Samhain Publishing Ltd. Weblog

The Thrill of Victory...

The Agony of Defeat. Who remembers this catch-phrase from a weekly network sports presentation in years past?

I’ve been watching a lot of contests lately. The Olympics. American Idol. Survivor. Chopped. I find myself frighteningly able to identify with the participants, though I’ve never skied down a mountain slope, sang in public or cooked for anyone outside my family and friends. Nor have I braved a jungle setting to win a million dollars.

But as I watch the judges whittle the pool of wannabes down to 24 finalists on American Idol, and the ones who didn’t make it break down in tears, I think I totally get where they’re coming from.

Slow Rider

Make that Slow Writer. Now change the word “slow” to something more accurate. Meticulous, maybe. Or conscientious.

If your favorite authors don’t show up with good books as often as you wish they would, there’s a reason for that. They might be slow writers. They might be writers who won’t let go of a manuscript until they’ve assured themselves it’s as good as they can make it. They don’t want some sub-standard book appearing on the shelves with their name on it. A book that readers will ho-hum through, if they even bother to finish it. A book that will let down even one fan. If you read enough fiction you will soon discover that mediocrity runs rampant in the publishing world. The good books can sometimes be hard to find.

There could be a hundred reasons why there’s such a huge chunk of time between a writer’s last book and the next one. Writers are human beings and just like in your life, things happen. Family crises. Health issues. Computer crashes. Vacations. Rejections. Sometimes, life simply gets in the way of creating the next good book, even if that’s all a writer wants to do.

I'D RATHER BE LOATHED

“I’d rather be loathed for who I am than loved for who I am not.” While flipping television channels the other night I ran across Dr. Wayne W. Dyer on the local public television station speaking to an audience about his latest book. This quote is his not mine, but it resonated with me and stuck in my head.

Food Issues

As a follow up to “Potato Chips and Grapes” posted here on 1/30/09, I realize I have even more childhood food memories to share. First of all, I want to set the record straight, since my last blog focused on the less than appealing childhood traumas my mother set before me at the dinner table. She actually was and still is a very good cook, even though she’s in her 70’s now and is legally blind.

Potato Chips and Grapes

This is not an appropriate lunch for an ahem, mature woman, is it? Shouldn’t I be eating, I don’t know, yogurt and fruit? Pomegranate juice and low-fat cottage cheese? A bean curd and alfalfa sprouts sandwich?

Little Known Facts About A MONTH FROM MIAMI

The original idea for this story occurred in April 1998. (Yes, that’s ten years before it was published.) There’s a lesson there about persistence. Check out my dedication.

In all of its various forms over the years, the manuscript was passed over by editors and agents more than 30 times.

The title A MONTH FROM MIAMI is reflective of my inability to come up with a better title, and God knows I tried. But sometimes achievement of one’s dreams isn’t about physical distance. It’s about time.

A MONTH FROM MIAMI had been all but shelved before I read an article about Samhain Publishing in The Romance Writers Report and submitted it to them. I had begun to print and bind my own copies of the manuscript and gave them away to friends and family because it was the only way I could share the story.

Although A MONTH FROM MIAMI is very much the manuscript I wrote. My editor, Lindsey McGurk, did nothing but make it better during the editing process. I’ve decided a good editor is like a good mother. You don’t want to believe she’s right all the time, but she usually is. I am sure I drove cover artist Vanessa Hawthorne to distraction before we got it right, but I absolutely love my cover and it is completely reflective of the story.

The heroine was originally going to be from Detroit. The secret stash in the gas tank was going to be drugs. I know nothing about Detroit and even less about drug smuggling. But I can translate that small-town feel from my own experiences growing up in the rural Midwest, and visiting my parents’ hometown in Missouri every summer of my childhood. My husband is an avid mineral collector, so I know something about rare North Carolina gem stones.

The characters from Bertie Springs who give Kaylee glowing references are based on my aunts in Missouri.

I used the name Rick Braddock for my hero after I was seated next to a private pilot by that name at a company Christmas party. Rick turned out to be an avid reader because he had so much downtime when he wasn’t flying. I decided I had to use his very heroic-sounding name.

A MONTH FROM MIAMI is meant to be an escape from reality. An enjoyable, fun heartwarming beach read. It doesn’t aspire to be more than that. It never did.

As often as I’ve read A MONTH FROM MIAMI, from my own reworking of the original manuscript over the years through the final editing process, I can still get caught up in reading it. It still makes me smile.

And finally, a word about the love scenes. Yes, I do my own research. My husband may exude a Clark Kent-ish exterior, but underneath he’s Superman.

I achieved what I set out to do. I am immensely proud of this book. I hope my readers love it as much as I do, for that is the one true sign of an author’s success.

Excerpt below the jump…

Multi-tasking or Lack of Focus?

I’m giggling at the moment because as I sat down to write this blog I received an e-mail about an online time management class for writers. This, after I spent a 45-minute bike ride thinking about things like how the press is now saying, yes, John McCain’s a maverick, but the problem with mavericks is they’re all over the place. They can’t focus on any one thing for very long. Thus, the muddled messages that plagued his effort to gain the American people’s attention long enough to garner a majority vote.

I'VE GOT NOTHING TO SAY

What is this blogging trend, anyway? Where, when and how did it begin? I should think up some cruel and unusual punishment for the one who started it. I’m willing to bet the first ever blogger found him or herself fascinating and wanted everyone to share in that opinion. What better way than to write down every thought that came into his head and post it on the Internet thereby further building his own ego word by word? Could this be the same individual who convinced the American public that having a cell phone pressed to one’s ear at all times would perpetuate the myth of our individual popularity?

THE PASSAGE OF TIME

I’m getting old and I know it. It doesn’t always help to work in an environment where I’m surrounded by twenty-somethings. While they keep me in the loop and I enjoy their youthful antics, I’m also constantly reminded of how far I am from where they are. I’ve been there and done that and it seems a very long time ago.

I’ve been a barista at a local Starbucks for almost five years. (Ever since I started, I’ve claimed I’m just there for the story ideas.) Needless to say, I am the last of the original employees in that store. I know a lot of the regular customers and somehow through them and their children I am marking time.

One of my favorite customers started coming in shortly after we opened for business carrying his little boy John, a dark-haired, brown-eyed cutie who reminded me of my son when he was that age. I’d say “Hi” to John and wave to him. At first he’d duck his head into his dad’s shoulder. As time went by, sometimes he’d smile at me or wave back. Then one day he walked in holding his dad’s hand. He was still shy, but I always welcomed him with a “Hi, Buddy,” and usually I’d get at least a smile in return. Eventually, he started saying “Hi” back to me.

When he was old enough to see over the counter, I’d get down on his level and have a little conversation with him. His confidence grew along with his height. The next thing I knew he was in pre-school. By now we were pals. He’d respond to my questions and grin every time he saw me.

Last fall I asked his dad how John was doing and he informed me John had started kindergarten. I was shocked. How could he be in kindergarten? I’d been watching this little boy grow up without even realizing it. Four years had passed and I’d hardly noticed. But there the marker was.

Oh, sure there have been other slaps in the face that tell me I’m aging. My son’s friends are getting married and that reminds me that he’s been old enough to do the same for a few years. My daughter graduated college. She’s now officially an adult. Why then, do I have such vivid memories of her as a baby?

I officially stopped coloring my hair this year. I’m gray. Everyone knows it. Why fight it?

We ripped up some of the original carpeting in our house recently. Thirteen years ago, it was brand new.

I had a dream about my 84-year-old father the other night. He was dying and he said to me, “It all went by so fast.”

I think about how much of our time is spent on things that are insignificant, the things we have to do. Bathe. Brush our teeth. Clean the house. Sleep. Wait in lines. Time slips through our fingers and there’s nothing we can do about it. We’re left with a few vivid memories and the rest is a blur.

In a little more than 30 years, I’ll be the same age as my dad is now. Those thirty years will have gone by like the first 50 did. I’ll be as astonished as he was when I tell my child, “It all went by so fast.”