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ATTENTION: Before Reading, get information about the Great Blog Voice Experiment here.
The topic: “A young woman confronts her parents after discovering she has inherited telekinetic powers.”
____________________
The best thing about Botox is that it makes people incapable of looking as angry at you as they are. My dad rallied, but the most he could muster was a little twitch around the eyebrow region.
“So.” He tilted forward on his leather executive chair and steepled his hands on the carved teak desk. “Care to explain what that was all about?”
I picked at a cuticle and shrugged. “Was kind of hoping you and mom would fill in the blanks for me.”
My mother, beside me on the couch, touched my arm gently. Her fingers felt coarse and callused against my skin. There were tired lines around her eyes and her lipstick had long since worn away. How different she looked from my father, whose face was as smooth (and almost as orange) as a Jack O’Lantern.
“Sweetheart, I know it’s difficult for you these past few months, but your father and I—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Gabrielle interrupted. She pointed at me with a wickedly long, wickedly red fingernail. “Steve, your adult daughter is a menace, not some kid playing a prank because her parents split up. My maid of honor is in the hospital and you two want to treat this girl like she’s a six-year-old who broke her sister’s Barbie!”
“She’s practically a Barbie,” I grumbled. And Gabrielle could have been my sister.
What kind of person dressed for their engagement party like they were strolling Hollywood Boulevard in search of johns? My ersatz stepmom wore a miniskirt cut so high on the bottom and so low on top that I’d wear it as a belt, and her brand new double D’s (25th birthday present from my dad) strained credibility and the flimsy knit material of her tube top.
Above her, my dad’s largest golfing trophy wobbled precariously on its shelf. Ah, looks like I was getting my strength back.
“What I want to know,” my mom said, “is why you people think my 110 pound daughter could topple a thousand-pound ice sculpture.”
“She confessed.”
My mother turned to me, incredulous, which meant it was time for another shrug.
“I confessed.” Wobble wobble wobble. I wondered idly if the trophy would land golfer-up or golfer-down, and, if the latter, if it would puncture Gabrielle’s thick skull. (Hey, don’t look at me. My power apparently has a mind of its own, and a vengeful one at that. ) “You guys would have figured out what happened eventually, seeing as how I’ve been 20 for three weeks.”
My dad shook his head, but his expression never wavered. “What are you talking about?”
“The gypsy at my birthday party. She said I’d inherit my family’s telekinetic powers at 20, and ever since hitting the big 2-0, it’s been Poltergeist in my apartment. I can’t control it. And obviously you guys can. So I want to know how. How do you keep getting all those holes in one, Dad? I turned to my mom. “How are you really weaving all those tapestries?”
For the first time in months, my parent’s eyes met, and, Botox be damned, the expression on my dad’s face was every bit as shocked as my mom’s.
“Um, Gabriellle?” my dad said. “Can you excuse us for a moment, please?”
She threw her hands in the air. “Fabulous! You want me to live with fucking Carrie for a stepdaughter, but I don’t get a say in it. Three words, Steve: Breach. Of. Contract.”
A moment after she left, the marble golfer toppled. Damn. I’d have to work on my timing.
We all three stared at my father’s wreck of a trophy. Then my dad cleared his throat. “You really inherited uncontrollable telekinetic powers?”
“Duh.”
He slammed his fist down. “I knew we got a bargain for a reason. Fine, we weren’t good candidates, but look what you get on the black market!”
“Steve—” my mom said, in that difficult voice.
“No, I knew it. I just knew it. Didn’t I say that we should shop around?”
“What?!?” I looked at my mom.
“Here’s the thing, honey,” my mom said gently. “If you inherited anything, it wasn’t from us.” She bit her lip. “You’re adopted.”
__________________________
Watch for Diana Peterfreund’s debut, Secret Society Girl, out this July from Delacorte Press.
ATTENTION: Before Reading, get information about the Great Blog Voice Experiment here.
The topic: “A young woman confronts her parents after discovering she has inherited telekinetic powers.”
________________________________________
Lindsey stormed into the living room, where her parents sat doing the only thing she knew—or wanted to know—they still did together. As always, Dad kept the remote aimed at the TV, ready to shoot channel-changing lasers at the first hint of boredom.
She closed her eyes, clenched her fists, and tensed all over as she concentrated on that one little button on the remote. Mute . . . mute . . .
Mute mute mute mute—
Her heart leaped and her eyes flew open as the TV fell silent.
“What the—?” Dad sat up, the remote tumbling to the floor as he glared at Mom. “Honey, please don’t tell me you did it again? I know Bill O’Reilly can be annoying sometimes, but occasionally he does make a good—”
“No, I did it,” Lindsey cut in. “So Heather was right! I do have telekinetic powers!”
Mom looked as if she were competing for the title of Ms. Nonchalance. Yeah, right. Last time she’d vied for that honor was right after the Goodwill truck had been to their house, and Lindsey asked Mom if she’d seen lumpy old Mr. Snuffles, who’d mysteriously vanished from his usual spot on her pillow.
Dad said, “Lindsey, haven’t we told you not to believe everything your sister says?”
“Nice try, Dad. This isn’t like the time she told me you ordered her out of the Neiman-Marcus catalog, while you got me at a PTA white elephant sale.” And that, Heather had added, was why Lindsey had such a big butt. “She says we inherited telekinetic powers. And I just proved it. I used those powers to mute the TV. Hey, I can use them to clean my room! Why didn’t you tell me before?”
Mom sighed. “That’s the downside. You can use them to mute the TV, rearrange furniture, and even reduce great cathedrals and palaces into rubble. But for some reason, they’re utterly useless against dirty socks and wet towels. And dust.”
Lindsey went limp, gaping back in dismay.
Mom gifted her with a rueful smile. “I know what you’re thinking. So what’s the use of having telekinetic powers at all?”
“That is what I’m thinking,” Lindsey said with a whimper.
Her mother stood up and hugged her. “Welcome to womanhood, darling!”
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For more information about Karen’s regency romantic comedy, visit http://karenlingefelt.com. Her uproarious debut, True Pretenses, is available now!
ATTENTION: Before Reading, get information about the Great Blog Voice Experiment here.
The topic: “A young woman confronts her parents after discovering she has inherited telekinetic powers.”
______________
Christina Robicheaux had been in trouble before but was willing to bet that this time her thirteen-year-old hiney wouldn’t recover in time for church on Sunday. She’d thought about how to explain the situation to her parents the entire afternoon – after IT had happened.
Since dark approached and being late for dinner would only add to her problems, she headed out across the marsh to her family’s cabin on the bayou. As she walked in the kitchen, her mom sat rolls on the table and smiled. “Perfect timing.”
Christina nodded. “Is Dad here?”
Her mom gave her an odd look, but then it was sort of an odd question. At this time on a Friday evening, her dad was always in his recliner. “He’s in the living room. Why?”
Before she could change her mind, Christina blurted out, “There’s something I need to tell you both.”
Her mom looked a bit worried but set her potholder on the counter and smoothed her apron. “Well, might as well be now.” She gestured to the door and Christina walked through, already cringing from what would most certainly be her dad’s wrath.
WWF was to her dad’s liking at the moment, so at least the timing was as good as it could get. He looked up from the television as they entered the room and frowned. “Isn’t it time to eat?”
Her mom nodded. “Yes, but Christina wanted to tell us something.”
Her dad grunted. “Well, go ahead, girl. Food’s getting cold.”
Christina took in a giant breath, letting it out with the words she’d been dreading. “It finally happened.”
“You made the football team?” her dad asked.
“A boy asked you out?” her mom followed.
“A boy better not ask her out!” her dad boomed.
“Wait!” Christina put up one hand to stop the barrage. “I mean IT finally happened.”
They both stared for a moment, confused expressions on their faces, then slowly they changed – her mom’s into a broad smile, her dad’s into a scowl.
“Well, hell,” her dad complained. “This is what I get for marrying a voodoo queen.”
Her mom grabbed her in a hug and kissed her check. “That’s great darling. What can you do? I’m sure it’s something wonderful.”
Her dad gave them a derisive look. “Your son belches blue daisies. I hardly call that wonderful.”
Her mom frowned. “Rob is very artistic – and he’s your son too.”
“If he was my son, he’d belch black and red number 3’s,” her dad mumbled.
“So what can you do?” her mom asked, completely ignoring her dad and his lack of “artistic” appreciation.
Christina sighed. “I can shoot lightening out of my hands.”
There was dead silence for a moment and Christina was certain that no one breathed. Two pairs of wide eyes stared at her, waiting for the punch line that wasn’t going to come.
Finally, their expressions reversed, her mom’s into a frown and her dad’s into a huge grin. “Well, hell that is wonderful,” he said. “How did it happen? Not at school, right?”
“No,” Christina rushed to reassure them. “After school. I got my new t-shirt caught on a piece of metal and it ripped. I got angry and when I stared at the metal, a bolt of lightening came out of my hand and blew it to bits.”
Her mother sucked in a breath. “I don’t know about this. It’s a great ability, but it seems so dangerous. Maybe there’s something I can do to tone it down a bit.”
Her dad bolted up from his chair and threw one arm around Christina. “The hell you will. Deer season starts tomorrow. Do you have any idea how handy this will be?” Her dad beamed at her and squeezed her shoulders tightly and for the first time in her life, Christina had her dad’s approval.
It shouldn’t have mattered. Her dad had always been distant, more a minor participant in his children’s lives than a parent. But the overwhelming happiness she felt from finally pleasing him made her proud and giddy all at the same time. She couldn’t help but relax against her dad’s embrace and enjoy the moment. Maybe tomorrow she’d tell him that piece of metal she’d destroyed was his brand new bass boat.
After she lit up Bambi.
__________________________________________
To read more of Jana DeLeon’s hilarious southern fiction, visit http://janadeleon.com, and watch for RUMBLE ON THE BAYOU, available October, 2006.
So a few weeks ago, there was a flurry of posts on the lit blogosphere reacting to complaints about similar stories by different writers. This is what happened: a reader (Amazon reviewer) or similar would write a scathing piece about how Story A was a total “ripoff” of Story B, usually based on such flimsy evidence as they were both “futuristic lady cops” or “Beauty and the Beast” stories. Occasionally, writers themselves would get in on the action, wondering why the story they had just sold was so wildly similar to another story recently sold to another house by a stranger. Writer reaction to these statements of concern about “ripoffs” and “stealing” were vehement.
“I say the concept of every romance novel is a woman and man who are attracted to each other and eventually end up together. It’s the journey to the end that’s different. It’s the dialogue, the tone, the setting, the characters and their pasts. It’s the voice. Every story has already been written. All I can do is put my own twist on it. Same with other authors.” — Gena Showalter
“My point is…this is a perfect example of how very similar ideas are out there, floating in the muse-ether as I call it, and yet can be executed totally differently. I always hear that there are only a handful of original plots and all stories are some version of those (Beauty and the Beast theme, the Quest theme, Cinderella theme), and it’s true!” — Susan Grant
“I’m weary of seeing Amazon posts where “reviewers” toss accusations of copycatting around freely. In this current market, there are particular types of books that are selling; that’s what editors want. That’s what reader’s want. It doesn’t make the authors’ works derivative. Nor are they writing in a vacuum—they are a product of their times (pop culture, novels, media) like every other author alive right now. Naturally their work bears the stamp of the times within which they live.” — Deidre Knight
“Hello….anyone want to compare that theme to countless others out there? Anyone want to start bitch slapping me for stealing an idea thought up by someone else? Or lots of way famous someone else’s.” — Jaci Burton
The prevailing attitude in these posts is that every story has already been written, and it’s the characters, the nuances, the voice, whatever, that sets them apart from one another, and that there seems to be a group subconscious where complete strangers simultaneously come up with the same idea.
So I thought I’d run an experiment — I’d give a variety of authors the same basic scene structure and let them run with it, and see how many different takes we could get based on the writers’ vastly different writing styles. I got this idea first from the above posts, and second from a fabulous article by Julie Leto called “Ditching ‘The Book of Your Heart’ for ‘A Book of Your Voice,’” which I know I’ve lauded before on this blog, but really, I can’t say enough about this article, and how there are so many brilliant facets to it.
In the article, Leto mentions that a good way to discuss what voice is is to get a bunch of authors to write the same scene to see how differently each person handles the same material. I decided to give it a whirl. I picked authors from a variety of gernes, authors with very strong, individual voices. Almost everyone jumped at the chance. No one knew who else participated, or got to see another person’s scene before they wrote their own.
I asked them all to write a scene on the following topic:
“A young woman confronts her parents after discovering she has inherited telekinetic powers.”
Unfortunately, looking back on it with my fabulous 20/20 hindsight, I realize that the design of my experiement was mildly flawed. Perhaps it was because I asked these writers to write the scene for me, or maybe, as one participant noted, it was because I used the word “parents,” but almost every participant wrote me a contemporary young adult piece, even if that meant straying from her genre of choice. As one participant said when I expressed surprise at her choice, “I wanted to do something erotic but … the words “young woman” and “confronts her parents” made me feel like I was being a pervert.” Another told me that she couldn’t imagine putting parents in a book that wasn’t young adult, even when I reminded her that her upcoming adult romance featured several scenes of her heroine confronting her parent. ::shrug::
However… and this just goes to show you the value of this experiment, I think you’ll be surprised at how much indivduality manifests itself in these scenes –even though many are in the same genre. So perhaps this turn of events actually made my experiment more relevant. Instead of superficial differences like “she is confronting her parents in ancient Hibernia” or “she is 50 and confronts her 90 year old parents” we have much deeper variations in theme and make up.
But we also have some similarities. I vacilated quite a bit between wanting to group the entries according to their similarities or according to their differences. And I finally decided that it would be most amusing and most valuable to show the differences within superficially similar scenes. Remember, no participant knew what another was going to write.
I would like to take this opportunity to express my utter gratitude to all of the participants in the Great Blog Voice Experiment (hereinafter GBVE). I totally owe you guys drinks. You completely blew me away with the scope of your entries, your talent, and your willingness to take time out of your writing to play on my blog.
So, here’s the way it’s going to work. Each day this week, I will post two or three scenes. All work belongs to the author and may not be reproduced. Enjoy, and tell your friends!
And now, without further ado, may the Great Blog Voice Experiment begin…
Part 1 – TV NITE: Karen and Jana
Part 2 – SOME PARTY: Diana and Marley
Part 3 – AT ANY PRICE: Rachelle and Shannon
Part 4 – PATRICIDE: Jennifer and Karmela
Part 5 – DINNER TABLE: Wendy and Sasha
Part 6 – OUTER LIMITS: Colleen and Nalini
Good luck to everyone awaiting a Golden Heart or Rita call! Don’t spend too much time chewing your fingernails. Being a finalist is an amazing and incredible accomplishment. Not being a finalist doesn’t necessarily mean a thing. One of my critique partners finalled with one of her books, which is very well written, but not with another one, which I think is one of the best novels ever printed on paper. The same book that won me a Maggie Award got a one in the Golden Heart, and the same one that won a Molly… look, I almost never got a decent score in the Golden Heart Contest, and I still sold the crap out of my book. So there’s a chance for you anyway. 
In other news, we have another quote for Secret Society Girl:
Chick-lit heads off to the Ivy League in Diana Peterfreund’s superfun, supercool debut novel, Secret Society Girl. Of course, I’d like to tell you all the reasons why I loved it, but then I’d have to kill you…
~ Lauren Baratz-Logsted, author of The Thin Pink Line and A Little Change of Face
Watch out, ladies and gents, I’m on a real tear tonight! I was going to do a fun little meme but I’m not in the mood.
So this evening I got an email from the RWA National Board saying that, despite what I was told last year at this time (okay, eleven months ago) when I sold my book, I am *not* eligible to be a member of RWA PRO and have not been since I contracted my book. You see, according to the bylaws, as soon as I sell a book, I’m “PAN eligible” (though I argue that I am no PAN eligible, but only provisionally PAN eligible) which means that I’m kicked off the very active, useful, interesting, knowledgable, fun group of “PRO” (i.e., uncontracted but professional aspiring and small-press published) writers and shuffled off as a “provisional” member of the dead-as-a-doornail silent group of PRO members, who, in the last two months, have had exactly two conversations: one about baby kicks, the other about hotels near the conference in Atlanta.
Yes, this is useful information to me. And I’m sure this is useful information to people who have made their first sale and are looking for agents, or who are trying to turn their paltry one book deal at one house into a multibook deal at another house. After the announcement on the PRO Loop today, other recently sold members came on and said that they got all their useful info from PRO, that they neeed the helpful guidance of experienced members of PRO to find agents, deal with editos, talk about craft… and were told that they’d find much better info about finding an agent from the silent silent PAN loops, where, it appears, everyone either has agents or doesn’t want them (because they certainly never discuss them!) Other, uncontracted PROs came on and said it made no sense to them that the people who would be MOST USEFUL to them — i.e., the people who had just sold — were suddenly BANNED from giving out information about what had just happened to them?
WTF? Can anyone tell me why this makes a lick of sense? Can anyone tell me why the people that have the most to discuss about the process aren’t allowed to? Can anyone tell me why just contracted clueless newbies have less in common with small press published or teetering on the brink or agented or whatever “PROs” than they do with the old guard who have had everything together for the past few decades and really doesn’t want some newbie coming in and asking them what to do about finding an agent?
And, most importantly, if this is the policy, can anyone tell me why, for the many years I’ve been PRO, that there have been heaps of contracted members that remained part of the program up until the time their books hit the stands? Shall I name them all and get them in trouble?
I am SERIOUSLY distraught about this. I have been a fervent supporter of PRO since I’ve joined RWA, and I was even a PRO Liaison of my chapter last year (which, I heard obliquely, was apparently the reason I was given a pass), and I think this is the most blatant piece of bureacratic garbage that I’ve ever heard come out of the mouth of RWA, and, if you spend five minutes tottering about the blogosphere, you’ll see that they’ve come up with some real humdingers in the past year. And I just told the board liaison as much. I think the board liaison is a LOVELY woman, and she’s done a lot of wonderful things for PRO, and I really like her and support her a lot. I think, however, that this law is bullshit, and I’m going to fight against it.
For the good of all the suddenly contracted PRO members who need the good information they can get from PRO (say, the contracts bootcamp) about a billion times more than any staid discussion about baby kicks once every two months. We are in NO MAN’S LAND until our book comes out. We AREN’T in PAN, and the issues of PAN members are not all our issues. Sell through? we don’t even have a book to sell yet! But we’re to be shoved from the nest without any warning and forced into a group whose issues won’t even apply to us for another 18 months? Yeah, that’s a good idea.
For the good of the uncontracted PRO members, who are trying SO HARD to get to where the newly contracted are, who can benefit as much, if not more from the stories of people who actually made it across the invisible line. Yeah, let’s keep them from the people that have the most to tell them. Great plan.
And for the good of RWA as a whole, which is ready to bylaw itself into oblivion. I’m really interested to hear who suffers from the inclusion of contracted but unpublished writers in PRO. I haven’t heard an explanation yet. Just some whining about “why do you want to be with us when you can be with the big girls?” Um, because you guys are interesting talkative and knowledgeable and they aren’t?
My solution is simple — provisional PAN members are still PRO eligible. PAN members are not. So simple in fact, that for the past eleven months (since April 22nd, when the president of my chapter asked me to check) until now, I thought that was the way it was. And it’s the way it SHOULD be. In fact, I think that, on petition, any PAN member who wishes to remain a member of RWA PRO in, say, the position of mentor, should be allowed to do so. Tell me the downside. Published members being allowed to pass on their knowledge to PROs. Please, tell me why this is a bad idea. I’ll wait.
And if that doesn’t work, then I’ll argue tooth and nail that my book is not a romance, and therefore not PAN eligible. And then they can stuff it and I can stay in PRO forever.
But I hope it works, because this supposed current system isn’t helpful for anyone involved.
If you are an RWA member, please comment here or email me to weigh in on this situation. Once I calm down, Iw ill be able to formulate a rational argument to take to the board/write a letter to the RWR/present at the General meeting, whatever it takes. As I said, the board people have always been really lovely to deal with on PRO issues that I’ve taken to them as a PRO Liaison, and I really hope that they’ll listen to my arguments on this matter.
Update: Please do not send me emails explaining the rules to me. I know the rules. I think they suck. Also, I’m not really going to be around for the rest of the weekend (folks are in town) so don’t worry if I don’t respond to you. I will when I get back.
Hell yeah I am. I’d have eaten Nerfherder pies if I’d turned out any different.
Best. Kiss. Ever.
“I happen to like nice men.”
“I’m nice men.”
Mmmmmmmmmmm….
| Your Famous Movie Kiss is from The Empire Strikes Back |
 “Captain, being held by you isn’t quite enough to get me excited.” |
By the way, I’m going to be out most of the day. The ‘rents are in town and we’re doing the tourist thing. To amuse yourselves in my absence, go read the first novel exceprts posted by the commmenters in the posts below. V. Amusing. And if you like scary stories, read the post on agent poaching over at Kristin Nelson’s blog, Pubrants. A cautionary tale for all ages. I know a friend who succumbed tot his kind of talk and she was miserable until she could leave, and my favorite story ever involves another writer who received a visit from one of these scavengers who was obviously so clueless that she didn’t realize the writer was actually married to the agent she was trying to poach the writer away from. Yeah, that’s gonna happen.
A few weeks ago, the nice ladies over at Murder She Writes were discussing their first novels. Today, Gena Showalter and Jill Monroe blogged with excerpts from theirs. (Gena, I really don’t think yours was all that bad. And Jill. Well, you got much better!) So I thought I’d reach way, way WAY under the bed, brush off from dust bunnies, and share um, er, questionable choices I made with my first book.
Title: A Bride Walks Into A Bar…
Target Market: Harlequin Temptation
Score in Golden Heart Contest: Top 25% (which says a lot about the GH, since any halfway decent manuscript I sent them got ones and twos).
Rejections: One (and bless her for making it such a nice one!)
Prologue
The bride stood alone on the dimly-lit train platform. She clutched a small black evening bag and peered through her veil up and down the length of the chilly concrete station. No one had followed her off the train.
Thank God.
Jill Jensen gathered up her voluminous satin skirts and gingerly crossed over to the ramp leading into the parking lot. She stuck out like a sore thumb on the raised platform. It was almost as bad as the train itself. Worse – for here, Jill had no protection. If Anthony’s men found her now, she had no idea what they do to her. Samantha had led her to believe that these guys could get deadly if provoked, and she imagined that between her own subterfuge and the bride’s disappearance, Anthony and his cohorts were plenty provoked. She had to find a place to hide – quickly.
And dump this darn dress.
She looked down at the neighborhood with dismay. The station appeared to be located in some sort of business district. Dark office buildings lined the streets on either side of the station. There was a donut shop on one corner, but Jill doubted that the teenager she saw sweeping the floors inside would provide much protection. She needed a crowd. Preferably a large, intimidating crowd.
A neon sign flashed orange and pink reflections off the damp asphalt to her left. Perfect. Jill tried to make out the name of the establishment. Harvey’s Pub.
Not so perfect.
She remembered it well. The cozy atmosphere, the smell of hops and pretzels, the worn pool table and the friendly regulars. She remembered the dart games she’d always let him win, and the way his arm felt against the small of her back whenever he asked her if she’d like to order another round. If Jill didn’t know better, she’d think that she’d subconsciously chosen this train station, knowing that Harvey’s Pub would be a safe haven.
There was no way he would be in there. Whenever Jill thought of him, she imagined he lived in some artist colony out west, or maybe a loft in Greenwich Village. Still, maybe she’d find his uncle inside the bar. The elder Harvey had always liked her, and she could trust the old man to keep her humiliating secret. It would never do for him – for Nathaniel – to find out her most recent intrigue. He’d be more relieved than ever that he’d gotten out when he did.
Jill was grateful to whatever instinct had led her to keep her black, maid-of-honor mini-dress on underneath the gown. She could blend into a bar atmosphere easily in that get-up. And, if she played her cards right, maybe she could convince some of the men inside to stand up for her, should Anthony’s thugs make an appearance. She might not be as talented a flirt as Samantha herself, but Jill was confident she could hold her own, at least until Sam managed to get her act together and drive out to pick her up.
Jill unzipped her small black purse and whipped out a cell phone. Pushing her veil aside, she dialed the number her friend had given her for the hotel, but the phone wasn’t getting any reception.
“Connecticut,” she said in annoyance and stamped her heel, ignoring the way it made the crinolin shake like a top-heavy meringue. What else could possibly go wrong tonight? She caught sight of a pay phone at the edge of the platform, and rushed over, praying she’d find some change at the bottom of her purse.
No one picked up in the hotel room. Jill’s mind whirled with terrifying possibilities. Could Anthony have caught Sam after all? Oh, she never should have left New York.
The machine beeped, prompting Jill to leave a message for the room’s occupant. “Samantha, honey, it’s Jill. Look, I couldn’t meet you at the hotel. They followed me. I’m in Fairport, Connecticut, at a bar near the train station called Harvey’s Pub. My cell isn’t getting reception here, so call the bar. I need you to come pick me up, and the farther you get from New York, now, the better.” She paused, then added. “Some wedding night you’re having, huh?” Hanging up the phone, she squared her shoulders and looked over at the bar. Great, Jill thought.
Oh, Sam, what have you gotten me into? The most embarrassing moment in my life, and look where I’m forced to go for help.
Harvey’s. Just my luck.
_________
I would like to point out that this book did not originally have a prologue. I added one at the behest of a multipublished friend who thought that it was too confusing to have the story start with the bride actually walking into the bar. Bless her, nothing could have helped this one, but she was trying.
I almost wish that this was bad in a more humorous way, instead of just being dull and info-dumpy.
I still feel that the most humorous element of this story was its convoluted plot. To wit: Heroine is helping her friend escape from a marriage to a violent mobster by dressing up in friend’s bridal gown and pretending to be runaway bride in one direction, while friend escapes in another direction. Why heroine thought it would be a good idea to risk neck in this manner may never be discovered. Friend is further playing heroine for fool by using her (in dress) as a mule to smuggle out diamonds friend has stolen from violent mobster fiance and hidden in bridal dress. Some friend. Heroine, in doing her runaway bride routine, takes refuge at small Connecticut pub owned by family of heroine’s college boyfriend (enter hero), who of course had once dumped heroine due to Big Misunderstanding and also because of heroine’s flighty ways. Heroine is sure that hero does not work at bar anymore, and furthermore, that by entering ex-boyfriend’s family’s bar in wedding dress she will not cause a stir. Hero sees heroine in guise of runaway bride and assumes she is still flighty. However, he still loves her. And she still loves him. (It’s a Reunion story. Awwww.) But she’s pretending to be a runaway bride. Plus, the mobster reunites with his girlfriend and she tells him that the heroine stole the diamonds. (Again, some friend.) So then hero and heroine go on the run.
I think first books are so important. There are still things I love about this book (I had a sex scene on a pool table!), but the main thing I love is that it’s a whole book. A whole book I wrote. By the end of it, I had grown so much as a writer that I knew it would never fly, but I kept working on it anyway, and I finished it. And once I did that, I knew there was nothing that could stop me. I wrote a whole book. Now all I needed to do was write a whole good one, and I’d be golden.
I challenge the rest of you to blog about your horrid first books. And if you’re one of those precocious types whose first books were amazing and vaulted them into huge deals and onto prestigious lists, then, well, you can’t play, can you?
 As some of you noted in yesterday’s post, there is some very, very interesting signage Down Under. In fact, as I noticed this curious and entertaining phenomenon, I made it a point to take pictures of some of the fabulous signs we saw during out travels.
So today I am going to do a bit of boring you with pictures from my Antipodean Adventures. However, just to keep you on your toes, I’m going to bury some industry information in with the pictures. though mostly, just for fun. After all, this is Diana’s Diversions.
 Okay, first up, we have this little beauty. Now, as you all know, a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, the synopsis of those thousand words adds up to me saying “my sore ass that trail was 7.6 km! It was 15 if it was an inch, and I have the GPS tracking coordinates to prove it!”
Ahem, we later figured out that we’d done all of the trails listed on the sign without realizing it.
This was really early in our trip. By the end of the journey, we were thinking that 15 kilometeres was a bit of a wander, and didn’t even break a sweat ’til we hit thirty.
Which of course, ought to remind us all of those times when we think we understand what an editorial letter is saying, but can’t see the signposts because they’re hidden under all that bramble and head off on some completely overwrought rejection, when all they meant was “no, just a little less subtle on this page.” But then we learn our lesson. If we’re ever unclear about what we’re supposed to be revising, a question in time saves nine pages of rewrites.
 There are a lot of “danger” signs in Australia. Man, that’s a dangerous country. But don’t take my word for it. Ask Bill Bryson. He wrote a whole book about how deadly Australia is.
I wish I could show you how brilliant this whole picture is. The part I cut out showed Sailor Boy making a “shocked” face, but what the really fascinating thing about this shot is, almost directly beyond the trees are kids diving into the water exactly the same was the sign tells you not to. Come on, guys! It was using the international symbol for NO and everything!
And there have been drownings here, too. I can’t believe people would still be risking it.
This image reminds me of people who know better who still sign up with scam agents. People who act in ignorance I can understand. But it seems like everyday I hear another story of a person who you think is very savvy about this industry ignoring all advice, all warnings, all big freaking red signs in four languages as well as symbology telling you NOT to do something… because… why exactly? Because it looks like fun? Because you think that submerged rock and that strong current can’t hurt you? Or that maybe it can, but you just want to swim so badly, you’ll do anything, even this. Hmmm…
(For the record, we kept hiking until we got to the approved swimming hole.)
Moving on. Here I am at the Christchurch Anarctic Research Center, where they have a blizzard room to test your mettle against the elements of the harsh South Pole.
Have I mentioned recently what a Floridian, warm-weather wimp I am? Cold is so not my thing. I could never spend a season in Antarctica, like Liz Maverick did.
I can’t believe i managed to smile so widely for this photo. If you look closely, you can see that it’s a little over one degree Farenheit in there, and the wind is blowing! This is why my hood is up. If you could see Sailor Boy, you’d see that his hood is down. He’s standing on the Celsius side.
This picture reminds me that it’s never possible to achieve great undertakings without taking enormous risks and putting yourself through, yes, some pain. The pain of cold nights, cold rejections, cold, penguin-slaying blizzards roaring across the plain… if you want it, you gotta fight the terror of the most desolate place on earth and emerge victorious in the Antarctic dawn.
At least, I’m sure that’s what I would have thought if I’d actually been in Antarctica, rather than just in a simulation at a museum.
But there was one sign that beat all others. One sign that proved the epitome of all signs, everywhere. One sign that, thereafter, Sailor Boy and I took as our own, personal mottos:
 I’m having one of those days where I feel very dull and uninspired, and it’s at times like these that I feel the overwhelming urge to remind myself of more interesting times.
Unfortunately, most of the times that are most interesting don’t have pictures associated with them.
And they’re in the dark.
But enough about me and my spelunking adventures ::vbg::
Here’s a snap of me in the next best thing to a cave: an ice crevasse on the Fox Glacier in South Island, New Zealand. Ooh, ahh… That was quite the adventure, let me tell you. Sailor Boy and I got separated up because he manages going uphill on any surface, ice or otherwise, much more quickly than I do, so he’s in none of these pictures (which is just the way he likes it), and my shining achievement during the whole hike was when I almost knocked my jaw off with my ice pick. (This shot was taken pre-ice pick, btw. I didn’t smile afterwards, that’s for damn sure. And I ate nothing but ice cream for a few days. Fortunately, New Zealand has the best ice cream flavor in the world. It’s called hokey pokey and I miss it terribly. It’s sweet vanilla ice cream with bits of butterscotch toffee in it. (Nalini? Back me up, chica.)) Actually just writing about this, I can remember the way the clang of the pick reverberated through every bone in my head, the way my gums bled, the way… Okay, I’m going to stop with this talk and go back to the less nauseating one about that butterscotch toffee ice cream now.
I think I’ve been pretty good at not forcing everyone I know (and that includes you, blog readers) to hear exhaustive stories and look through endless photo albums of my travels, back when I was a young, swinging, mid twenty-something with a backpack and hitchiker’s thumb.
The fact that I’ve been so damn nostalgic this weekend is probably a hint that I’m overdue for a bit of a vacation, don’t you think? My other clue that I need some time off is that this was my third attempt at a blog entry, and the first two turned into such outrageous blatherings that I didn’t think I could even post them as rants and get away with it. I need to unplug for a bit, I think. Unwind. Picture soothing, ice blue walls to hike through. My thoughts have been so scattered recently. If I were a computer I’d think it was time for defragmentation.
But it might just be a “spring thaw” situation.
In which case, watch out for avalanches.
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In other news, we’re gearing up for something really special here at Diana’s Diversions, and I’m sure my next week, the malaise will have passed and I’ll be all set to unveil the project to the world.
(Marley assures me that this is all due to something called Mercury Retrograde which is apparently over next weekend. So that’s good news, huh?)
But meanwhile, for this week, if anyone has any truly brilliant blog topics, let me know.
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