernous interior. He leaned toward the glass and cocked the box on his hip. Now what was she after? His gaze scanned his belongs scattered helter-skelter over the lawn. She’d already removed everything he’d worked so hard to pack. Except for his…oh no. Oh, hell no! A flurry of movement flashed in the corner of his eye, followed by an unholy sound, resembling a moose in heat. His narrowed gaze swung to Cassie standing below his window playing his treasured saxophone. If one could classify the metalized shrieking she produced as playing.

She’s a dead woman. That horn’s all I have left of Uncle Mat.

He slammed the box onto the sofa and barreled out of his apartment. By the time he sprinted down the steps and charged through the building’s door, every damn dog in the complex was howling along with Cassie’s demented saxophone caterwauling.

“What the hell are you doing?” He tried to grab the instrument from her hands, but she spun and hit a high note he’d never imagined an alto sax capable of reaching.

“If you don’t stop that infernal racket, I’m calling the cops!” Milt Garland, the old coot who lived on the first floor, ambled out of the building, put-putting as he walked. The senior citizen had a terrible problem with gas and either his hearing was so bad he never heard it or he just didn’t give a damn if everyone else did. “I had to turn down my hearing aid.” He gestured to his trembling Chihuahua, snuggled between his arm and his chest. “Scared poor Killer so bad, he peed on the floor.”

“I’m sorry, Milt. I’m trying to stop her.”

Cassie slipped the mouthpiece from her lips. “I’m serenading the man I love. Don’t tell me you’re against romance, Milt—” She hip-bumped the old man and winked at him. “Not a stud muffin like you.”

Milt’s wire-framed glasses all but fogged up and a cheezy grin spread. “Well, no, I’m all for a little romance, sugar plum.” His gaze shot to Quinn. “Don’t know if this young whipper-snapper can deliver, though.” He smirked and his pigeon chest puffed out. “Maybe you’d be better off with an older, more experienced gent.”

Shit, as if this old man could be as experienced as I am.

She leaned against Milt’s bony shoulder. “I’m going to marry this young whipper-snapper.”

Milt narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips while he petted Killer. “Don’t look like the marrying type to me.”

Quinn folded his arms and widened his stance. “That’s because I’m not the marrying type. I’m more the one-night stand type.” This whole conversation was totally bizarre. He glared at Cassie. Thanks to her shenanigans, he’d have to repack everything.

“Oh, you can make book on this, Milt. Hot lips here is mine. His ass is grass and I’m the lawn mower.” Cassie sucked a bucketful of air and blew four sour notes at one time.

Quinn jammed his index fingers into his ears and cursed.

Milt farted, jerking his hearing aid out of his ear.

And Killer pissed on Milt’s shirt.

So, where do our story ideas come from? From the way our over-active imaginations see life and turns memories into something a tad different.

You can read more about Vonnie's writing at www.vonniedavis.com