The Other Research

by Bethany Maines 

 After reading Paffi Flood’s article about that new Beaver Bum smell, I don’t feel so bad about today’s google searches, which include best easy-open pocket knives, MAPP gas, and a variety of facts about the Tacoma Police Department in 1922. My search history may imply an interest in violence, safe breaking and the local politics of the early twentieth century, but at least I have not learned anything horrifying about ice cream.


 It has been noted on more than one occasion that mystery writers tend to have rather disturbing research patterns. But really, of course we do. No one wants to get that detail about corpse bloat wrong. So embarrassing – how could I face the other writers at the conventions? But the other, less disturbing, research rarely gets mentioned. What gets served in high-school lunches these days? Hint: tater tots are still going strong. What are the three laws of robotics again? (Answer here) What brand would a black, vegetarian, female computer hacker smoke? Turns out it’s either Newport Menthols or American Spirit Organics. What do ballet dancers do strengthen their feet? (Video here)

 My point? There’s a lot more research that goes into a work of fiction than just what happened to the dead guy. But that research isn’t particularly titillating. It’s simply the stuff we bore you with at cocktail parties. What I find interesting is that almost every person I’ve ever met has been an expert in something, from baking, bagpiping, needlepoint, and cars, to wood working, plumbing, or how the brakes on busses work. I never know when I’m going to need that expertise, but I like to keep track of my various experts. After all, I never know when I’m going to need to know how to crash a bus full of bagpipers. Not that I would ever publically admit to mentally cataloging my acquaintances by how useful they could be to future research…

***

Bethany Maines is the author of the Carrie Mae Mysteries, Wild Waters, Tales from the City of Destiny and An Unseen Current.  You can also view the Carrie Mae youtube video or catch up with her on Twitter and Facebook.

Finding a Moment . . .

By AB Plum

At this time of the year, bloggers often:

·        Review accomplishments or missed marks during the past year.

·        Set goals, accomplishments, and hopes for the coming year.

·        Or, intermingle both approaches.

Here’s a quote I think does all three—leaving, as do all good stories, much to our imaginations. 

“But Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart.” (Luke 2:19 KJV).

Ponder, for me, is the key—and is implicit in review, set goals, intermingle. Theology aside, this single, lyrical statement conveys, I think, one of the most poignant stories in the English language.

Pondered grabs my imagination while tugging at my own heart. I know the Sunday-School backstory. Yet even out of context, universal feelings of fear, uncertainty, and anxiety hover just below the surface. The vagueness of things—unspecified here, but known to Mary—imbues them with the potential to overwhelm this child-woman.

If we know the backstory’s bare bones—a young girl engaged to an older man, discovering she’s pregnant in a society hostile to such an embarrassment and even more hostile to the theological heresy—we can feel our whole being ache for the looming complications.

In the mid-twentieth century, one of my best friends revealed her unexpected pregnancy. Unexpected but admittedly because of her own actions. Her devout Lutheran parents banned her from their home. She was sixteen, living in Middle America, facing no good choices.

But if we’re not familiar with what “all these things” were that Mary kept, we can still empathize. We can admire that she doesn’t fall apart or rail against the incredible maturity she’s asked to demonstrate. We can grieve for the tumultuous events we know she will face in the days immediately ahead and the heartbreak that will come too soon.

Theology, culture, ethnicity, age, historical time frame—all fade as we read that Mary pondered … in her heart. In her heart—not in her head.

As the craziness of Black Friday and Cyber Monday and Last-Chance-Sale-Today escalates, I hope to find time to ponder. May you and those you love find joy and peace in a few quiet moments.

AB Plum lives and writes psychological thrillers in Silicon Valley. Her latest book, The Early Years is available https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B01M8MGL2X.  Look for Book 2, The Lost Years in mid- to late January, 2017!. 

We've Come a Long Way, or Have We?

We’ve Come a Long Way, or Have We? by Debra H. Goldstein

When you checked out the Happy Thanksgiving listing of the Stiletto Gang’s books (http://thestilettogang.blogspot.com/2016/11/happy-thanksgiving.html), did you notice the one thing they all have in common?

The books and poems are written by strong women and whether dramatic or comedic, they feature women capable of finding solutions. The women writing these books and appearing on the pages can often be characterized as steel magnolias. Their independence, career choices, relationships, ultimately are of their own choosing.

What a change in society our style of writing reflects. Historically, women writers often tended to use initials or male names rather than their own names because they felt books by men would sell better. Think P.L. Travers, S.E. Hinton, P.D. James, J.D. Robb, or V.K. Andrews, to name a few. They also had to conform their writing to certain norms.

In Little Women, Jo could be a tomboy, but in the end, she still had to wear dresses and bonnets.

Books written in the 1940’s by Janet Lambert and others depicted women in supportive home roles or confined to becoming teachers, stewardesses, or nurses. Even young adult mysteries like Nancy Drew and Cherry Ames limited the roles and interaction of their main characters. While they might step outside their norms because of curiosity or needed action to solve a crime, they usually ended the books with a jovial attitude statement looking forward to their next adventures.

Recently, I read Silver Wings for Vicki, the first in the Vicki Barr stewardess series by Helen Wells. I was struck by the contrast between the eagerness of the young women wanting to fly for adventure and their understanding of the responsibilities their job entailed. More than being a waitress in the sky, stewardesses had to be “able to handle all sorts of people, tactfully, in any sort of situation.” (page 18) They needed to know health, hygiene, psychology of dealing with people, nutrition and cooking to prepare and serve meals, languages, and geography. They also had to be

pleasant rather than aggressive, resourceful, able to wear a uniform with poise, and capable of representing the airline as window dressing when necessary.

What really caught my attention was when during her interview, Vicki asks if a stewardess must really be beautiful and is told: “Real beauty isn’t necessary, but you have to be nice to look at: well-groomed, pleasant, and not too tall or heavy. After all, a plane must carry the biggest payload possible, and the heavier the crew the less paying weight we can carry.” The interviewer then explains why a five foot eight woman whose weight is proportionate to her height would be unacceptable, “But the airlines do recognize that American girls are growing taller, and we’re gradually raising the height and weight limits. Besides, …bigger, roomier planes are coming into use, and with bigger cabins there’ll be space for taller girls.”

Reading this book made me appreciate, as the Virginia Slims slogan went, “You’ve Come a Long Way Baby.” Or, have we?

Thankful for Positive Feminist Role Models by Juliana Aragón Fatula

Thankful for Positive Feminist Role Models.

My s-hero, Gloria Anzaldúa, one of the great icons of Latina Feminist Queer Theory Literature said, “A woman who writes has power, and a woman with power is feared.”  My tía Emma Aragón Medina was my feminist role model and I know she would be proud of the educator I’ve become. I wrote this poem to thank her.

There are two roads going nowhere, going somewhere

Some of us get lost in the dark with no guide

Some of us follow the way of the ones before us

who travelled the path and found the way

My tía goes to the University every day to become a teacher

I watch her grab her books, purse, head out the door, to catch her ride to Pueblo.

Someday, I’m going to catch my ride.  

I love writing. It is my sweet medicine. Whenever life gets too heavy, or to light. When I feel like I’m going to stop breathing if I don’t sit down and write. When I can’t sleep at night because I must write. That’s when I’m happiest.

I love to read, and if you want to become a great writer, you must first be a book lover. I found my unique voice from studying great writers I admire: Sandra Cisneros, Lorna Dee Cervantes, Sherman Alexie, Gloria Anzaldúa, and Shakespeare. But the feminist role models in my life molded me into the strong woman I am today.

I’m a performance artist, a teacher, a writer, and a poet. I’ve published two poetry books and a chap book.  I’ve performed in schools, nursing homes, coffee shops, book stores, libraries, the Colorado Governor’s Mansion, Universities, in Colorado and Utah; also for Hispanic Awareness Month for the Department of Defense I told my stories in Sicily, Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, los Azores, Kuwait, Bahrain, Camp Doho, Dubai, Abu Dhabi; and  I’ve written a couple of children’s plays that were produced at local schools. I edited an anthology for the Pueblo School of Arts and Sciences, I co-directed the Denver Indian Thespians; and  I spent a decade with Su Teatro in Denver learning about my history, culture, language and people.

I’m an artist. I need music, drums, dancing, shouting. I treat writing like a sport. When I teach writing workshops, we chant and cheer. We get in a huddle and put our hands in the center and yell, “Uno, dos, tres! Write! Write! Write! We sing Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds, everything gonna be alright and stomp and clap to I’m a poet and I know it and I’m gonna’ do the write thang!”

My students  ask for advice, or send me poems they wrote.  Now they are seniors in high school and freshmen in college and remember the Chicano History and feminist literature that I shared with them. I teach my students  to think about social justice, global culture and language, When I was a child, there was  no celebration of Chicano History,  Black History, no writers of color in the books I read.  

The first time I walked into the public library and saw the rows and rows of books, I felt perplexed. Who wrote all these books? I was determined to write a book and my name would sit on those shelves in this library along with Shakespeare, Whitman, Plath, Woolf.

I’m a writer; I’m going to write until someone tells me to shut the pharmacy and back door. I want you to laugh and cry when you read my words. I want to zap your brains with sweet memories and love. 

A Moment of Discord

by J.M. Phillippe


What makes a person change?

This is the question that fills my life -- my life as a therapist, and my life as a writer. How does a person grow and evolve? What makes them change their minds, their hearts, their views? According to Wikipedia, "a character arc is the transformation or inner journey of a character over the course of a story. If a story has a character arc, the character begins as one sort of person and gradually transforms into a different sort of person in response to changing developments in the story."

In fiction, the character arc -- and the general plot of the story -- begins with the inciting incident, or the thing that starts the whole plot rolling. Without this incident, there would be no conflict, no push forward. Without the inciting incident putting events into motion, there would be no reason for the character to have an arc, for the character to change.

Real life rarely has a linear plot, and so it's really hard to find inciting incidents in it. Sometimes big events happen that force people to deal with them, like death or moving, or gaining or losing a job. And yet the event itself doesn't necessarily lead to any sort of lasting change. Events come and go in a life, and it is how people respond to those events that actually lead to change or not.

From what I've seen, the most common event in a person's life is a moment of discord -- a moment where something that someone thought, believed, or knew as an absolute truth gets challenged. In fiction this might be something as big as aliens landing on Earth, or a character seeing a ghost. In real life the moments tend to be smaller and much more frequent, like hearing a story that surprises you about your friend, or meeting someone from a group you were sure you knew everything about and discovering they are nothing like you imagined they would be.  

With every moment of discord comes a choice -- either a person can double down on what they thought they knew to be true, or embrace the discomfort and move to change. Often, in fiction, it takes several beats and/or chapters to get from an inciting incident to the thing that locks the character into the plot and toward the course of change. Even in fiction, we recognize the human need to resist change, to cling to old ideas or ways of being. We deny the ghosts in front of our eyes, the aliens walking down the street, or even the possibility that our long-held view of the world could be anything but right and true. It takes  more discord, more discomfort to lodge us from the path we were already walking and lead us toward something new.

Some people never lock in to their action, never embrace the change. They stay constant in how they act, in how they see the world, regardless of what events unfold in front of them. They likely don't make very good protagonists, since their arcs look more like straight lines.

I don't see many of those types in therapy, since the act of going to a therapist is about actively seeking some sort of change. But even if people want to change, it doesn't mean they don't resist it. There are barriers, there is push back, there are relapses and setbacks. In a story, this is the series of conflicts that creates tension while driving the story forward. In real life, these are the things that drive people crazy.

Change in a story comes at exactly the point the author needs it to come so that there is some sort of resolution. Change in a life is a process that may or may not have a definitive end. Both types of change take commitment, time, and perspective.

So what makes a person change? I'm still not sure. Lives are scattered with inciting incidents and moments of discord nearly every day. Events don't change people -- people change themselves.

In the end I think it comes back to my favorite social work joke: how many social workers does it take to change a light bulb?

One, but the light bulb has to want to change.

Everything else is just the story of how.

* * *

J.M. Phillippe is the author of Perfect Likeness and the newly released short story The Sight. She has lived in the deserts of California, the suburbs of Seattle, and the mad rush of New York City. She worked as a freelance journalist before earning a masters’ in social work. She works as a therapist in Brooklyn, New York and spends her free-time decorating her tiny apartment to her cat Oscar Wilde’s liking, drinking cider at her favorite British-style pub, and training to be the next Karate Kid, one wax-on at a time.

The Perfect Holiday Gift of Unconventional Romantic Comedy

By Kimberly Jayne

Happy holidays to all! This month, with Take My Husband, Please! on sale for the holidays, I'd like to give you a taste of what reviewers and critics are saying:

From Publisher's Weekly's BookLife Prize in Fiction: "Slightly madcap, suddenly sweet, this novel combines the best of female friendship with soulful exploration of passion in its many forms. The dialog-heavy, elegant writing style pulls readers into a world that is difficult to leave."

From the Midwest Book Review: "A delightfully quirky yet all-too-human cast of supporting characters rounds out this genre-busting tragi-sexy-drama-comedy. Highly recommended!"

From Readers' Favorite: "Take My Husband, Please by Kimberly Jayne was a wonderful romance and a complete delight to read. I really enjoyed this book and I recommend it to anyone who likes a good combination of comedy and romance.

From Self-Publishing Review: "A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy. Will and Sophie are wonderfully flawed characters who find themselves in one absurd situation after another that'll have you in stitches. In addition, the quirky supporting cast really brings this novel to life, and the author was able to throw in several hilarious and suspenseful twists and turns.

And if that doesn't entice you to gift this delightful romantic comedy to someone you love—including yourself—here's the opening excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

Mitch Houdini clung to Sophie's shoulders like the week's dry cleaning as she led him inside. Loud enough to scare off intruders, her strappy stilettos click-clack-click-clacked across the hardwoods and echoed off the walls, giving her foyer a deserted feel. She reached for the lights but thought better of it because, in the dark, a few stubborn extra pounds and some baby-birthing stretch marks don't exist. Right?

Mitch kicked the door shut and twirled Sophie around, painting a wet trail of kisses along her neck that fueled her long-suppressed yearning to be touched and adored—worshipped even—by a man. This man. From the moment he'd whisked her away in his Lamborghini convertible for a happy hour that had lingered to midnight, Mitch had been a heat-seeking missile she could not deflect. Not that she wanted to after all those Mexican martinis.

She reached behind, dropped her keys on a wood console table cluttered with framed photos and a warming pot of orange blossom-scented wax, and discreetly flipped a family portrait on its face. After the date she'd had, prying eyes need not sabotage her mission.

"Sophie."

His voice vibrated the hair on her neck like plucked violin strings. He caressed her face in his hands and let his brazen tongue probe one ear, exploring every hill and cranny like he polished the chrome wheels of his cherished Lamborghini—cleaning and buffing and shining—and shooting chills right to her marrow. He followed with an invitation for dueling tongues, and by then she figured there wasn't much that tongue of his couldn't do. Still, she had imagined he would taste more like Don Juan instead of Cuban cigars and Stolichnaya.

Mitch took a breath and shrugged out of his sports coat, revealing a wedge-shaped torso that strained against the fabric of his tailored shirt. She stood in the shadow of his six-four frame, the ceiling vents blasting cold air on her skin, while his hands ventured where no man had gone for nearly two years. He thumbed her breasts through her little black dress and a pushup bra with its work cut out for it, igniting a white-hot desire between her legs. Every millimeter of her womanhood begged for the point of no return. Begged.

That's when he crushed himself against her.

Whoa. So the rumors were true. His manhood was the stuff of local legend, regaled in water cooler jokes about some hocus pocus that had to be kept under wraps—an industrial-length Mr. Slinky. Uncompressed, it could be dangerous. His massive hardness rolled against her bellybutton and his soft moans set her on fire.

Teasing him with a gentle bite on his lower lip, she drew him into the shadowy living room, around the sofa. He pulled her closer, his hands disappearing under her dress and searing his fingerprints into her bare skin. She felt her lacy panties shift and roll down until they stretched around her thighs. As his fingers explored the terrain between her legs, her breath caught and she could no longer wait.

She pushed him onto the sofa and pounced on top of him. But in less time than it took to say, Wheeee! Sophie felt herself flying backward. She landed on the coffee table with her feet in the air and her bottom winking at the ceiling.

"What the hell?" Mitch said, scrambling to his feet.

"What the hell?" came another man's voice.

"What the hell?" Sophie echoed, clapping her hands to turn on the lamp.

A man in a black T-shirt and sweats rolled off the sofa, fast-blinking and squinting as if he'd just woken up, his salt-and-pepper mullet spiked in all directions.

Sophie gasped and gaped. "Why the hell are you in my house?"

Mitch launched into a fighting stance with his fists up. "Who is this?"

"He's my— he's my—" She blew out an exasperated sigh. "Husband."

"Your husband?" Mitch's face turned the same shade as the Sultry Summer Spice lip color smudged around his bruised mouth.

"Ex-husband, actually."

"Not ex yet," the mullet-headed man said.

Sophie huffed and rolled her eyes, gesturing at each man by way of introduction. "Will Camden, Mitchell Houdini."

They made no move to shake hands, and a hot rash of embarrassment spread across her skin. Will had never seen her with another man before. Had he heard her mouth kissing Mitch's? Her sighs escaping? Her primal need for fulfillment screaming?

The hot rash began to itch then, and she wiped her swollen lips. Her hair clip fell out and bounced on the hardwoods, and that's when she noticed her push-up pads had dislodged themselves and wiggled up to her neck. Great. Now she had no boobs, an up-don't, and her dignity bunched around her ankles. It was official. She was a slut.

"I don't feel well." She held her stomach and wavered on her heels, reaching down to pull up her panties when the martinis went to her head, her eyes crossed, and the room swirled. Down she went like a felled redwood.

Will extricated the panties from her heels and dangled them from his fingertips. "You wear a G-string now?"

Mitch hauled her up by the armpits. "Something you want to tell me?"

Sophie snatched back her panties and squeezed her eyes shut to quell the dizziness. "There's not much to tell. We've been separated for more than a year, and now we're getting divorced. The papers have been filed. Speaking of divorce, Will, did you forget you don't live here anymore?"

"I'm here because somebody had to pick up the kids from the slumber party. They're upstairs, sick."

"What? Both of them?"

"Too much sugar would be my guess. And omigod, the projectile barfing was epic. I'm talking some serious industrial-strength chum. First, one would blow and then the other. I think they were tag-teaming me. I divvied out the Pepto-Bismol, and at least that didn't come back up."

Mitch's mouth contorted through various incarnations of horror.

"Exactly," Will said. "Regurgitated strawberry shortcake is something you don't want to miss in your lifetime."

"Good god." Sophie dug her fingers into her forehead. A lifelong bachelor like Mitch Houdini had to be eased into the dark side of childrearing. Will could play tough, but he had his less-than-shining moments too; he was the king of squeamish stomachs. "You gave up a sympathy barf, didn't you?"

Will screwed up his face, not bothering to deny it. "Point is, I was here for the kids. I handled it. The kitchen, the staircase, even the big wet spot on your bed." Before she could ask, he waved it off. "They're fine now, I'm telling you. It's just that Keely had to see for herself that you weren't in there, and—"

Mitch backed into the foyer. "Look, I don't know who's interrupting here, me or your—er, husband. So I should go and let you two work this out."

Dammit. This was her one night. She'd been crushing on this man for months; and after a handful of dates, they'd passed the hardest part, broken the slab of ice that had encased her libido for so long.

She thrust her palm flat toward him. "Please don't go. Will is leaving, aren't you? Because, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, you don't live here anymore."

"Ah, yes," Will said, his mouth an intractable slash. "Didn't mean to interrupt your..." finger quotes, "big date. Can't put a kink in Sophie's plans with the—" quotes again, "big date, now can we?"

"You know," Mitch said from the foyer, forming finger quotes of his own, "the big date is still here."

Will squinted at him. "Yeah, why is that, Mitchell?"

The way he said Mitchell was equivalent to verbal spitting. They both stood with eyes narrowed, chins high, and chests puffed out. A cockfight waiting to happen.

Mitch towered over Will by six inches with shoulders and arms to match. He extended a hand. "It's Mitch. Mitch Houdini. We're all adults here. Why don't we start over?"

Will grudgingly shook Mitch's hand, and each man's arm tensed in the protracted squeezing of Olympic wrestlers, jaws clenching and nostrils flaring. Mitch's biceps bulged through his dress shirt, and his face contorted with the effort. Will scrunched up his face like he might have been on the crapper.

Sophie planted herself between them and peeled their hands apart. "There we go," she said, as if breaking up two first graders. "There we go. All civil again. Isn't that better?"

Will pointed a wavering finger. "Houdini. Houdini Real Estate? Where We Make the Home of Your Dreams Appear Like Magic? Aren't you Sophie's boss?"

Sophie crossed her arms over her chest. "He's not my boss."

"I'm her sponsoring broker," Mitch said. "Sophie is her own boss."

The cuckoo lurched in and out of a tiny cubbyhole in the clock, crowing twelve times in a thick, gelatinous quiet, when Will turned a wary gaze on Sophie.

She opened the front door, tamping down the creeping swell of guilt. "We're past the judging phase, Will." The cool night air swirled around her bare legs, and she guided him with a scooping hand gesture toward the exit. "Thanks for getting the kids."

He got nose to nose with her. "Just one more thing."

She tapped her foot while he readied himself to say just one more thing. "Well?"

"Sophie," he said, with some apparent mental wrangling and a sidelong glance at Mitch. And then he muttered, "I'm staying in the studio for a while."

Sophie leaned closer. "What? The shed?"

"The studio, the shed, whatever. I'm staying in it for a while."

"Ohhellno, you're not."

"Ohhellyes, I am." He turned and headed straight for the back door.

She ran ahead and blocked the door with her body. "What's going on? You're not staying here unless I know why."

His voice dropped to a whisper. "I got... laid off."

"Laid off?" she shouted. "When?"

"Shhh." He peered over his shoulder. "Could we not yell it to the world?"

"You're a director of product development. You have products to develop."

He shook his head. "Whole division is gone. Three months ago. It makes business sense. They're reorganizing, and—" "Are you kidding?" Sophie could feel her temper building to an ugly pitch. "You waited till now to tell me? What about your condo?"

"Sold it. Buyers wanted in early. They're leasing it back from me till the closing, which is three or four weeks from this morning. So..."

"Will Camden! You seriously can't—"

He placed one hand over her mouth. "Now, don't say something you'll regret. I know this seems like a good time to lay into me, but I just need the studio temporarily, till my money's freed up."

Her resolve to not speak wavered until he removed his hand. "There's no place to sleep down there. Junk's everywhere. You still haven't cleaned out all your stuff. The electricity isn't even connected. Not to mention the black widows and fat, flying, disgusting cockroaches."

"Come on, your cockroaches are not fat."

"It's got a padlock on it, and the door is all wonky and—"

"I have been here before, and I do have a key."

Sophie's lips pressed into a scowl, which was hard to maintain given that he was still mourning his father. It had only been a few months since Gus Camden passed. How could she be heartless and not help his grieving son? Still, a night in the shed for anyone, much less Will, was nonsensical. His eyes looked tired and red, and those broad shoulders she'd once leaned on with such unwavering trust now sagged. Had he lost weight?

She tilted her chin. "I want you out of my life, Will."

"Yeah? Well, I wouldn't take you back if you begged me."

"Good. Because I would never beg."

It was an exchange they'd volleyed back and forth since he moved out and always resulted in a Camden Standoff, two ex-lovers, ex-confidants, ex-family, ex-everything glaring until somebody blinked.

Sophie raised a finger and opened the door. "One night. Do you understand? One night."

Will gave a withering last glance before he flipped on the porch light, crossed the deck, and descended three steps to the flagstone pavers that led to the erstwhile-music-studio-turned-dilapidated-shed at the far corner of an oversized yard. Head hanging, he looked back, affecting a weird, tight-lipped smile that did nothing to reassure her that he was all right.

But the massive oak trees cast opaque shadows across the yard; he tripped over Keely's pink Schwinn and landed on the chrome handlebars with dangling neon ribbons. His elbow thumped the rubber horn, and a clownish honk echoed through the air. He bounced up as if it had never happened and disappeared into the night with a slight limp.

Sophie shut the door, awash with questions. How bad were things that Will Camden would sleep in a bug-infested junk room?
_____________________________________
Want to get your copy? Find it here on Amazon: Take My Husband, Please.

Kimberly Jayne is the author of the dark fantasy series Demonesse: Avarus and the hilarious romantic comedy Take My Husband, Please. She has been making up stories since she was five, when she scribbled on her grandfather's notepads her first tall tale about pigs flying. Yes, she started that shtick. Since then, she's written just about everything and for various websites and clients, including humor features for Playgirl Magazine. She also performed her work in the 2011 Listen to Your Mother Show in Austin, Texas. Visit her at ReadKimberly.com.  

Book Excerpt-To Find Time to Write Your Novel, You Must Make Time to Write

by Linda Rodriguez

This is an excerpt from my new book on writing, Plotting the Character-Driven Novel. 

https://www.amazon.com/Plotting-Character-driven-Novel-Linda-Rodriguez/dp/097912915X

I wanted to give you a taste of what it's like. As I explain on the very first page:  "Writing a novel requires several things—time, motivation, the willingness to keep learning the craft of fiction, and an ability or process to access your creative thoughts. We’ll deal with the first two in this chapter briefly since they’re mostly beyond the purview of this book, and the rest of the book will concern itself with elements of the craft of fiction and a process for accessing your own inner knowledge of your novel by freewriting, brainstorming by yourself, and thinking on paper. I will be including samples of actual work documents I have used with this process to create published novels in order to give you examples of how these techniques and tools work—and also to show that behind those perfect books you pick up at the bookstore lies a great deal of hard work, messy process, and flailing around. This book is designed to help you keep the flailing around to the minimum."

So, this is from the first section of the book.

To Find Time to Write Your Novel, You Must Make Time to Write

How do you find time to write the novels which are your vocation in the midst of job and career demands, family and housework demands, community and societal demands? When everyone else expects so much from you that there’s nothing left for your own dreams, what can you do about it?

First, we have to change our terminology from “finding time to write” to “making time to write.” The sad truth is that no one finds time to write. There aren’t big pockets of time just lying around waiting to be picked up and used in most of our lives. For most of us, we’ll have to give up some comfort or pleasure to make real time to write—in some cases, to make any bits of time to write at all.

The first step is to make the decision to own your own life. Time is not a commodity--the time we’re talking about is the substance of your life. When it’s gone, so are you. If you want to write anything, you have to claim your own life and find out what you want.

How do you find those pieces of time and the regular schedule for writing that leads to a body of work? The trick is to create order and make a tourniquet for a time hemorrhage, but first you must destroy all of those 'shoulds' and 'what will people thinks' that are standing in your way. Make it easy on yourself by asking for help and accepting help when it’s offered to you. Take the time to de-stress. When you’re not frazzled by stress, you’ll find it easier to set limits and boundaries and hold to them.

Whenever you find your desk or day becoming chaotic, take time to reorganize. It will repay in more time that you can steal for your illicit love affair with the novel. To make sure you stay on track with those things that absolutely must be done, make a brief list of the way your time was spent at the end of each day and week. Check it for places where you abandoned time reserved for writing or other truly necessary tasks to engage with lower priority urgencies or comfort activities. After a disastrous day, sit down with a notebook and figure out how to handle things differently if you face the same situations again. Review the situation and just what happened step by step, pinpointing the spot(s) at which you could and should have made a different decision or taken a stand against someone else's urgency with your time. Figure out a strategy for dealing with this situation when it next arises, and write it down. Then forget the day and relax.

Worrying about the myriad things, some great but most small to tiny, that we must take care of wears us down. When you find yourself doing this rather than being able to write or revise the passage you want to work on, keep an ongoing master list and write down each task or obligation the moment you think about it. Get it out of your head and onto paper to free your mind and stop the energy drain. Then, later, you can decide which tasks can be delegated to someone else and arrange the remaining tasks in the order that will allow them to be done quickest and most easily.

We can also free up energy by developing habits and systems to take care of the mindless stuff. We already do this every day, brushing teeth, driving to work, without having to make decisions for each tiny action that comprises these tasks. Develop a system for handling things that recur, and stick with it for twenty-one days. Then it will be a habit, and you can forget it and set your mind free to be more creative.

Much time use is sheer habit. Work smarter. Find the ways in which you want and need to spend time. Steal those minutes and hours from low-priority tasks. Break down everything on your to-do list into small tasks and estimate the minimum time to accomplish them. (Double all time estimates!) Schedule into your calendar. If they won't all fit in the time allotted, then something must go. Nothing is fixed in stone--renegotiate and eliminate whatever you can. Of the rest, what can you successfully delegate? It pays to invest time (and money, if possible) in training someone to do it.

Become assertive. Don't be afraid to approach someone with a request, and don’t take it personally if they refuse you. Learn to say 'no' kindly and firmly and to receive a 'no' without letting it affect your self-esteem or your relationship. Be secure.

Author of many published novels and teacher of writing, Holly Lisle, says it the best way I’ve ever seen it. “Realize that real writers who write multiple books and who make a living at it have systems they use. A process for brainstorming, a consistent way of outlining a story, a certain number of words or pages a day, a way of plotting, a way of revising, a way of finishing. Writing is work. It doesn't fall out of your head by magic. It doesn't just happen because you want it to.”

Linda Rodriguez's book, Plotting the Character-Driven Novel is based on her popular workshop. Every Family Doubt, her fourth mystery featuring Cherokee campus police chief, Skeet Bannion, will appear in June, 2017. Her three earlier Skeet novels—Every Hidden Fear, Every Broken Trust, and Every Last Secret—and her books of poetry—Skin Hunger and Heart's Migration—have received critical recognition and awards, such as Malice Domestic Best First Novel, International Latino Book Award, Latina Book Club Best Book of 2014, Midwest Voices & Visions, Elvira Cordero Cisneros Award, Thorpe Menn Award, and Ragdale and Macondo fellowships. Her short story, “The Good Neighbor,” published in the anthology, Kansas City Noir, has been optioned for film.

Gifts for Writers

by Sparkle Abbey

We wanted to do a little something different this year with our December post. Most everyone knows writers love notebooks, pens, and basic office supplies, but for those of you with a special writer in your life who are stumped for gift ideas beyond the usual, we’ve got 5 suggestions ranging from $10 to $500.

Aqua Notes –The best ideas come in the shower...or when we’re folding laundry. With these bad boys, that special writer in your life will never forget that amazing idea that popped into their head in the middle of lathering up.  Possible side effect:  A “To Do” list waiting for that special someone who was waiting to use the shower.

Storiatrs Fingerless gloves – You’ve probably seen these on your Facebook Feed…or maybe you haven’t if you’re not a writer. These fabulous gloves keep a writer’s hands warm, while keeping their fingers free to fly across the keyboard. What makes these gloves special is that they’re covered in text from classic novels.  Storiarts also carries scarves, T-Shirts and pillow covers.

Coffee shop gift card – You’ve seen the memes, “Coffee: The official Fuel of Writers,”  “One simply does not start writing without coffee,” “Writer on deadline, please send coffee.” Not only do writers love their coffee, they love their local coffee shops.  Writing at a coffee shop can be productive, provides a time limit to meet their word count, and is great for people watching. A gift card to their favorite coffee shop is always a winner!

Noise canceling headphones – Writers can be easily distracted, but once we’re in our fictional world we’re great at blocking the real world around us. Help the writer in your life focus on putting words on the page with a pair of noise cancelling headphones. Whether they listen to music or peace and quiet, a pair of these can help with their productivity. C/Net ranked the best noise cancelling headphones of 2016. If those are out of your price range, here’s a list of options from Amazon.

Standing desk – As a writer, we spend a lot of time BICHOK-ing (bottom in chair, hands on keyboard). The medical community has shouted at us for years that too much sitting is bad for our health. Maybe it’s time to consider a standing desk.  Now, before you whip out that credit card and spend a large sum of money on our well-intentioned suggestion, you might want to consider gently probing your writer if this is something they’re interested in. Swapping out sitting all day for standing all day isn’t necessarily the best idea. It might be better to ease into it by alternating between sitting and standing. There are a number of standing desks on the market.  We suggest Googling “Height-Adjustable Standing Desk” and find the best option for your writer.

So those are our top 5 picks. 

Okay, we have one more idea. If these aren't creative enought for you, check out Etsy for some unique and fun ideas. Etsy has everything from bookmarks, to mugs, to Jewelry.

As for our fellow writers, if there’s a gift out there you’re just dying to receive, let us know. We might be interested too!

Sparkle Abbey is the pseudonym of two mystery authors (Mary Lee Woods and Anita Carter). They are friends and neighbors as well as co-writers of the Pampered Pets Mystery Series. The pen name was created by combining the names of their rescue pets--Sparkle (Mary Lee's cat) and Abbey (Anita's dog). If you want to make sure you're up on all the Sparkle Abbey news, stop by their website and sign up for updates at sparkleabbey.com.