Too Soon or Too Late?

I recently met someone who shyly admitted she wanted to become a romance writer. She mentioned she'd written several beginnings, endings, and partial drafts (I so resembled this not too long ago), has more ideas than time to write them all (ditto), and although she is aware of RWA (Romance Writers of America) and similar organizations, did not yet feel comfortable making that plunge.

I, too, had been Exactly Like That. (I'd actually paid money to join both RWA and my local chapter TARA, but didn't actually get up the gumption to attend a meeting for a full calendar year.)

So then I, in my typical world domination mindset bossy style, set about delivering two pieces of unsolicited advice:

1) Finish a book. Any book. It's OK if it sucks.

2) Join a writing chapter. And, yanno, take advantage of it.

I was pretty proud of myself for a while there. Those were my two best pieces of advice overall (for any writer, regardless of genre) and would've totally changed my life if I myself had followed the suggestions years earlier.

But. (You knew there'd be a but, right?) Later I got to thinking... Yanno, she's probably trying to do #1. If she were a painter and I walked in on her laying down the background in oils, and I said, "You know what? I think you should go ahead and put the foreground in when you're done with that background stuff." I would look like a complete ass, right? It's not like finishing a book hadn't occurred to her. For all I know, she's on page 399 with two paragraphs to go.

As to advice #2, I probably felt so strongly because I had gone through the same thing--I was under the misconception I needed to finish a book before becoming the tiniest bit active in my chapter, or they wouldn't believe I was a Real Aspiring Author. That first book would've been sooo much better if I would've gone to a few workshops during its conception and first draft(s) (which is what prompted the unsolicited advice to join! join! join!) but would it have been salable? Meh, prolly not.

At this point, I began to think maybe I should've kept my big fat mouth shut and let her do her thing (which she will undoubtedly do anyway) and pursue her goals at her own pace. What's best for me isn't necessarily best for everyone else and all that. (Awww, life lesson.)

YOUR TURN: What do you think? Big mouth shut next time? Are there other (better?) things I should say in the future when I run into an aspiring author at those very early stages? Please give me your suggestions!

Book Clubs: Good or Evil?

Some writer pals of mine are planning on starting a sort of book club, wherein each person gets to suggest one month's book, everyone reads it (even if they've already read it, so as to have everything fresh in mind), and then the group discusses the book from a craft angle (as opposed to the more traditional read-it-as-a-reader perspective). What worked, and how the author made it work. What didn't work, and what the author might've done differently to make the story more effective.

Being a one-time craft book addict (and online craft class addict) all this sounds mighty tasty to me. (Organizational headaches aside re: how to get a group of active, day-job-having writers together in person once a month.)

Then again, while I've never been part of a book club or anything of its ilk (unless you count my BMG cassette tape club membership back in the 80s) I've been a member of many group/team projects where well-meaning discussions turn from productive to pyrotechnic when differences in opinion collide.

For better or for worse, I'm interested to see how all this shakes out from both a sure-hope-I-improve-my-craft perspective as well as a kind of psychological experiment perspective. Readers tend to have strong opinions. Should be interesting, to say the least. I'll let you know how the first meeting goes...

YOUR TURN: Ever been part of a book club, either as a reader or as a writer? If not, ever been a member of any other kind of club? Any suggestions for making the improve-your-craft book club a raging success?

P.S.
Totally OT: Just saw The Happening night before last. Anybody else see this? Without giving any spoilers (please), I'm super-curious what you thought about the movie.

P.P.S.
No recent snake sightings! Yay!

Snakecitement!

So, today the phone rings for a client conference call while I'm in my bedroom doing my post-Lasik eye drop thing. (My mom is in town for a month to act as driver anytime I'm drugged/blind.) I run to get the phone, realize there's a TWO FOOT SNAKE slithering down the middle of my hallway, reflexively leap into the air to clear the snake, do a barefoot skid-land into my office, pick up the phone, yell, "Call me back--there's a creepy black snake coiled next to my foot!" and slam down the phone.

Then I freak.

I freak quietly and inwardly, as that is my freaking style. The snake pauses, twelve inches or so from my bare toes, and eyes me, as if to say, "Well? I'm here. Whatcha going to do about it?"

I think for a minute and come up empty. So I call out to the living room, "Hey, Mom? There's a, ah... snake. In the hallway."

Mom freaks.

She does not freak quietly and inwardly, as that is not her freaking style. The snake does not continue pausing, and decides to also freak.

In the direction of my bedroom.

I upend my office trash can and race after it with dreams of trapping it inside, only to arrive in my bedroom just as the snake slithers into my closet and across my favorite high-heeled sandals. A four-letter F word may have been spoken at this point.

Mom arrives with a cardboard box and a tennis racket, and continues freaking.

I slam the closet doors shut and phone a friend.

J: Hola?
E: There's a giant snake in my house.
J: What?
E: Snake. Big. Here.
J: What are you going to do?
E: I called you.
J: What should I do?
E: Get it. Now. Please.
J: I'll be right over.
[click]

I turn to Mom, and tell her that J (the guy I've been kind of sort of maybe dating) is leaving school to come deal with the snake issue. She nods and starts to say something calm and rational (let's give her benefit of the doubt, shall we?) but then suddenly points behind me and screams.

As before, I freak. (Inwardly.)

The snake has poked his head out from beneath the closet door and is watching us. Mom shoves at it with the broom. It disappears back inside with my clothes. Joy.

The phone rings. My clients, trying again for their conference call. I inform them they have approximately 30 minutes before my personal snake charmer arrives to rid my house of reptiles, so they better talk fast. They do.

My cell starts ringing while I'm on the office line. It's J, so I hold the office line away from my ear with one hand and go ahead and answer my cell with the other.

E: Hola?
J: Are you okay?
E: Yes.
J: Did it bite you?
E: No.
J: Your mom?
E: She's fine.
J: Where's the snake now?
E: My closet.
J: ...Why?
E: I accidentally chased it there. Can I call you back?
J: I'll be there in 5.
[click]

Client call ends. Doorbell rings. I run to the door, bury my face in J's chest (he smells *really* good, btw) and order him to get rid of the snake before it touches all my clothes just like it touched my favorite shoes and I'm forced to set fire to my entire closet.

He kisses my forehead, pries me off his chest, and strides back to the bedroom, where Mom is still standing watch with a broom and a tennis racket and a generally terrified expression.

Mom starts babbling incoherently about how happy she is to see him because we are hopelessly snaketarded and have no idea how to get rid of the damn thing.

J flings open the closet door. Nothing. I hand him a flash light. There's the snake... dark eyes glittering in the furthest corner. Mom recoils in terror. J asks me for gloves. I dash out to the garage and grab a motley assortment, because how the hell do I know what kind of gloves are best for snake-catching? As I'm running back to the bedroom, I hear Mom screaming, "Hurry, Erica, hurry!"

I burst through the doorway and toss the gloves to J, who tosses most of them to the ground. He slips just one (the bright blue dishwashing-style glove, if you're curious) on his right hand. He lays down army-style, whistles to the snake, reaches inside the closet, scoops the snake into a box, takes it outside, and releases it by the neighbor's fence. (Not my nice neighbors. The other ones.)

Overcome with relief and gratitude, I reprise my throwing-myself-at-him maneuver, and Mom reprises her incoherent babbling. We continue in this vein until the snake finally disappears through the grass (away from the direction of my house).

Then J says, not only does he absolutely hate snakes with every fiber of his being, but that's the first time in his life he's been that close to one, let alone had to trap it with his hands.

And he totally dropped everything he was doing and ran over to help, leaving his books at the university still on the medical library table and everything.

Awwww. I'm kinda thinking he's a good guy.

But the real question is: Do my shoes now have snake cooties?

LASIK!!!

I can see cleeeeaaaarly now, the glaaaaaasses are goooooone...



Well, my glasses-glasses, anyway. I have these lovely space alien goggles to accent my outfits for the next 2 weeks. And yes, that is in fact blood giving that lovely dash of red to my eyeballs.

But my eyeballs are 20/15, baby! That's right, better than 20/20! And for a girl who can't even *remember* being able to see farther than a few feet away (the tip-off to my nearsightedness was when, at around 7yo, my mom asked me to look out the window and tell her the number of the neighbor's house, and my response was, "Houses have numbers?!?!") the experience of waking up able to see is craaaaaazy exciting!!!

Of course, I also get to have fun with three different kinds of eyedrops this week, too... antibiotic 4x day, prednisone anti-inflammatory every 2 hours, rewetting drops 1-2x per hour. Good times. (Especially the prednisone. It looks like milk, and makes me cry white tears. Which only accentuates the alien vibe I've got going on.)

The creepiest moments were during the surgery itself, which I'll only tell you about if you ask... Not sure your tolerance level for eyeball clamps that bruise your cornea and laser blasts that stink like burnt hair when they singe your eyeballs. (Oh--wait--I just told you. Heh.)

Anyhoodles, w00t w00t w00t! I even got a special card I can take to the driver's branch to say I don't need no stinkin' "special driving conditions" anymore. Yeehaw!!!

YOUR TURN: What's up with you? How was your weekend? Do anything for Father's Day? Cut any of your eyeballs with lasers lately? Don't I look fetching in safety glasses?

Fathomless...

...should be fathomful, right? Like, so many fathoms-full, you can't even fathom it? Fathom after fathom after fathom of fathomfulness? (...Who says fathom, anyway?)

/glances at clock

/realizes it's 2:30am and past time for bed

/sighs and pads off

Countdown to LASIK!!!

3.5 days...!!! Squeeeeeeee!!!!!

Quick poll: Do you wear glasses and/or contacts? (If so, do you prefer one over the other?) Know anyone who got LASIKed?

P.S.
Please do me a quick favor--my friend Carla Capshaw is doing her first MM guest blog about "The Call" over at ManuscriptMavens.com. Please go comment! She's even giving away lots of free books. =)

One of Life's Mysteries

As someone who (occasionally) plucks her eyebrows, I was just wondering... If you pull a hair out, root and all, how/why does it grow back? I mean, shouldn't I just have to do this once and be done with it? If I just trimmed my eyebrows, sure. I could see that. But if I'm yanking the whole thing out of the follicle...

You know, the more I talk about this, the more eyebrow-plucking is starting to gross me out.

None of this has anything to do with writing... Back to the batcave...

Irreconcilable Differences

x-posted from ManuscriptMavens.com

Today I want to talk about "irreconcilable differences" as it pertains to romantic conflict. The first time I heard this phrase was, I believe, in reference to a celebrity divorce in California. I remember thinking, "But what does that mean? Nothing happened?" and being flabbergasted by the whole concept. (Mind you, I was undoubtedly young at the time I first heard this phrase.)

As an adult, though, I'm beginning to see how supposedly small things can become greater than the classic "big" things like, say, cheating.

What if a slob and a neatnik fall in lurve? Match made in heaven, because he'll be right there to pick up after her everywhere she goes? Doubt it. As soon as the newness wears off, I bet the resentment sets in.

What if a recipe-collector and a frozen-pizza-burner fall in lurve? Fabulous because she can cook dinner every night and he'll be grateful he's no longer gnawing burnt frozen pizza? Maybe at first.

What about a party animal and a homebody? Are they good for each other? He'll help her discover her domestic side, and she'll help him connect to all the other humans roaming the planet? Or a recipe for daily arguments over whether TV reruns or happy hour is the better use of their time?

Compromise is key. Sure. We've all heard that. But some things aren't compromiseable because they're just part of our makeup. The homebody isn't wrong to be a homebody any more than the bubbly extrovert is wrong to be a bubbly extrovert. Why should either of them give up what they love being to become something they hate, just to "get along"? Then neither of them are happy, right?

My theory is this all goes back to what your mama told you as a kid: Be yourself. Much easier to get along with someone who views, interprets, and interacts with the world in the same manner you do.

Of course, if you're writing romance, it's never that easy...

YOUR TURN: What say you? Is there such a thing as irreconcilable differences? Is it a legitimate conflict? Is it an overcomable conflict? Can you believe in Happy Ever After for a couple whose world-views are fundamentally opposed? Why or why not?