When You're in a Slump by Jannine Gallant

My house is clean. Check.
The laundry is done. Check.
The dog has been walked. Multiple times. Check.
I baked cookies. Check.
Hmm...it's probably too early to decorate for Christmas...
Blog written ahead of schedule. Check.
WIP (work in progress) file remains unopened. Bad. Very bad.

Based on the above, I fear I'm in a major slump! When I'd rather clean than write, something is seriously wrong. It's September--prime writing time at the boat ramp after the crowds have departed Tahoe. Yet I battle to force out 500 words during my 8 hour shift. This. Is. Not. Normal.

I don't slump. I write. I need a serious kick in the butt to get me back on track.

Let's examine possible causes.

NO CONTRACT/DEADLINE. I've had a deadline for the last 10 books I've written. It motivates me to know I'd better have my book finished by (insert date) or else! I was always afraid to find out what would happen if I didn't get it done. Also, when I say I'm going to do something, I do it.

NO MOTIVATION. Is there something wrong with this book? I thought the plot was original, but I'm struggling with it. I like my characters, but my heroine lost her memory. She doesn't know herself. As a result, I don't seem to know her or how she'll react to things. My hero is a giver. He's a nice guy. It's never about him. He always brings any conversation back around to the other person. So I'm fighting to get to know him. I gave him a red corvette to spice up his personality, but the damn car isn't working for me. It just isn't him. I could use a few suggestions.

This is where you come in. When you're in a slump (writing or otherwise), how do you get out of it? What can I do to "fix" the causes listed above? Just for fun, I'm including the blurb for this troublesome book below. Maybe you'll have some brilliant ideas to break me out of my slump and get me writing again! Oh, and don't forget those car suggestions. Sometimes it's the little things that get us moving.

LETHAL MEMORY

Riley Adair, a biology professor at a small college outside Boston, spends all her free time in her lab, working tirelessly toward a cure for dementia. When she makes an astonishing genetic breakthrough in memory loss prevention, word of her potentially groundbreaking discovery leaks out, and the consequences turn deadly. More than one party is determined to lay claim to her work . . . or destroy it for good. After Riley deletes all her digital records, the key to her research is locked inside her mind. Until the kidnappers who capture and torture her make a critical error, leaving Riley with no memory at all.

When one of Riley’s graduate students contacts Counterstrike in a panic to save her, the team swings into action. While her rescue goes smoothly, Riley is left helpless in an unfamiliar world, defenseless in the face of powerful enemies who still want the information trapped inside her brain. A second kidnapping attempt makes it clear they will stop at nothing to get those secrets.

Unwilling to leave Riley alone to recover from her injuries while still exposed to danger, Noah Kimball, Counterstrike’s medic and a man fighting his own personal demons, secures her in a hidden location. Noah’s need to help her heal physically and emotionally becomes something much more personal as their attraction for each other develops. But the peril is far from over when unknown enemies close in on them. In a race against time, Riley fights to recover her memory, while Noah fears he won’t be able to save the woman he has grown to love—and know—better than she knows herself.

While I struggle to find my groove, check out my previous books. Info and buy links are on my WEBSITE. Happy reading!

Playing Adult Games by Betsy Ashton

Do you remember the cheesy games we used to have to play? Those ice breakers at camp, corporate retreats, training sessions? Those adult questions that were little more than "what I did on my summer vacation" but which were meant to share something most people wouldn't know about you? Well, I have a secret most of you don't know.

I LOVE SNAKES.

Always have. When I was five, I drifted away from Mom at the San Diego Zoo. The gibbons were over-gibboning. I didn't like it. I wandered off. When Mom discovered I was missing, she knew where to find me. The snake house. Yup, there I was, staring at an emerald-green boa, the prettiest snake I'd ever seen.

So, when I began writing, I knew I'd have to write about snakes. I haven't found a place for them in the Mad Max series, except to explain, in Max 3, why so many doctors and nurses at a New Mexico hospital carried guns. Rattlesnakes. The serial killer didn't use deadly toxins. Couldn't have a snake suddenly slither in. When I started writing about a family living on the high desert of Southern California, the setting was ripe for a rattler.

Here's the setup. Toad is around ten or eleven; his younger brother, Cricket, is about seven. Killing a rattler is a rite of passage, one Toad had experienced but one that Cricket desperately wanted. He had to kill a snake to keep up with his brother.

“I gotta pee before I do anything else.” Cricket jumped off the platform and tripped on an untied shoelace. He landed hard. Momentarily winded, he rolled over in the sand before sitting up to check the damage he’d done to an elbow. He heard buzzing before he saw the snake.

“Toad! There’s a big rattler about six feet off the deck.”

“Don’t move.”

“I won’t.” Cricket froze, eyes on the rattler, which had coiled in warning. He didn’t blink for fear the snake would strike. Ranger ran down the three steps to the sand and barked. The snake raised its rattles, head following the dog’s movement, tongue tasting the air.

“Ranger! Sit!” Toad jumped down, machete in one hand, forked stick in the other. “Want me to kill it?”

“Uh-uh. I wanna do it.”

“Are you sure you remember what Pops said?”

“Yeah. Give me the stick.”

“I think I should do it.”

“It’s my snake. I have to kill it.”

While the boys were arguing, the snake left off sunning itself and rattled a final warning, before it uncoiled and slithered off.

“It’s getting away” Cricket shouted.

“Kill it.” Toad yelled.

Cricket pinned the snake with the fork right behind the triangular head, exactly like Pops had taught him. Toad handed him the machete. His brother swung the sharp knife and severed the head with a single chop. It flew a few feet away from the body, poison dripping from its fangs.

Ranger retreated to the safety of the platform and barked encouragement. Both boys watched the snake’s body whip back and forth before the convulsions slowed to a stop. Toad walked around Cricket and kicked the head aside.

Cricket ran toward the outhouse. “Now, I really gotta pee. Don’t you do anything with the snake. I get to cut the rattles off.” When he was back, he collected his trophy. The boys skinned the snake before burying it, head and all. They nailed the skin next to a dozen others on the back of Shorty’s run-in shed.

When the boys' parents got home a couple of hours later, Cricket crowed about what he'd done.

“Daddy, I killed my first snake today. See. I have a rattle of my own.”

“Did you really kill the snake?” Dad looked skeptical. “Are you sure Toad didn’t kill it?”

“I did it myself.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Toad said.

And so Cricket takes one step toward adulthood. Not much of a step, but movement nonetheless. BTW, I killed my first rattler when I was little older than the fictional Cricket. I kept my rattles for decades in my treasure box. One day, it vanished. I don't miss it, but if I saw another rattler, I'd have no problem dispatching it.

###

Betsy Ashton is the author of the Mad Max mystery series, Unintended Consequences, Uncharted Territory, and Unsafe Haven. She also wrote a dark psychological suspense novel, Eyes Without A Face, about a female serial killer, who unpacks her life and career in first person.

Our Little Flood by Diane Burton

Fall has finally broken Summer’s stranglehold on west Michigan. Just like the Winter That Never Ended. We don’t have regularly spaced seasons anymore. Spring lasted about a week, if that. I’m afraid Fall may be just as short-lived. That may be true in the rest of the country, I don’t know. We had a drought in July and August. Those who didn’t water lost their lawns. Those who did, like us, have astronomically-high water bills.

Finally, the rains came. And came and came. Even though we live on a pond, our house is high on a slope so we never worried that we’d be flooded. Maybe we should’ve thought there are other types of floods.

On the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, we traveled to Indy for my sister’s first grandson’s first birthday party. What fun! (Our twins are only two months behind him, so we have something to look forward to.) We saw family, had a great time, stayed overnight then headed home on Monday. At home, we did our usual—empty suitcases—but didn’t take them downstairs to storage. We should have.

 

bottom of stairs

The next morning, Hubs went downstairs to work in his shop. At the bottom of the stairs, he stepped into water. Three inches of water covered the tile and all of the carpet in our offices and family room as well as the storage areas. Our sump pump quit. Hubs took a piece of wood and hit the pipe (not standing in water then touching something electrical) and the blankety-blank thing started up.

 

hallway between offices

Finally, the water began to drain. We knew we had a mess. We also knew we couldn’t handle this by ourselves. I called a professional company that remediates water damage. The guy asked if I’d called our insurance company. Never thought of that. While I texted our son, hoping that Tuesday was his day off, Hubs called the insurance company. I didn’t know there was such a thing as sump pump insurance. Didn’t know we had it. Thank you, insurance agent.

Son was off work but taking care of the kiddies. We swapped places. I knew I couldn’t handle hauling stuff upstairs, not with my back. Daughter came over. When Daughter-in-law finished work, she came, too. Our kids took over. Daughter ordered a dumpster. Son hired some guys he knew to come the next day to haul boxes and furniture to our garage. They boxed up “stuff” and hauled boxes. After his work, Son-in-law took care of their kids, ferrying them to their after-school activities. Meanwhile, I played with the kiddies, discovered what DIL called the twins’ “witching hour”, fed, diapered, etc. And let Toddler Girl stay up until her parents came home—late that evening. Apparently, I missed Hubs’ rant about me leaving papers and cardboard boxes on the floor of my office. Daughter reminded him of what he’d left on the floor of his office. Never use cardboard boxes, always plastic tubs.

 

ripping up carpet

We’ve been in this house for five years. The carpet in the basement went in the following year. That was my biggest regret. We’ve never had such a nicely-finished lower level. But the soaked carpet had to go. The guys tore it up and hauled it out—through my office window—to the dumpster. (We have what’s called a daylight basement with five-foot windows.) The professionals brought in big blowers and dehumidifiers. After a week and half, they declared it dry and sprayed some anti-mold stuff all over.

Now we’re back to bare cement floors. We’re left with decisions on what to do next. A backup sump pump is the first order of business. Meanwhile we have a $10 water sensor on the floor. Then, restoring the furniture and everything else.

My takeaway from this experience is how grateful we are that our kids live close by. And that they took over. Sometimes in a crisis, a person is frozen. Can’t think of what to do next. Our children dropped everything and came to our rescue. I found out later it wasn’t our son’s day off. He’s the executive chef at a restaurant and was supposed to go in around 3 pm. He left here around 6 or 7, going in because he had to close the restaurant then do monthly inventory. He could’ve begged off helping but didn’t. We are so proud of them. I’ve probably mentioned before that this is the first time in over twenty years our whole family lives close together. We are so blessed.

Our little flood is nothing like what those in the path of Hurricane Florence is going through. We had ground water, not sewage, not dirty flood water. In comparison, ours was a minor mess. At the time, it seemed overwhelming. Even seeing the damage on TV, I can’t imagine how the people must feel seeing the devastation in their homes and businesses.

That’s the biggest takeaway. It could have been worse.

An Unexpected Location Photo-op by Alison Henderson

As some of you know, I recently had a nasty little surprise when I decided to be a responsible homeowner and have our septic tank proactively pumped. The crew discovered the 45-year-old concrete tank was cracked and full of tree roots and had to be replaced. A few-hundred-dollar job instantly morphed into many, many thousands. I cried a little, sighed a little, forked over my deposit, and waited.

After four months, I started pestering the company and was told they were out of tanks but expected a shipment the following week. They would call to make an appointment. When the phone rang at 7:55 AM five days later, I thought they were ready to schedule. Oh, no. They would be there in an hour. Yikes! OG and I took very speedy showers and stuffed down our breakfast. Once they started digging, all the plumbing would be off-limits for the duration of the day until the new tank was installed, so we decided to take a road trip.

After a brief debate re: north vs. south, we hopped into the car and headed south down scenic Highway 1 toward Big Sur. Our plan was to have lunch at the iconic Nepenthe Restaurant. We'd driven by, but never stopped there, and it's been on my bucket list for years.

A plus to this plan was that I'm setting my next series, tentatively subtitled Cypress Coast Mysteries, in and around coastal Monterey County. Setting is very important to me, so I grabbed my camera to take a few location shots to remind me of the details. The drive took us across grassy meadows that sloped into the sea and through towering redwood forests. This photo marks the entrance to Los Padres National Forest.

In the first book, Second Wind, the heroine is a kinetic sculptor who lives next to the family's vegetarian restaurant in Big Sur. I had long thought Nepenthe would make the perfect prototype, and was I ever right! It's a glass and redwood structure situated on an oak-studded cliff with stunning views down the coast. Here's the view from our table.

On the way back, I managed to get a great shot of the iconic Bixby Bridge. Amazingly, it's almost the exact view I've been planning to use for the cover. Here's my photo:

And here's the stock photo for the cover:

Any way you look at it, it was a great way to spend what would otherwise have been a very stressful day.

Alison
www.alisonhenderson.com 

Name Calling by Christine DePetrillo

What’s in a name? Well, for me, sometimes naming characters is a bit like trying on clothes. I gather as many names as I can carry, haul them into the dressing room, try them on, angle this way and that way in front of the mirror, ask a trusted buddy for her opinion, discard ones that don’t fit, and whittle down the possibilities until one has been selected. It’s important to get a character’s name right. A reader has to travel with that character for hundreds of pages. An improperly named character can mean the difference between an enjoyable read and an I’m-not-going-to-finish-this-book read.

I often call potential names out loud in voices portraying the varying moods found in my stories. I need to know a name is going to sound great even if another character is screaming it in rage. I try out the names while I’m talking to my characters. You might hear me say, “Well, you know, Patrick…” just to see if his name flows nicely in the context of a conversation. If it doesn’t, I’ll try another until I get the right vibe. Meanwhile, The Husband wonders who all these men are.

And what about a shortened form of a name? David to Dave, Michael to Mike, Steven to Steve. Who will use the shortened forms? Parents, friends, lovers? Are there shortened forms you as the author just won’t tolerate? Richard to Dick? Is it going to completely emasculate your Alpha hero, Ralph, if someone calls him Ralphie? These are all considerations to keep in mind when naming a character.

Once a first name is selected, the hunt for last names can be challenging. I’m Italian and live in a predominantly Italian neighborhood. Most of the people I know are Italian. The urge to make every last name sound like something out of The Godfather or Goodfellas or have it end in a vowel is always there. To help vary it up, I began collecting possible last names in my writer’s notebook. One fun source has been the names of towns along I-91 as I travel from Rhode Island to Vermont on the weekends. In Kisses to Remember, the hero, Holden Lancaster, has a first and last name that are towns on that route. His heroine, Johanna Ware, sports a last name that came from a highway sign. In Firefly Mountain, the last names of Claremont, Barre, and Thetford all came from this town method as well. This name collection system has really helped me branch out of the parmesan-encrusted bowl of gravy I had been stuck in with names. The whole world isn’t Italian or Irish or whatever ethnicity in which you’ve been held hostage.

                                     

Sometimes names have just come to me when characters are introducing themselves in my mind. I’ll be walking my dog, and out of nowhere, a voice will say in my head, “Hi, I’m Detective Daxton Wilder, and you should write my story.” Umm, okay, Dax. I’ll get right on that. And suddenly, no other name is right for him. He. Is. Daxton Wilder. Down to the core. I can try calling him something else, but he won’t listen. If he doesn’t listen, his story doesn’t get written, and that makes us both cranky.

Names are sometimes derived from something that describes the character. For example, in my young adult book, Run With Me, about a tree spirit, I chose the last name Everleaf for the hero, Jobah. It has a tribal, earthy feel that is perfect for his story and who he is. The heroine, Olivia Bradford, received what I’d call an upper middle class name. She lives in a respectable suburb, attends a nice school, is on the track team, has two brainiac parents. The last name Bradford was found with my town method mentioned earlier, and it sounded professional with the word doctor in front of it for her parents. 

I’ve also heard names of real people that I’ve simply fallen in love with like Salem Grimm. Fantastic! I’m going to use that someday. Everywhere I go, I check out employee nametags. I’ve come across some great names like Avaline, Gretah, and Doone. Unusual spellings of names can be fun too. Carissa can be Kharissa. Or Kevin can be Kevyn. Play around with names.

Naming characters is a blast, and I do think that those names can help determine who that character is going to be in a story. Treat your readers to some solid, creative names that will enhance their reading experience and have them remembering your characters long after the last page has been read.

Toodles,

Chris

www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com  

Road trip thoughts

I take a few road trips every year and I always use that time to flesh out ideas for writing. Most of my travel is on 4-lane highways and cruise control can handle 99% of the trip, so it's a great chance to go on auto-pilot and think.

This last weekend was no exception. I was making a presentation about Wikis to my writing group in Minnesota, and I already had that info somewhat ready to go. I maintain a wiki for my big series, and I wanted to share what I had learned about setting it up and maintaining it. I had a handout, presentation, and all that ready, so I didn't need to "practice" it as I drove. That left me free for creative thinking.

I am in between projects right now. I have ideas for 2 books, so I spent the 8 hours of drive time exploring thoughts about those projects. I dictate into a little digital recorder then transcribe when I get to where I'm going.

I now know the basic plot ideas for one book, details about the characters, their back stories, and their motivations and arcs. I tabled the other story for now and will save that for a brainstorming session with friends, coming up in October.

Not bad for a boring old road trip, right?

J L
(jayellwilson.com)

I Have a History With Hurricanes by Vonnie Davis

Remember how I freaked out in my last posting about pitching at the Cleveland Rocks Romance convention? I wondered if I could cancel my flight reservations.

Had I known Hurricane Florence would slam the Eastern Coast in a few days, I wouldn't have joked the way I did. On Friday I have flight reservations to fly from south-central Virginia to Charlotte, NC. From there I fly to Cleveland. Our small local airport only has flights to Charlotte or Atlanta. None go North.

Need I remind you Hurricane Florence is slated to strike the coast of North Carolina sometime on Friday?

So, I have no clue if I'm going, or not. Will flights be cancelled? Will I use my "Granny Chicken" card and stay safely at home? I dunno. See, I have a history with hurricanes. Oh, nothing drastic. Just memorable.

I was a week shy of entering first grade when my parents took me on a  vacation to Ocean City, New Jersey. Hurricane Hazel decided to meet us there. My parents had no clue what they were in for as we walked the deserted boardwalk. It was their first trip to the ocean, too. They'd rarely left the farm.

Waves kept coming closer and closer. The edge of the boardwalk grew more wet with every roll of the surf. Suddenly I got knocked over and rolled toward a closed business. My dad grabbed me around the waist like a bag of potatoes and ran for our hotel, dragging my mother in tow. I choked and coughed and cried.

My parents never did go back to the shore.

Nearly 14 years later, I was a Navy wife with a five-month old baby when Hurricane Doria set her sights for the Virginia coastline. We were living in a small apartment along the Chesapeake Bay in Norfolk. When the men were called to their ships to ready them to sail for deeper waters to ride out the hurricane, another Navy wife and I drove the guys to their ship and dropped them off. Marsha and I decided to spend the next few days at their apartment farther inland.

I parked our red beetle along the curb as torrential rains fell. We both rushed into the apartment complex with our babies. She put them both in the crib while I ran out to get my daughter's clothes, diapers, and formula. The car was gone! It was floating down the street. I ran after it as winds blew the little car from the street across the sidewalk and through a spindly hedge. It was finally embedded between two pine trees. I grabbed a rope from the tool box and tied Trigger Beetle to one of the trees. I was wading through water to my shins. Oh, the glory of an armed forces wife.

Fast forward six years and we are living in south-central Pennsylvania when Hurricane Agnes made her presence known. I was six months pregnant with my youngest and he wanted to make his presence known, too. I'd gone into labor.

My doctor had to drive through flooded roads to meet me at the hospital. With medication and bed rest, the contractions finally stopped. Mike didn't come for another three months. The doctor said the change in barometric pressure was throwing a lot of his pregnant patients into labor. Who knew?

Now, Hurricane Florence is looming!

Will I go or will I stay? Will flights be cancelled? Will I get to give the pitch I've drafted? Stay tuned..