It’s Fra-Gee-Lay!

by Bethany Maines

In the Christmas classic, A Christmas Story, the father wins a “major award” which turns out to be a leg lamp that arrives in a large box marked “fragile.” His love for the major award is only matched by his wife’s hatred for the fishnet clad leg and the battle between the two has never stopped being funny.

This week, I was reminded of the leg lamp when I won my own “major award.” I recently converted my story Blue Christmas to a screenplay and submitted it to some screenplay contests that provided feedback to all entries.  As a first time screenplay writer, it was the feedback that I was pursuing.  In novel writing, it’s hard to find a beta reader that can help identify problems.  Most readers are not analytical and are really just there to enjoy the book (and that is just fine and there’s no reason to change!), but to advance a project it sometimes requires someone be more critical.  I’ve been fortunate to find a handful of good beta readers for my novels, but when it came to a screenplay I was at a loss! So I was excited to get feedback from genuine screenplay professionals.

The first contest said my script was “VERY close” and provided some valuable insights.  And this week I received notice from the second contest that I had been selected as a winner! The only way I could be prouder is if it came with a leg lamp. Winners have their screenplay’s opening scenes read by professional actors in a “table reading.” Which is pretty much what it sounds like – actors at a table doing a reading of the script.  The table reading is filmed and posted on the contest site, so obviously I will linking that here when the video goes live.  I can’t wait to see actors saying words that I’ve written!  And I’m excited to continue my adventures in scriptwriting.

And case you want a sneak peak at this action-packed romantic comedy before it hits big screens (I wish!)...

$1.99 - Amazon · Barnes & Noble · Kobo · Itunes

High-rise burglary to pay for her grandmother’s cancer treatments might not be ideal, but Blue Jones is determined to do what it takes to get her grandmother the best care possible. She just didn’t plan on being tackled by gorgeous Jake Garner. Jake, drunk and recently dumped, mistakes Blue for the dog sitter and begins shoving his ex’s belongings at her including her French Bulldog—Jacques. But soon Jake is being pressured to return the dog and Blue is being targeted by mysterious attackers. Can Jake and Blue stop these mystery men without also getting Blue arrested for theft? For Blue, Christmas has never been quite so dangerous. For Jake, Christmas has never been quite so Blue.

***

Bethany Maines is the author of the Carrie Mae Mystery Series, San Juan Islands Mysteries, Shark Santoyo Crime Series, and numerous short stories. When she's not traveling to exotic lands, or kicking some serious butt with her fifth degree black belt in karate, she can be found chasing her daughter or glued to the computer working on her next novel. You can also catch up with her on YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and BookBub.

The Unseen (Forget Unsung) Heroines

I had this great post planned. J

 

Bethany inspired me so much with her “how I organize my corner of the universe,” I intended to admit to uhm… less organization. And no spreadsheets.

I'm more along the lines of J.M. Phillippe's "winging it."

I even took a photo of the messy pile of notes and ideas stacked up on my desk (and the bedside table, the countertop, the…err…you get the picture).  Really, all those snippets do turn into a first draft. Then there’s the tri-fold board with color coded Post-its (aren’t Post-it’s the best?), broken out by Act and Turning Point, for editing and organizing. (The color coding matches each Point of View character. See? Really. I can be organized.)

(Surely I have a picture of a story board somewhere…) 

Instead of writing about my writing process, every spare moment has been dedicated to the Daphne. That’s the Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Mystery/Suspense contest, sponsored by the Kiss of Death. Great contest. Wonderful entries/contestants and judges.

I’m all for volunteering although clearly I had no idea what I’d agreed to do. You see, coordinators are the unseen people behind the scenes who make sure the entries meet the requirements and work with the judges to get the score-sheets and manuscripts turned back in. They "unch" (that's the polite word for politely pester) and hold people's hands while figuring out technical troubles. They keep lots and lots of records and cross check everything. Basically it’s a paper chase, or these days, an electronic chase spread across four desktop screens.

But the best part of being a coordinator will come in a few days when I have the privilege of calling the finalists. There’s nothing like telling someone how much strangers enjoyed their stories and that their manuscript was voted “best in the group.”

Bring on the coffee and the spreadsheets. I have entries to manage.

Cathy Perkins loves writing twisting plots and relationship chemistry. She  

especially loved hearing from the Award of Excellence coordinator, who told her strangers liked her novel.

She wants to publicly thank the judges and coordinator again for all the volunteer time and efforts they put into that contest.

True Writing Crime

By Cindy Jones

I’m thrilled to be a guest of the Stiletto Gang today. However, now that I find myself in the bosom of mystery writers, I feel the urge to confess a crime.

I stole a house.

What can I say? I needed a house for my novel. An English Country House to be exact. We don’t have them in my neighborhood so I looked on the internet. Bingo. When I found the house, I knew it was perfect. I studied the pictures, read everything I could find, and began lifting that house, brick by brick from the website, via my imagination, into my story. I did not reproduce any pictures or commit plagiarism, and if the operation had stopped there, I could live with it. But I visited the scene of the crime (in England). And that’s when it got bad.

The downside to helping yourself to another person’s house (without actually seeing it) is that you might get it wrong. If my understanding is flawed or incomplete, the depiction will seem inauthentic. So there I was driving on the wrong side of the street in a foreign country, worrying that I might have missed the point of the house I’d already appropriated for my book. Or missed the point of English Country Houses, which might mean I’d missed the point of England, for all I knew. What if I had to re-write the whole book? My hands started sweating and butterflies danced as I anticipated actual reunion with the house I’d spent years imagining.

When I finally found the sign on a rural road in the middle of nowhere directing me to my Manor House’s parking lot, I was giddy with excitement. A man on a backhoe was shoveling dirt. I got out and stretched my legs, making sure I had my camera. The man on the backhoe asked if he could help me. When I told him I was there to see the house, he told me they were closed.

What?

Backhoe Man did not care that I had come halfway around the world to see my house. The fact that the concierge at my hotel spread misinformation about their hours of operation was my problem, not his. The fact that I was an unpublished novelist in love with his house was also my problem. He would not even allow me walk close enough to glimpse the house through the thick copse of trees.

Really?

We got back into the car and pretended to leave. My mother (who loaned me her wedding dress when I needed a queen costume in 6th grade) masterminded the plan to stop the getaway mobile at the end of the driveway long enough for me to run up and look at the house. Backhoe Man was shoveling dirt again. There was no time to lose.

Frightened and desperate, I snuck up the drive. It was worth it. The house rose magnificently from the grounds, far more beautiful in reality. I memorized the look of the old bricks, the swirly glass windows, the serene grounds. I’d gotten it all completely right. I hated to leave. But it was too late. Backhoe Man saw me looking at his house. He dismounted and came after me, not even civil.

I offered to pay.

Writing can lead to a life of crime. Being creative—joining unlike things to make something new—is not a crime, but sometimes acquiring the unlike things to be joined raises problems. (My sisters never greet me without first narrowing their eyes and asking, “Is that mine?”) The English Manor house is just the tip of the iceberg.

So don’t show me your membership roster or your high school yearbook—I’ll be memorizing names to use in my next novel. Don’t talk on the phone around me, I harvest unguarded conversations. Do not tell me secrets because secrets are pure gold in my business. Above all, do not reveal your humanity to me, because I will take that glimpse of your inmost heart and apply it to my character, breathing your life into my creation so that my fiction might resonate with readers I’ve never even met.

If you would like to tour the house I virtually stole for my novel, check out My Jane Austen Summer. The House first appears in all its glorious splendor on page 42—brick by virtual brick.

**The gracious Cindy is giving away a signed copy of My Jane Austen Summer to one lucky Stiletto Gang reader!  Just leave a comment sometime on this post between now and Sunday, April 24 at noon (Central Time), and Cindy will randomly drawer a winner!  Thanks, Cindy, and good luck, everyone!

About Cindy:  Born in Ohio, I grew up in small mid-western towns, reading for escape. I dreamed of living in a novel and wrote my first book in fifth grade. After a business career, husband, and the birth of four sons, I wrote My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park, winner of the Writer’s League of Texas Manuscript Contest. I have a BA from Mary Washington College, an MBA from the University of Houston, studied creative writing in the SMU CAPE program, and belong to the The Squaw Valley Community of Writers. I live with my family in Dallas where I have discovered that, through writing, it is entirely possible to live in a novel for a good part of each day.

In Honor of Kindred Spirits

I will give away an autographed copy of Calling the Dead, the sixth in the Deputy Tempe Crabtree series to two people who leave a comment on this post or email me privately (mmeredith@ocsnet.net). All names will be put into a hat, or like container, and two drawn out for the books. I will not do the drawing until Wednesday, September 24. Good luck!

Marilyn

Excerpt from Kindred Spirits and Contest

This is the first chapter from Kindred Spirits:

Chapter One


Before Deputy Tempe Crabtree could see evidence of the forest fire, she could smell it.

Smoke was heavy in the air and got thicker as she drove up the highway into the mountains. Monday was one of her days off, but when something happened in her jurisdiction she was often the first responder. Her instructions from the sheriff’s sub-station in Dennison were to make sure everyone who lived in the path of the fire started in the higher elevations of Bear Creek canyon had obeyed evacuation orders.

As resident deputy of the large but sparsely populated area around the mountain community of Bear Creek, Tempe’s job usually consisted of making traffic stops, arresting drunk drivers, solving problems among neighbors, and looking for lost children or cattle. Along with the highway patrol, Tempe was the law in the community located in the southern Sierra where the foothills turned into mountains.

The last estimate Tempe had heard about the fast moving fire in rugged country was that it covered more than 1100 acres. She was stopped at the staging area by a highway patrolman she knew by sight though couldn’t remember his name.

Though his uniform still had sharp creases, large circles of dampness crept from his underarms. Opaque sunglasses covered his eyes. He put both hands on the open window of her Blazer as he bent down to speak to her. “Where’re you headed, Deputy?”

“My orders are to check out some of the houses in the path of the fire. Make sure everyone’s out.”

“Be careful you don’t put yourself in danger. It’s one fast-moving fire. It’s in a rough area where they haven’t been able to get in any personnel yet. They’re doing lots of water drops. All the roads are closed from here on up.”

“Thanks for the warning. I know some of the folks who might not have received the word yet.”

Tempe drove by the private airstrip that had been taken over as the fire command post. Men and equipment, fire engines, water tenders and bulldozers were being dispatched from there as well as truckloads of hand crews.

Leaving her window down, Tempe drove around the traffic cones that temporarily blocked access to the road. She planned to stop at the Donaldsons’, but they were loading horses into a trailer, obviously on their way out.

The higher she drove on the winding road, the darker the sky, the thicker the smoke, the harder it was to breathe. Ashes showered on her white Blazer. She passed fire trucks and men heading upward to fight the fire. In her heart she was thankful her son, Blair, was already back on the coast for his last year in college or he’d be on the fire lines. Fighting fire had been his first love since the age of sixteen when he began hanging around Bear Creek’s fire station.

Tempe stopped at several homes hidden down winding trails or perched on hilltops, surrounded by pine and cedar trees and underbrush. Most homes were deserted with signs of hurried evacuation.

Loaded pick-up trucks drove down the hill, some pulling horse or cattle trailers, not getting out any too soon from the looks of the black sky and the large amount of falling ash.

She had one more place she wanted to check. A beautiful home and separate studio built of sugar pine stood atop a knoll surrounded by Chaparral and a thick pine forest. Tempe had been there once on a domestic abuse call. The owner, a well-known artist, Vanessa Ainsworth, now lived alone since her boy-friend had been served with a restraining order. If Vanessa wasn’t gone already, Tempe hoped to help her collect her animals and paintings and carry some of them out for her. When Tempe made the last turn before Vanessa’s she was halted by a horrifying sight.

***

Contest Rules:

I will give away an autographed copy of Calling the Dead, the sixth in the Deputy Tempe Crabtree series to two people who leave a comment on this post or email me privately (mmeredith@ocsnet.net). All names will be put into a hat, or like container, and two drawn out for the books. I will not do the drawing until Wednesday, September 24. Good luck!

Marilyn