First Drafts

I have the distinct honor and privilege of having had my fourth book published last week and my fifth book, which will be published next year, done and submitted. It is called “Third Degree,” and I finally let go and sent it off yesterday. Although I’m overjoyed by the publication of “Final Exam,” which so far, has been well received, I’m a nervous wreck having submitted the new manuscript yesterday. You’d think that a day as joyous as that would leave me relaxed and serene.

Far from it.

Let the nail-biting begin.

Thanks to fellow Stiletto-wearing Susan McBride, I’ve stopped (kind of) engaging in risky behavior once a book is published. To wit: I no longer Google myself. I no longer read reviews unless my publisher sends them via email with a cover letter that’s either filled with glee or comes with a warning to not open until I’m sitting down (hate those, by the way). I definitely don’t check my Amazon numbers. These are all very wise instructions from a very wise, and not to mention, fabulous, writer.

But when you turn a manuscript in, there’s nothing left to do but wait. I hemmed and hawed about this latest manuscript’s “doneness” for far too long. Let’s just say that after repeated calls to the only other member of my writing group, the supremely-talented, Alison (no relation to Bergeron), to get assurance that I could indeed send it in and not be embarrassed, I hit the ‘send’ button. Honestly, I thought that I would be happy and relieved that I had beat my deadline by not one, but TWO, weeks. But instead, I feel anxiety.

Why is that?

I’m sure that the venerable Stiletto Gang ladies and all of our faithful followers can weigh in with a variety of theories. I’m fairly sure that they’ve all felt what I’m feeling right now in varying degrees during their writing careers. You worry that it isn’t as ‘done’ as you had thought. You have separation anxiety, thinking that with just one more day, or one more edit, it will be perfect. You have concern that your agent and/or editor won’t ‘get it’ and that they will look askance at you like “what the heck were you thinking, girlfriend?” You fret that it’s just not good.

But after four books that have gone into the interwebs and to my editor and agent, I can tell you that a variety of these things happen, sometimes all at once, sometimes one at a time, sometimes in batches. It may not be perfect or they may not ‘get it.’ Or they get it, but it needed one final edit. Or some parts are great, and others just don’t work.

When all is said and done, it’s a first draft and you’ve been treating it like a printed book.

You’d think I would have avoided this pitfall because as you all know, my day job is an editor. But the wise counsel, hopefully, that I give to the authors with whom I work apparently doesn’t apply to me. It takes some getting your mind around but everything that one puts on the page is not brilliant the first time around. That’s why we have editors, and agents, and trusted friends who tell us the god’s honest truth when something just isn’t that good.

Until that time comes, however, I’m going to revel in the wonder that is good health, a wonderful family, a fulfilling career, and an overall feeling of happiness and well-being that a perfectly-constructed mystery can add to but can never bring totally.

Best wishes, Stiletto faithful.

Maggie Barbieri

Christmas is Coming, Tra La Tra La

Thought I'd show off one of great grand-daughters in her Christmas finery. Her daddy brought her to church yesterday and I thought she looked really cute. She's six going on sixteen. She has beautiful curly hair and informed me that she'd straightened it.

That reminded me of when my girls were young they wanted their hair to be straight (no one really had curly hair but they wanted straight hair like the Skipper doll) and so they took turns ironing each other's hair, putting waxed paper over it and ironing it with a regular iron. Things are much easier nowadays to make oneself beautiful.

Frankly I think Kay'Lee's hair looks great curly, but I'm only her great-grandmother, my opinion doesn't count. We took her and her dad out to lunch after church and she seemed to know everyone in the restaurant, her school bus driver who came in to get a to-go order, a fireman who was standing outside with other firemen when we went in, and others who came in. (That's sort of the way her dad is too.)

You may have guessed, I just wanted to write something a bit lighter than what we've been reading and hearing lately. I hope everyone is enjoying their holiday time and for those who celebrate Christmas, I hope you've finished decorating, bought most of your gifts and have your Christmas cards ready to go.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays,

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Your Momma Taught You Better than That – I Hope

Bottom line: It’s none of my business if Tiger Woods has slept with 1 or 100 women during his marriage. He took a vow to be faithful – and he clearly skipped over that part without nary a nevermind, as my mother, the original Evelyn would say. So what happens between the sheets (or anywhere else for that matter) – is really between Tiger, Elin, his wife, and what appears to be a host of lawyers all salivating at the big bucks to be made for lurid stories.

Shame on them all.

But here’s where I’m going to be judgmental. Yep, I know 'tis the season to be forgiving and indulgent of transgressions – look for the good in mankind, yadda, yadda, – but actually let me make it clear I’m talking woman-kind. Frankly, these party girls are trolling the Internet, sharing the intimate details of their sex lives with a guy whose only claim to fame is that he can hit a golf ball far and accurately. He did not, I repeat, find a cure for cancer. And these women? They intend to make big bucks by sharing their sordid stories. Hmmmm, this sounds suspiciously like the old story told about Winston Churchill.

Churchill: Madam, would you sleep with me for five million pounds?
Socialite: My goodness, Mr. Churchill… Well, I suppose… we would have to discuss terms, of course…
Churchill: Would you sleep with me for five pounds?
Socialite: Mr. Churchill, what kind of woman do you think I am?!
Churchill: Madam, we’ve already established that. Now we are haggling about the price.

Because the truth is – even if Tiger Woods is the sleaze of the Western World. Even if he is motivated by sex addiction, opportunity, an ego the size of Sweden or Florida – even if he totally amoral and has absolutely no compunction about screwing anything that even remotely interests him – Women, you still should know better. You should still have your own moral compass. You should still tell a man who has two children under the age of three, that whether or not his wife understands him (and who the hell cares if she does); even if his wife is thrilled that he’s found some outside interests and hey this all just a business arrangement (and try explaining that to a three year old!) – any woman given the opportunity to sleep with Tiger Woods should have sent him packing faster than a New York minute because it’s just plain wrong. Not fuzzy-fuzzy wrong, not even close to where anyone should wonder on which sides the angels will come down – nope, put two kids in the mix, and the deal is over. You want to fool around, Tiger, get out your prenup papers, figure what it’s going to cost you, and get a divorce – then fool around with whatever idiot who is willing to put up with you.

And women – you’re not entitled to money for putting out. You can dress that up any way you want to try – but at least my Momma knew exactly what that was called – and it ain’t pretty. Being sexually liberated doesn’t mean you can take advantage of another woman’s family or life. Go find your own man – no matter what story some guy is peddling.

I can write on and on about how this is a media bonanza comparable to Tickle Me Elmo in terms of sales. But the truth is deeper. We need to respect each other’s lives – and in this case – I haven’t seen a sense of honor among any of these thieves. For shame!

Marian aka the Northern Half of Evelyn David