Staring down revisions

You already know I spent my vacation procrastinating. This is what I was avoiding doing:

Looks daunting, doesn't it?

Each one of these colored squares represents a scene in my Golden Heart®-finaling manuscript, “Beauty and the Ballplayer.” The yellow ones are turning points; blue are scenes that can stay the same; pink must be deleted altogether; and green are new scenes that must be written.

I drafted this Post-It plan after sitting down with my friend Mallory, who’d volunteered to read the story and help me “fix” it. (This was after getting a couple of rejections from agents who said the same thing: The writing was good, but they didn’t connect with the characters).

Little did I know she planned to make me re-plot the whole thing!

Well, not really RE-plot since I never plotted it out to begin with. Did I mention I’m the epitome of a pantster? I write scenes in order, but I often don’t realize certain things about my characters (such as Meg’s issue with her controlling father) until I’m well into the last third of the MS.

On the second day of my vacation, Mallory and I sat at Barnes & Noble and came up with the turning points. After that, it was up to me to figure out which scenes would stay and which would go.

I was gung-ho about the project, and finished the Post-Its that night. Then I packed up my posterboards and took them to the Boyfriend’s. I attached them to the wall (where they still are, because I forgot to bring them back with me) and stared. And stared. And stared some more.

I could drown under the weight of all those little colored squares — or so I thought. Now that I’m examining the photo again with a few weeks’ distance, it doesn’t look so bad. There are:

  • 16 scenes to be deleted
  • 9 new ones to write
  • too many keepers to count. (These, too, will need some tweaking, I’m finding — but tweaking I can do.)

Really, that’s not so much. Dare I say I’m feeling like Superwoman? I can delete long passages with a single keystroke … draft new scenes faster than a speeding bullet …

Okay, probably not faster than a speeding bullet — but first drafts of nine new scenes won’t take more than 48 hours’ work, tops (probably less).

I have this Wednesday off. Let’s see how much I can get done.

P.S. To avoid serious plot problems with my next story (the companion to “Beauty and the Ballplayer”), I think I’ll be plotting those turning points in advance.

See? The slow learner CAN adapt to new ways of doing things. 😉

 

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Playing along with Excerpt Monday

When Bria Quinlan, one of my fellow 2011 Golden Heart® finalists, tweeted her need for “Excerpt Monday” participants, I decided to jump into the fray.

What follows is the first few exchanges in my as-yet only completed single title MS, “Blind Date Bride.” I chose it instead of my GH-finaling MS because “Beauty and the Ballplayer has been getting all the attention lately. Poor Kari and Damien are feeling neglected.

Here goes nothing — or everything. Be gentle; it’s my first time. Never having done this before, I had no idea how long my excerpt should be. This is about half of Chapter 1.

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Once a month, a bunch of authors get together and post excerpts from published books, contracted work or works in progress, and link to each other. You don’t have to be published to participate, just a writer with an excerpt you’d like to share. For more info on how to participate, head over to the Excerpt Monday site! or click on the banner above.

Chapter 1

Of all the terrifying outcomes Kari Parker considered when she asked her best friend to help her finally get over her crippling shyness, ending up married to a stranger wasn’t one of them.

She figured Bethany would force her to start socializing more. Stop accepting Kari’s “no” when she suggested bar-hopping. Finally make good on her years-old threat to teach Kari to dance something more complicated than the box step. Maybe even introduce her to a few safe, non-threatening guys.

No matter how many times she insisted a man wasn’t in her short-term plan, Beth wouldn’t stop trying to fix her up. That tendency, coupled with her friend’s addiction to Romance TV, had now landed Kari in a pickle of epic proportions.

“Pickle” was the only word she could think of to describe the situation without getting vulgar — and today was not a day for vulgarity. No, most people would say today should be the happiest day of her life.

Happy? Ha!

Kari’s gaze dropped to the floor. Rust, brown and orange swirls danced across the ugly carpet of what she’d dubbed “the torture chamber.” Everyone else — including Bethany, the traitor — called it “the bride’s room.”

Beyond the closed door and up the stairs, a TV crew was busy setting up equipment at the back of the soon-to-be-packed church. She glanced at her watch. In less than an hour, she’d be a Mrs.

“Bethany, I don’t want to go out there.”

“You know we can’t do this without you.”

Even mostly resigned to her frightening fate, Kari didn’t have to pretend she liked it. “You probably should have thought of that before you signed me up for this farce.”

Bethany bent to inspect the hem of the white dress Kari had reluctantly donned just moments ago. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.”

“How can it be anything but bad, Beth? I’m about to marry a man I’ve never officially met and only seen once — and that was at a distance of 100 yards!”

“It’s not my fault the contest rules prohibited the two of you from meeting before today,” Bethany protested. Then she grinned. “Besides, you have to admit you liked what you managed to see.”

Kari’s cheeks grew warm as she nodded. Somehow — she hadn’t dared to ask how — Bethany had managed to secure her husband-to-be’s address. They’d loitered across the street from his apartment building one morning until the doorman flashed them a thumbs-up, signaling his imminent exit. And what an exit it had been. “Tall, dark and handsome” didn’t begin to do the man justice. Kari’s mouth went dry even now, remembering.

When Bethany’s grin turned triumphant, she rushed on. “That may be — but I’d like to at least have a cup of coffee with the man before we make a lifetime commitment. Call me old-fashioned if you must.”

Beth cracked a smile, then started rummaging in her purse for something. Kari began pacing from the still-closed door to the window and back. She didn’t know what Bethany was looking for, and she didn’t much care, either.

She wondered again how Bethany had gotten her into this mess — a mess that, for all her bluster, she had no choice but to see through.

“Here it is!” Bethany waved a worn piece of hot pink paper.

Kari groaned. “Not those cursed rules again.”

She didn’t need her friend to read them to her for the thousandth time. She knew what was on the dog-eared sheet by heart: “As grand prize winners of Romance TV’s ‘Get a Love Life’ contest, you will be married in a live ceremony televised as a Romance TV special. You must stay married for three months. At the end of that time, you — along with the other prize winners — will be featured in another TV special. As long as the judges are satisfied that you did, indeed, cohabitate during the marriage period, you will collect $500,000 in prize money to split.”

Even the promise of that much cash — an amount it’d take her almost a decade to make — didn’t make the idea of marrying a complete stranger appealing. There was just one reason she was here — besides a passing curiosity about her admittedly desirable groom: That prize money could help her parents save their restaurant.

The diner, which had been in at least a little financial trouble for as long as she could remember, was struggling even more now that her parents had insisted on taking out a second mortgage to help one of her brothers buy a house.

“Just finish getting ready, will you? You don’t have much time.”

Her friend’s tone made Kari want to fight back. Beth had no right to be upset. A voice in the hall cut off her protest with an announcement. “Thirty minutes to air time.”

Across the hall, in a room a lot like the one Kari and Bethany were having it out in, Damien Walker was scowling at his former best friend.

“Come on, Damien. You can’t be serious about staying in here until everybody heads home.”

“I’m dead serious. I don’t care how long they wait. After all, most of them are journalists — and you know what that means.”

“They’ll go home as soon as the free food runs out?”

Leave it to Cody to be thinking of his stomach at a time like this.  “No, Cody. It means they’ll leave as soon as they realize this might not be the wackiest wedding of the year.” After a pause, he added, “What made you think I was in the market for a wife, anyway?”

Cody grinned guiltily. “I didn’t expect you to win the grand prize, man. I thought for sure there’d be someone in America with a love life more pathetic than yours. I was hoping you’d take second prize.”

Damien strode to the mirror, frowned at his badly knotted tie and untied it. “If a blind wedding was considered the top prize, I can’t wait to hear what the second-place chump won.”

“A trip for you and a friend to a singles resort in the Bahamas.”

Damien turned from the mirror. “I suppose you thought you’d be the friend I chose?”

“Who else? The rest of our friends are married.”

He turned his attention back to the mirror — and his still badly tied tie. At least Cody sounded earnest. He was right, too. All their other friends were off the market. “In that case, I think I’d have to make a new friend.”

“Twenty-five minutes to air time,” the woman in the hall announced.

“Twenty-five minutes?” Bethany wailed. “You still need to check your pantyhose for runs, decide whether to wear 1-inch or 2-inch heels, put on your makeup and fix your hair. There’s no way you’ll be ready in 25 minutes.”

What Kari needed was to make sure Bethany was calm. She definitely couldn’t get through her so-called wedding without Beth’s support — and she needed to get through it for her parents’ sake. The $250,000 prize would more than pay off the loan they’d taken out to expand the restaurant and help her brother buy his house — the one the bank was insisting be paid back even though the tanking economy meant fewer customers and less cash coming in.

Helping her parents keep the diner was the least she could do. They’d always been generous with what little money they had. They even sent her to fat camp the summer between seventh and eighth grade, after a year of merciless teasing from her older, much more svelte sisters. She credited the camp with the foundation in nutrition that allowed her to keep her weight under control today. Her parents had also sent her to see a shrink a couple of times, for all the good that did. Oh, she tried to love Shannon and Claire unconditionally, but she still sometimes hated them for torturing her.

Kari shoved aside her resentment — completely out of place on her wedding day, farce that it was — and refocused attention on her mom and dad, who’d given her so much. They paid for the bulk of her college education. They even gave her the deposit to put down on her apartment.

Until now, she’d never been in a position to give back.

“So, Beth,” she began, deliberately speaking slowly in an attempt to get Bethany to do the same, “tell me again why you decided to nominate me for the dubious distinction of being the ‘blind date bride.’”

Bethany gaped at her like she was asking whether the sun rose in the east. “We’ve been over that already.”

“I get tongue-tied talking to cashiers! How could you possibly think I’d enjoy marrying a man I’ve never even met?”

A troubled look shadowed Bethany’s green eyes. “Would I do that to you?”

“You obviously did.”

“Look, Kar — I just wanted to win you a six-month membership to ‘Matches R Us.’ I thought it would be a nice, non-threatening way to meet a few new guys. You need more men in your life.” When Kari opened her mouth, Bethany rushed on. “Before you ask, your cats don’t count.”

Kari started pacing again, plucking at the sleeve of her dress. It felt like bugs were crawling over her skin. As far as she knew, they could be: The white satin wedding gown had been provided by Romance TV. Who knew where it had been?

“Instead of meeting a man or two, I’m sequestered in the basement of a church. Worse yet, the ceremony will be broadcast live to millions. What if I trip on my way up the aisle? What if I stumble over the words ‘I do’? I don’t want all of America to think I have a speech impediment.” She groaned. “Why couldn’t you have just taught me how to salsa?”

Bethany shrugged. “I honestly didn’t think you’d win the whole enchilada, Kari. Who’d-a thunk the judges would single out yours as the love life most in need of improvement in all of America?”

“Yeah. Who’d-a thunk it?” she echoed glumly, settling into a chair in front of the mirror so she could start putting on her makeup. She wasn’t about to let those TV people make her into some over-painted clown on her wedding day — and, like it or not, this was her wedding day.

“God help me.”

In the hall, the voice announced, “Twenty minutes to air time.”

Damien ran his fingers through his thick, coal-black hair and loosened his tie for the hundredth time that morning. “Give me your tie,” he demanded, holding his own out to make a switch.

Cody slowly handed over his tie.

Damien frowned at his friend’s reluctance to part with the uncreased red and gold paisley print. Sure, the green- and gold-striped strip of fabric he offered in return was looking decidedly mangled, but if anyone could make it work, it was Cody, who had a style all his own. Besides, sacrificing good style was the least his buddy could do after getting him into a wedding he wasn’t convinced he wanted.

He was willing to admit he was in a rut. He spent too much time working and not enough having fun. He just didn’t know if a wife — even a temporary one — was the answer. Women were a lot of work.

“Cheer up, Damien.”

“What? I should be happy that a panel of romance experts including Dr. Ruth and Danielle Steel voted my personal life pathetic?” He’d actually received a call from Danielle Steel, congratulating him on having the worst love life in America. Man, that had been hard to take.

Cody’s grin widened. “You know my motto, man: Be all that you can be.”

“Remind yourself to write the Army a thank-you note when you get home, will you?”

“Only if you promise to lighten up a little. Jeez, Damien — it’s only three months of your life … and when it’s over you get $250,000. That’s not a bad deal.”

Damien yanked Cody’s tie from around his neck and it dropped to the floor. Hell — if he couldn’t even manage something as basic as correctly knotting a tie, how could he hope to succeed at marriage? And if he was going to go through with this joke of a wedding, which it increasingly looked like he was, he would succeed. He never did anything by halves.

Except, apparently, tying this tie. He scowled at the neckwear now crumpled on the floor. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to live with a complete stranger for a quarter of a year.”

“She might be a stranger, but I know one thing about your bride-to-be: She has great legs.”

As he squatted to retrieve the damn tie, Damien felt a ridiculous stab of jealousy. It wasn’t right that Cody should know something about his bride that he himself didn’t. Of course, it was even more wrong to be possessive of a woman he’d never met.

Cody held up his hand. “Easy, dude. When I looked out the window earlier, I happened to see her climbing out of the limo she came here in. She looked awesome in a short skirt. Blonde, curly hair and legs that go on for miles.”

“What about the rest of her?” Damien asked. He was furious with himself for asking, as if her appearance really mattered. At 32, he’d gotten choosier about his bedmates. It took more than a great body to hold his interest. Still, he found himself fascinated by the picture Cody was painting.

“She had all the right curves, if that’s what you mean,” his buddy assured him, grinning.

Damien couldn’t help but grin back. Apparently his soon-to-be-bride was tall, blonde and stacked — just the way he liked his women.

He shook his head at his foolishness. A fantastic body didn’t necessarily make this woman a good lifelong mate — and, unless a major natural disaster interrupted the proceedings, that’s what she was about to be. Life was too short to run when opportunity came knocking.

Like it or not, that’s what this contest win — if you could call it that — was: an opportunity to shake things up. And no matter how much he wanted to run in the other direction, he wouldn’t.

The recent congratulatory call from Danielle Steel had somehow turned into a thirty-minute therapy session with the author. He’d told her how dull things were in his world, going from work to home and back again. Occasional visits to his parents’ house hardly broke the monotony. Ms. Steel had pointed out that, while good for the animals in his care, such tunnel vision did nothing for his mental and spiritual health.

Even now, the memory made Damien scowl. He wondered when he’d turned into his parents, wrapped up in work to the exclusion of everything else. He recalled how lonely he’d been, playing alone while his parents conducted “important” research in their respective studies — and how he’d sworn he’d never be as boring at them.

Too late. A new woman could be exactly what he needed to spice things up. But was this woman the right one? It couldn’t hurt to try. She just might be his lifeline back to a world in which work wasn’t priority number one.

Still, he wasn’t crazy. He had to approach marriage to a stranger with trepidation. “Since I’ll be living with this woman, I’d rather know what kind of annoying habits she has. … I’ll bet she doesn’t even know how to squeeze a tube of toothpaste properly.”

Cody’s laugh grated on his nerves. “Trust me, Damien — with a body like that, she doesn’t need to know how to squeeze the toothpaste tube.”

Damien’s gaze narrowed. “If she’s all that, why would she need to enter a ‘Get a Love Life’ contest?”

“Who knows?” Cody shrugged. “Maybe she’s like you and just doesn’t make time to date.”

“Well, excuse me for putting my veterinary career before a social life!”

Cody shook his head. “You need to loosen up, man — have more fun.”

The comment gave Damien pause. Wasn’t that exactly what he’d decided while talking to Danielle Steel? As a matter of fact —

He wasn’t ready to give in just yet, though. Cody would be insufferable if Damien didn’t put up more than a token protest.

“What I need is to make enough money so that I can have something that passes for a social life. I still have student loans to pay off, dinner and a movie aren’t getting any cheaper — and you might as well forget tickets to a concert or the theater.”

He heard the excuses — all true — coming from his mouth and knew they were just that: excuses to bury himself in the work he found more fulfilling than any of his relationships with women. It was time for change.

Cody rolled his eyes. “Astronomical!”

Damien glared at his friend. “You’re mocking me again, aren’t you?”

“Would I do that?”

“Actually —”

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Two rejections in two days

Now I remember why I’m so glad to be off the dating scene. Rejection hurts. A lot.

I’m sure I’m not the only one to equate the search for an agent to the search for Mr. Right — but it’s an apt comparison.

You try to make a good impression on your dream man/agent. If — against all odds — a connection is made, you hope he feels the same spark you do. If not? The big “R.”

Rejection. You might feel worthless. You probably question your appeal … your talents as a writer.

I ought to know, having just received two agent rejections in two days. (Being a Golden Heart ® finalist makes for much speedier replies.)

At least they weren’t all negative: Each one featured good with the bad. They both had an element of “I like you but …”

The bottom line? “Beauty and the Ballplayer” wasn’t quite right for either of them. The hero and heroine didn’t speak to them. (Whether that’s an inherent flaw in the MS is up for debate. I might have some revising to do.)

In the meantime, I’ll continue the search for Dream Agent. Somewhere, out there, is my perfect match … the agent who believes in my work as much as I do.

Arlene Hittle, 2011 RWA Golden Heart® Finalist

This is an exciting time for me. My manuscript, Beauty and the Ballplayer, was just named a finalist in the 2011 RWA Golden Heart® contest.

About Beauty and the Ballplayer:

Spunky and independent to a fault, graphic designer Meg Malone isn’t exactly crushed when she finds herself pregnant soon after her no-good boyfriend abandons her to hit the professional poker circuit. After being burned one too many times by women who see him as their ticket to the good life, up-and-coming minor league catcher Matt Thatcher carefully guards his heart against “baseball babes.”

When Matt first meets Meg, he likes that she has no clue what he does for a living; she’s attracted to his solid, stable presence (and his killer bod). As they get to know one another, Matt lets Meg in on his profession and into his life. When he accepts her, baby and all, Meg sets aside her doubts about falling for another dreamer and loves him wholeheartedly — until he misses a doctor’s appointment with her to further his career. Not wanting to come in second to another man’s unattainable dream of going pro, she cuts and runs before Matt can leave her. By the time she realizes her fear of abandonment could cost her a lifetime of happiness, she’s afraid it’s too late. Meg has to hit her insecurities out of the ballpark to win the World Series of love.

About me: I am a member of Romance Writers of America, both nationally and locally and am currently serving as editor of our chapter’s newsletter. I also have a B.S. in journalism from the University of Evansville and have worked in the newspaper industry as a reporter or copy editor/page designer since 1994.

Follow me on Twitter: @arlenehittle

E-mail me: ahittle90 [at] gmail [dot] com

Still on Cloud Nineteen

Yeah, I’m saying there has to be something higher than Cloud Nine, and I’m on it. I am a 2011 Golden Heart finalist. I’ve been fielding congratulatory calls, tweets and e-mails all day — and I’m glad to get them.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve thought to myself “OMG, OMG, OMG” today. Good thing they just added that phrase to the dictionary, eh?

The GH final wasn’t the only piece of good news I received today. I also found out that “Beauty and the Ballplayer” won the Beacon contest, too. And the final judge/agent requested a full MS. I’ll be getting right on that, contacting her Monday.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

See? I’m not imagining all this good fortune. It’s really happening!

I’ve been writing off and on since I finished my first draft of my first MS back in 1995 or 96, but I’ve gotten serious about it in the past two years. I entered the GH for the first time in 2010; my entry earned solidly mediocre scores. This year I entered two (in series contemporary and single title contemporary) and finaled once.

You can find a full list of Golden Heart® and RITA® finalists here. (I’m excited to have found the ® symbol I’ve been instructed to use in reference to the GH and RWA.) It was nice to see so many familiar Ruby sisters (from my adopted GH class of 2009) on the lists.

There’s so much to think about, though. The Boyfriend said, “What’s next?” Well, the most immediate concern is getting a flattering headshot by April 8. I also need to find a way to pay the conference registration fee/airfare/hotel, and think about business cards. And I need to update my website … and take a “crafting the perfect pitch” workshop so I’m ready to meet with agents/editors at Nationals.

Simply put, I need to ramp up my writing efforts while remaining grounded enough to hold onto the day job … and start a new diet to lose weight before July.

None of these things are impossible tasks. I’m just thankful to be faced with such dilemmas.

The Golden phone call

My phone woke me up — and this time, it was THE call … well, the call that I’m a Golden Heart finalist, at least.

“Beauty and the Ballplayer” finaled in the contemporary series category.

More later, since I’m sure this is the beginning of a long, wild ride!

My immediate dilemma: How can I get a flattering headshot for the Jumbotron? Well, I do work with a bunch of photographers. Maybe one of them will be up to the task.

Mom doesn’t always know best

If your mother was anything like mine, she dispensed tons of advice: Sit up straight … Don’t go outside with a wet head or you’ll catch a cold … and NEVER stop at a rest area after dark.

Well, I slouch all the time, frequently go out with wet hair and recently stopped at Sunset Point at midnight (under the Boyfriend’s watchful eye) — and the world didn’t stop spinning. My posture may suffer, but I didn’t catch my death of cold or get myself murdered.

So Mom doesn’t always know best.

She was right about one thing, though: You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

As a reporter, my best interviews happen when I approach them like I’m sitting down to chat with a friend. Interview subjects share more — and give better quotes — if you set a friendly tone and bond over something you have in common.

Interviewing characters is similar. I like to sit down with my laptop, usually in a coffee shop, and make myself comfortable. Then we chat.

Of course, your characters are in your head, so you control the response. However, if your characters are anything like mine, they’re mouthy at best, uncooperative at worst.

To get the conversational ball rolling, I lob them a few softball questions first, questions like How’d you get your nickname? Where do you live? Any roommates?

With the niceties out of the way (and the creative juices flowing), you can get serious. If you’re lucky, your characters’ responses tell you something you didn’t know or didn’t consider important … something you can use to enrich your story.

For example, when I sat down with the hero in a half-finished, still-untitled WIP, I discovered he’s a bit of a stuffed shirt who likes to please everyone but himself.

So, Drew, tell me about your childhood.

(shrugs) There’s not much to tell. I grew up in a stable home with a mother and father who both loved me to distraction. I’m the middle child, with an older sister and younger brother.

I understand they’re both screw-ups.

Denise is a successful attorney. I’d hardly call that a screw-up. Of course, Mom isn’t happy that she’s decided to get herself artificially inseminated.

How do you feel about that decision?

It’s not my decision to make. She is 32 years old and still without a husband or any prospect of one. I say if she thinks the sperm bank is the best way to achieve her goal of having a family, she should go for it. (Hmm … I sense a story there! 😉 ) Just don’t tell my Mom I said so.

Why not?

I like being “the good child.” If Mom heard me siding with Denise, I might lose my standing.

What about your brother?

Dan? He’s no threat. He can’t hold a job for more than a few months at a time. He just lost another one, for boinking some girl in the copier room.

Let’s explore your need to be “the good child.”

Now you sound like my shrink.

You have a shrink?

No, but if I did, he’d surely want to “explore my need to be ‘the good child.’”

Well?

Pass. Ask me another question.

No, I think we’re onto something here. We’re going to continue exploring this topic, if you don’t mind.

(scowls) I like making people happy. Is that a crime?

Not at all — unless, of course, by making someone else happy you’re not pleasing yourself, too.

You can’t please someone else and yourself at the same time, genius.

Of course you can, if you both have similar goals, needs and desires.

And how many truly compatible people do you find in this world? I’m willing to bet the answer is “not too damn many.”

It only takes one, Drew.

Now you’re talking romance, huh?

You got it, genius.

So grab a cup of coffee, make yourself comfortable and have a heart-to-heart with your hero/heroine. What you find out just might surprise you — and it’ll probably improve your WIP.

Riding the whirlwind

Today just might go down as the highlight of my writing career to-date. It could be the start of something big.

Today, I was one of the lucky 125 entrants selected to submit to the Knight Agency’s Author Speed Date contest. You should have heard the excited whoop I let out when I saw my name on that list. (Everyone in the newsroom sure did. A few people even came over to my desk to see if I was OK.)

Panic quickly supplanted the initial excitement: Which of my novels do I send them? (I have so darn many to pick from — six completed MSs in all.) After some thought, I chose the one with the proven track record, my Beacon finalist, “Beauty and the Ballplayer.”

When I received word a few hours later that “Beauty and the Ballplayer” did not final in the Write Stuff contest, I second-guessed my decision. Big time. Lucky for me, I hadn’t had a chance to ship off my entry yet.)

The score sheets sat in my Gmail inbox, waiting for me to decide: Do I read them now, before I send my entry to the Knight Agency, so I can try to “fix” it?

A coworker convinced me to go ahead and look. “If they make any suggestions for the first three pages, use them if you think they have merit.”

So I took a peek. I couldn’t believe my eyes: Two perfect scores! The last judge gave me a 66 of 100, though. (Hope I didn’t get that judge for the Golden Heart. 😉  ) None of them wanted to make substantial alterations to pages 1-3.

I literally just shipped off my entry (the first three pages). Now, I wait … just like I’m waiting for the Golden Heart calls. The Speed Date results will come back faster, though. I’ll know by Thursday if I advance to the next round. (Just 25 of 125 will be so lucky.)

Choices: A chance for conflict

My writing output seems to drop in direct correlation to any increase in blog reading. That’s a problem, I know — but if I don’t take the time to read a few blogs, how can I expect anyone to read mine?

Besides, if I stopped reading, I’d miss out on gems like this one from Janice Hardy’s blog, The Other Side of the Story. She writes:

Choices that don’t cause trouble are wasted opportunity. The whole point of a book is to show someone overcoming adversity to win. If there’s nothing to overcome, there’s no point in the winning.”

What a way to put it!

It’s no secret that I struggle with conflict. (I blame it on being a Libra. Libras strive for fairness and avoid conflict.) Judges’ comments I got on my first completed MS — even after several new drafts — consistently said “not enough conflict to sustain the story.”

What? You mean a girl falling for one guy when she’s trying to “snag” another one altogether isn’t conflict?

Not according to Hardy. She writes, “A choice between two good things with no consequences for making that choice is probably not going to hold your reader’s interest.”

Well, I already knew Brad and Erin’s story needed help. I tried to remedy it in subsequent drafts by casting suspicion on him … I even hacked out their original “black moment” (such as it was. The “Battle of the Birth Control” was pretty silly when I look back at it with a more experienced eye.)

The key for me is to remember that my hero and heroine have to make choices. And those choices have to mean something. The potential for disaster should loom around every corner.

I think that is the case in my more recent stories. Bethany’s decision to talk Cody into applying for the TV show lands them in a heap of trouble. When Kenny asks Kristi to pretend to be his fiancee, things get out of hand quickly.

Hmm. All my blog reading must be teaching me something about the craft.

Vocabulary lesson

The hero in my WIP, Cody, has a tendency to use big words and shrink-speak when he’s upset, angry or flustered. (There’s a reason he has a T-shirt that says “I’m fluent in psychobabble.”)

It turns out Cody and I have that in common. Now that I’m writing fiction fairly regularly, I notice myself trying to flaunt my vocabulary in the articles I write for the newspaper, too.

When I was in journalism school (way back in the dark ages … the early 1990s), we learned the average reading level of the newspaper audience was eighth grade. (I think I’ve heard it’s since dropped to sixth grade, but I might be mistaken there.)

I analyzed my writing style with a computer program once (way back in those same dark ages) and it told me I wrote at a 10th-grade level. That has more than likely changed the farther I’ve gotten from college (where everyone used big words in an attempt to show off what they thought they knew) and the more deeply entrenched I’ve become in journalistic style.

We journalists are trained to use simpler words. A school bus is just plain “yellow,” not “canary” or even “that shade of mustard peculiar to school buses.” Don’t use “growled” or “yelled” when a simple “said” gets the point across without embellishment.

Sometimes I wonder if that training has affected my fiction writing. In first drafts, I often go with the most expedient word. Then I scramble to change it later on.

But now that I’m shifting my focus to making a good impression on agents and editors, I find myself choosing words with a little more razzmatazz … well, like razzmatazz. 😉

That’s not a bad thing at all — unless I’m writing a story for the newspaper. When I’m in journalist mode, I have to catch myself before I use words like “eschew.”

At least I haven’t tried to throw “bifurcated” into a sentence. I stumbled across that one while editing someone else’s story one night and spent much time complaining to whoever would listen that “bifurcated” was unnecessary when “forked” meant the same darn thing — and didn’t send readers scrambling for the nearest dictionary.

How about you? Ever catch yourself using words that make you feel like a big fish in a small pond?