Growing Weeds

Gardening Month it is... and unlike my previous post which was rather meaningless, I intend to have a worthy discussion today.

Let's talk about weeds. If your yard looks anything like mine, the weeds are already lower-calf height and begging for a run-in with the mower. (Yours will probably meet that fate. Mine however, will continue to thrive until the tractor gets a new battery.) And you've probably begun the yearly ritual of plucking unwanted shoots, laying out your garden or flower bed, and perhaps sowing a few seeds.

I wish you the best of luck. My thumb is dirt brown.

But there are some weeds that warrant discussion. Those found in writing and in the garden on your computer.

These weeds are called... (gasp!) ideas.

I've had many recent conversations with authors, both published and unpublished, that involve the general topic of idea overflow. We all have wonderful ideas, stories that pull our focus one direction, but really aren't going to lead us anywhere except for, perhaps, a great writing journey.

Note, I'm not talking about active pursuit of a different subgenre. I'm talking about that random idea that hits out of nowhere that we all know is something we shouldn't spend energy thinking about. Case in point -- I'm often struck with YA ideas. I have to force them aside. I don't write YA. I don't want to be a YA author, and all other things aside, I have no idea what the technical specifics for the genre are. So, while the idea may be way cool, the amount of time it would take me to put together that idea, into something workable, would eat up the time it would take me to write likely two books in something I already do.

So I'm encouraging all of you to sit down and look at your garden. Look at what seeds you have, what shoots are growing, and give some thought on plucking the weeds that might look pretty but are really a nuisance. (Like my damned ivy.) Focus your energies on what truly gives you the best opportunity while satisfying the craving of your heart.

Crafting that uber-cool idea might be fun as all get out. But if you have to relearn everything you thought you already knew, chances are your time is better invested on a new idea in your currently sown row.

At the same time, if you're stuck in between on one of these publishing plateaus (translation, your genre isn't selling), look at those seeds yet to be planted. Is it time to take the momentum of spring, the season of life, and perhaps put energy into something new? Is it the season to make a change?

As for me? I'm going to go on ignoring my YA muse and keep on telling myself, "Maybe when the demidemons are older and I can relate to the teens." Meanwhile, I'm looking at some older projects that I wrote in my current genres, analyzing the time required to polish them up versus the time required to write something new, and plucking those weeds. I'm also planting a few flowers by reviving my very first writing project. I'll continue to nurture the saplings that are growing -- The Templars, the Black Opals -- and spend more energy on making these shine better than the one before.

In between... I'm checking my email for some news about a brand new plant that I hope will have deep roots.

So... what about all of you? Are you weeding or sowing already planted seeds?

~Claire
www.claireashgrove.com

Pondering the Deeper Meanings of Romantic Fiction

By Glenys O'Connell

If you're reading this, the chances are good that, like me, you're a fan of romance books in one or more of their many forms. But have you ever really thought about what these romantic stories mean to you? I've been thinking about this a bit recently – yes, my mind does tends to wander off at these strange tangents.

The conclusion I came to is that romantic fiction actually fills some very basic needs for us. For example, no matter what your age, gender, creed, ethnic group or sexual orientation, the odds are pretty good that you want to be loved and to love in return. A simple, basic human need.

In romantic fiction, our heroines  long for a soul mate, for someone in sync with her thoughts, feelings and desires. No matter how modern and competent a woman may be, she looks for someone who will be her protector, who will guard her in that vulnerable time when her children are young. Our heroes seek to have that part of themselves fulfilled, too. The Ying & Yang, if you like – that want to be a hero to that special someone whose very touch makes them dream of a forever kind of relationship. Even if that thought has terrified them before!

We all have a deep need to be the centre of someone's universe, someone who will be faithful exclusively to us. It's called true and lasting love, and that's what we find in romantic fiction.

But humans aren't the only creatures on the planet who feel this need. There are many species that mate for life, who live in communities where exclusive couple relationships are the norm.

Those included in that list may surprise you. After all, who would have thought termites were romantic beings at heart? And Gibbons – well, you might not fancy them, but believe me, there's a special someone for each of them, too. That great Canadian icon, the Beaver? Yep, he and she dream of a long life together in their cosy lodge. Black vultures certainly aren't on the list of the most attractive critters, either, but they, too, long for a committed relationship with a significant other. And you'd go a long way to find a more committed pair than the Alpha wolf and his Alpha mate.

Lots of people dislike crows – through the ages they've been accused of everything from witchcraft to feasting on dead bodies on battle fields. They've been killed mercilessly; in some countries their pathetic corpses have been hung on the fences of farm fields in the belief that this would warn other crows away.

Not so – crows mate for life, but they also have a wider family and community life. When a crow dies, his family and friends join his mate by the body and mourn his loss. Imagine their pain when they see their friends and loved ones killed so pointlessly.

Some of these animal and bird lovers have a special place in our hearts. My favourites, the Canada Geese (I've talked about my feelings for them before in this blog!) take on one partner only, for life.

And perhaps the most famous of all is the swan, a handsome bird, protected by the British Crown and in many jurisdictions - although it was once considered a feast fit for kings!

There's a wonderful song about two swans, and there are versions by John McDermott and by Christy Moore. I warn you – it's a real tear jerker! My DH sings it and it's guaranteed to have our two daughters in tears almost before the opening notes have sounded.

Here is an excerpt; you can read the rest by either John McDermott or Christy Moore – that's if you want a really good weep!

…a dark day in November With the searing cold that starts Stalked the hunter with his bow And put an arrow through her heart
"Husband come to my side And let your feathers warm my pain For I feel I will not spend Another day with you again"
And the cold winds blow He was brave but he laid low By her body in the Isle of Mist I saw her give him one last cold kiss One last cold kiss
Now swans like people Talk of only one in this life take Though they brought him 20 ladies He would take no other bride.......

Now, I’d love to hear your comments about why you read romance, and what gives you the most satisfaction in their fictional relations.

Guest Julie Eberhart Painter Talks About Raising Gender-Neutral Children

And just when we thought it was safe to go out in a dress…

Julie Eberhart Painter

By Julie Eberhart Painter

“Mothers don’t let your girls grow up to be cow…PERSONS?”

If families encourage this gender neural inspiration—the latest fad— where does that leave us writers of romantic fiction?

Bob and Rae will be Bob and Ray? Or worse, Bobbie and Rae. It boggles the mind.

Unlike many flash in the pan ideas that have caught on, I hope with all my heart(s), cups, pens, tarot cards, stars and books that this notion of children choosing their genders dies faster than the Pet Rock.

But if that fails, should we romance writers yield to the current wisdom/cliche, get on board, go with the flow—ugh! We’ll have to rewrite Romeo and Julie-it? Daphne and Cloe-sit, or Tristan and Assaulted!

As the mother of three adult children, I watched my kids pick their gender from a clothes closet appropriate to their sex. Yet we have one of each. No one forced the children to consciously select a gender for their future. We dressed our girls as girls. One loved dresses. One hated dresses. Our son embraced baseball uniforms, and girls.

Our gay daughter owns her own accounting firm. She was 24 when she came out. It was new for us. We did not encourage it or discouraged it. Superimposing that kind of decision or indecision on children is a form of abuse.

Our oldest daughter is as feminine as it’s possible to be, and she, too, is a huge success in business. She and her husband (a newspaperman) chose not to have children.

Our son is a hard-working, girl-chasing, bike-riding chef. Wherever he lands there is good food and great wine, usually provided by—you guessed it—the accountant who is paid in wine, cases upon cases of wine, for recently laying a vineyard to rest. Travel to these soirees is provided by—right again—the businesswoman’s frequent flyer points.

Fads are a bad idea when it comes to raising children, just as they are a bad idea when it comes to choosing a genre because it’s currently popular. Fantasy is in. I’d be terrible at it, so I will be true to my voice. I write romantic suspense -- as a woman, also okay.

In this country we are obsessed with gender. It doesn’t take long for kids to “fall into place” gender-wise. Let them do it naturally. If not, the romance writers will have to join the Pod People and write sci-fi.

Julie Eberhart Painter is the Champagne Books author of Mortal Coil, Tangled Web, and Kill Fee. Her flash fiction can be seen on http://www.bewilderingstories.com/  Visit Julie’s Web site at http://www.books-jepainter.com/ to learn more about other her novels.

SPRINGTIME IN PARIS

We've been talking about Spring in our own little corners of the Universe. I thought I'd share a bit of Springtime in Paris, my favorite city in the world. However I knew my words couldn't measure up to my husband's. You see, Calvin lived there for a year on sabbatical, writing at sidewalk cafes and absorbing French culture. He unashamedly admits Paris is his mistress.

I knew the passage I'd share with you. For I'd read it many times. The one in Calvin's Phantom Lady of Paris, where his hero, also a teacher on sabbatical to write a novel, shares his impressions of Paris. I'm taking the liberty of inserting a few pictures here and there to share the Jewel of the Seine. Allow my husband to take you to Paris on a Magic Carpet ride of words, as I so often say.

Skies sparkled like diamonds, and the fragrance of blossoms was everywhere. Trees on Boulevard Saint Michel transformed into impressionists’ canvasses and in the Luxembourg Garden, flowers dazzled with violet and gold. When you sat on the terrace of a café in Saint Michel Plaza, breezes whispered past, cooling and refreshing. Spring had come.

Latin Quarter inhabitants who hibernated through much of winter reappeared and once again strolled boulevards. All the cafés on Boulevard Saint Germain were now open (many closed during winter months). Once again their terraces bubbled with laughter and conversation. If one paid attention, there were sounds carried on the breeze—the gurgle of wine filling goblets, the pop of champagne corks, and the hiss of espresso machines spewing the aroma of fresh java. It was an aroma that called back memories of Sunday mornings and good times at home. Spring had come.

On Sunday afternoons, couples, their toddlers in hand, strolled Boulevard Saint Michel. Cradling toy sailboats, youngsters frolicked into Luxembourg Garden and as parents looked on, the young dynamos of energy splashed through wading pools, squealing and laughing—orchestrating the sound of youth and immortality. Spring had come.

Gypsies once again panhandled on street corners, their favorite, the intersection at Saint Germain and Saint Michel, where they stopped passersby, glibly spinning tales of “hard times,” and “starving babies,” and the imperative need for a few francs to buy milk and/or medicine for their emaciated, “near-death” children. Translation? “We need money to buy wine.” When Gypsies returned, there could be no doubt, spring had come.

Neighborhood bums reappeared and bought bottle after bottle of vin ordinnaire, drank themselves into stupors, then snoozed away the afternoon. Spring had arrived. It came soon after Bonnie left. Yet springtime in Paris did not delight me, for Bonnie—the woman I loved—was gone.

There you have it: a verbal picture of Springtime in Paris thanks to my husband. Enjoy your Spring day where ever you are.

Nature Girl versus the Frog

I acquired the name "Nature Girl" when I started working on my last college degree (Landscape Horticulture). I used to put together amusing anecdotes about my adventures in Nature. Here's one of those stories, called:

Nature Girl Meets the Frog


As we all know, Nature Girl's CARP (Capture And Release Program) is always used in cases of small mammals, insects (except hairy spiders which are killed with a broom, and stinging insects which are killed by the Spousal Unit), and those critters slow enough not to escape NG's net.

The CARP was strained to the limits yesterday, though.

After a tough day at school and work (I'd like some cheese with that whine, please), I came home and, as was my wont, went out the Box 'o Mail and got the disposables therein.  I plopped the <pile of junk> on the counter and thought, "Mmm, did that pile of junk just sort of move? Did that pile of junk sort of ... HOP?" Holy shit.  A frog.

Not the tiny, little, cutsey frogs that you see on the World Wildlife Federation calendars.  Not the poster-frogs for "Save the Rainforest".  Nosireebob. This was a Fist Frog (as in, "as big as my fist").

As we all know, frogs can cause their bones to disappear at will, which is what the FF did.  He/she/it squeeeeezzzzeed itself under my toaster oven (and found a treasure trove of crumbs there, probably thinking it had gone to frog heaven).  Luckily my clueless cats hadn't even noticed my agitation ("oh, look, she's dashing around the kitchen again ... oh, hum, must be another toast fire or something").  I got out a pickle bottle, thinking I could shoo the amphibian into the bottle.  However, the lip of the bottle looked like a tight squeeze (and it smelled faintly of kosher dills, and I wasn't sure if the FF *liked* kosher dills, or was even Jewish for that matter).

So, I got out the SU's beer mug (don't tell him) and figured I could herd the frog into it (I figured the frog liked beer -- I saw it on TV, right?  .... in those Bud commercials).  I SLOWLY moved the toaster over, and got out a wooden spoon, prepared to herd the beast toward his temporary home ... and he PLOPPED right up on my wall and stared at me with his beady eyes.

Panic time. A frog is climbing my walls. Scenes of Easter time, with Charleton Heston and Yul Brenner, flashed through my brain. Obviously this frog didn't like beer (or maybe he didn't like wooden spoons. I wasn't sure). Maybe he had friends (I took a panicked moment to inspect the rest of the mail -- no more amphibians.  !Whew!)

By now the cats were getting curious ("she's moving kitchen appliances around ... hmmm, maybe there's food there. I will position myself directly under her feet so that if something falls I will get it ...") I knew that frog death was only a hop, skip, and jump away (not to mention frog parts, and frog blood, which YouKnowWho would have to clean up since the Spousal Unit was at work).

I took a deep breath, and still brandishing the wooden spoon (I wasn't going to TOUCH it, I draw the line at some things), I got out a Bruegger's Bagel used paper bag (still smelling vaguely of onion bagel), and positioned it near the creature.

The bagels must have done it.  He happily jumped into the paper bag when prodded with the spoon (he was probably just getting tired of being jabbed in the butt with a spoon; I know *I* would be!)  After tripping over 2 cats, I got him out into the yard, and tried to up-end him out of the bag .... nope, he LIKED that bag.

When I went back to check on him a few minutes later, he was still in the bag (looking slightly chubbier, probably having nibbled on some crumbs).  I made a little tear in the bag, and he peered up at the sky ("oh, look. There's sky. Am I outside now? What happened to frog heaven? Oh, well, there's a good looking plant ....").

Hop, plop, and he's out in the garden.....

Here is a word o' wisdom from Nature Girl: always fluff that mail before bringing it into the house.  You never know who might be Coming Along for the Ride.

Guest Barbara Burke Shares a Pint

Of course it all started in a bar. The Ship is a dodgy little pub with an unwelcoming entrance on a set of steep stairs connecting the two main roads of this hillside harbour town. In the daytime one stands in the doorway trying to get one’s vision back before stumbling into the murky room. A pool table no one ever uses sits to the right like the ghost of a more congenial era. A bank of cheap tables and old wooden chairs on the left partially conceal a tiny stage banked by a small row of dusty footlights. The mirror behind the bar at the back of the room reflects nothing, but the row of taps behind the beer polished bar itself shine from the constant pull of the bartender’s competent hands as glass after glass of rich dark Guinness is poured into pint glasses.

My home away from home, as it is for many writers in this small, close-knit community. We have our readings here and our Christmas parties and our long, liquid lunches. And sometimes we just wile away a lazy Sunday afternoon consuming pints and companionship at one of the chipped and rickety tables, laughing and bitching about editors and publishers and appalling freelance rates that haven’t gone up since we traded in our Smith Coronas for Commodore 64s.

It was on just such a Sunday, whilst staring into the last few creamy dregs of my second pint, that I worked up the courage to confess to my friend and fellow dissolute my early dreams of becoming a romance writer. After university I had decided that the smart course would be to quickly knock off a couple of Harlequin romances in order to make a few bucks while pursuing my true destiny as the greatest fantasy writer since Anne MaCaffrey. Much to my amazement, that noble publishing edifice actually turned down the hard-wrested fruits of my labour on the aforementioned Smith Corona. Then they continued this inexplicable behaviour with the next one I deigned to send them.

It was enough. They’d had their chance. Unfortunately the fantasy novel career also failed to materialise – something about actually writing all those thousands and thousands of words. In the intervening years I’d pursued a few careers before becoming a freelance journalist. But I’d always nourished a secret love for Georgette Heyer and in recent years had started sneaking onto Harlequin’s free reads website. And it was there I learned that it was possible to write shorter romances. 

It didn’t take long before my compagnon d’amour (as opposed to compagnon d'armes) and I had concocted a plan. She was mired in a fantasy romance that was going nowhere. I was just mired. We’d both write a short story – hers about a demon lover and mine about a Regency rake – and form a writing circle of two.  We ended up with a circle of one writer and one relentless booster and I actually managed to finish a story.

When it was accepted by Wild Rose we (somehow) found ourselves in the Ship again. And when my first royalty cheque arrived there we were again. Thanks heavens for good friends and beer.

When Recompromising Amanda was accepted I had no idea that there was such a strong and vibrant community of romance writers and readers out there. I was gobsmacked the first time I actually got a review, not to mention how shocking it was to discover that people I wasn’t even related to were actually buying it.

How cool is that.

So now I’m busy beavering away at the next one. It starts with a girl (in 19^th century London) going into a bar...

Blurb:

How has beautiful, popular Amanda Smythe-Kincaid managed to reach the ripe old age of twenty-five without getting married? Could she possibly still be carrying a torch for Jason, her brother's best friend? It’s been years since they were caught kissing in the conservatory.

Jason, the third Viscount Greyshott, has been in love with Amanda for ages. Too bad he can’t convince her of that fact, and too bad she repeatedly turns down his marriage proposals.

When Amanda asks Jason for a shocking favor, he realizes this may just be the opportunity he needs. And when fate, in the form of an exasperated older brother and some inadvertent eavesdropping, finally steps in to bring this charming Regency couple into each other’s arms—where everyone around them knows they’ve always belonged—Amanda doesn’t stand a chance.

Excerpt:

“Jason!” she said as, at the same time, “Amanda!” burst from his lips.

They looked at each other fully for the first time and might have smiled if not for the gravity of the situation.

“Ladies first,” Jason commanded.

His eyes were warm, and Amanda took comfort in the sight even as her heartbeat quickened at the memory of the molten heat reflected in them the night before. She drew a resolute breath, but turned her head away, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Jason, the other day you told me if there was ever anything I needed that Charles could not provide I was to come to you, and you would help me.” She dared a peep up at him. “Did you mean it?”

“How can you doubt it?” he asked, a frown crossing his features.

“Then I want you to promise me you will do something for me without asking any questions.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“No questions,” she reminded him with a brief smile. “You must trust me.”

“It’s not something illegal is it?” he teased. “I’ll have to calculate the probability of being sent to jail and consult my lawyers on how long the sentence is likely to be before agreeing to anything truly reprehensible.”

“No, it’s not illegal,” she answered seriously. “At least, I don’t think it’s illegal,” she added with a trace of doubt.

“‘Don’t think it’s illegal’ will have to do, I suppose. Tell me what you want, and if it lies within my power I will do it.”

Amanda took a deep breath before replying, and then spoke all in a rush. “I want you to make love to me.”

Recompromising Amanda  Available at The Wild Rose Press

I'm Irish. And German, Choctaw, Chickasaw...

I'm Irish. And German, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Cherokee and a little French. When I think of my heritage, different words come to mind for each ethnic group because of personal experiences.

My father's mother was German - short, round and a little fierce. My husband and I spent three years in Germany when he was in the Army. I was often mistaken for Deutsch so I guess I inherited more German physical characteristics than any of the others. The words and images I associate with Deutschland are rich culture, comfort food and castles. That fierce part of my grandmother gives me an impression of a clan mentality. Granny thought anyone in our family could do no wrong, but she sort of stuck her nose up at everyone else.

My mother's mother was American Indian - Choctaw, Chickasaw and Cherokee. I didn't know her. She died when my mother was three. What I know of her comes from a couple of faded pictures. One letter she wrote survived her. It was rather sad. Words and images I associate with my American Indian blood are not so easily stated. Maybe proud, beautiful, ceremonial and a sadness that comes from trusting that ended in disappointment.

I'm not sure who was French exactly, but my father's side is responsible for this heritage. I've been through the south of France and on another trip spent a few nights in Nice. Without any family firsthand connection, I can't say I have any real associations. The small amount of time spent in country gives me only superficial images - wealthy, sweet and the best latte I've ever had.

And last but certainly not least - Irish! It is Irish American month. My mother's father, Grandpa, was a full-blooded, redheaded Irishman. He died the day I brought my son home from the hospital. My few memories of him are vivid. He didn't live near us so I didn't get to spend a lot of time with him. But those few times were rousing. His love of drink was stereo-typical, as was his storytelling and colorful language. He made me laugh and for a young girl, he was tons of fun. At one time, I owned some Bosons, and the one named Jock always looked just like Grandpa to me. Jock is Scottish but you get the picture. My words for Irish are fun, colorful, cheerful and green.

Using my heritage and my strongest impressions, my book Honey On White Bread is about Claire Flanagan whose father is Irish and her mother is Choctaw.

When seventeen-year-old Claire Flanagan is wrenched from her father and deposited at the Good Shepherd’s Home for Wayward Girls, all dreams for Hollywood stardom are lost. But when twenty-year-old Benjamin Russell helps secure her release, she starts to believe in a happy future with him…until she discovers his ex-girlfriend is pregnant.

In this post WWII coming of age novel, Claire discovers the silver screen can’t compare with the fight she takes on for the leading role in her own life.

 

Honey On White Bread:

http://www.melange-books.com/authors/brendawhiteside/honey.html

http://tinyurl.com/7ccuqn6

http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-honeyonwhitebread-657446-173.html

Visit Brenda at www.brendawhiteside.com.

Or on FaceBook: www.facebook.com/BrendaWhitesideAuthor

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/brendawhitesid2

She blogs on the 9^th and 24^th of every month at http://rosesofprose.blogspot.com

She blogs about prairie life on her personal blog http://brendawhiteside.blogspot.com/