Each of us has his or her own method for perfecting our stories once we finish writing them. I tend to write flat out with not much thought for word choice or detail. Then once I get the story down, I let it sit for a while, do something else for a few days. Later, when I go back to it, the story seems fresher to me. A lot of the time I will see things that I'd forgotten about.
This isn't always fun. Consider THE RUNAWAY HEIRESS. Poor thing, her parents died in a car accident when she was seven. No, nine. Wait a minute, eight! First of all, it surprised me that there were so many references to her age at the time of her loss. Second, why couldn't I make up my mind how old she was?
"Tell me the terms of the trust fund?" "What were the conditions of the trust fund?" "How does that trust fund work again?" Geez! Is the hero a complete moron??? I think he got it the first time, didn't he? Perhaps it was the author who didn't get it.
Where did she go to school? Yeah, I made the mistake of naming the all-girls' academy. But what did I name it? Where is the reference? Let's just call it "The Academy." How's that?
Her best friend Fran lives in a converted warehouse loft apartment. Either that, or she lives in a 1960s ranch-style house. Which is it? Make up your mind!!
And I won't even go into that whole issue with the curly quotes.
Well, you know what I'll be doing today. I hope you have a lovely day.
Delia
Friday, April 20, 2007
Thursday, April 19, 2007
In Dreams
Having finished the short story - finally! - and begun the polish on the Heiress, I was a little concerned because I didn't know what I was writing next. Usually I have the idea planted and growing while I'm finishing up the current project. Not this time.
My best friends have a dental practice. They get a jillion magazines a month, and every time I go in there, Jeanette makes me take a big stack of them home with me. She gives me things like Cosmo and Men's Health because sometimes the pictures are helpful. I've spent considerable time flipping through those slick shiny pages seeking inspiration. Nada.
My clock is set for six every morning. Sometimes I get up then; sometimes I hit snooze and sleep a few more minutes. Today I hit snooze. And I dreamed.
I was sitting in my grandmother's backyard under the pecan tree, writing in a spiral bound notebook. "And finally, you come home because this is where people love you."
All right, it isn't much, but it's a start. We have a heroine who grew up in a small town in Georgia. For some reason she left it. For some other reason, she came back. And it seems to me that she came back wounded because she wanted to be with people who loved her.
I was born in Thomaston, Georgia. Back then it was a small cotton-mill town. Now it's a suburb of Atlanta. But all of Georgia is a suburb of Atlanta these days. We moved to Florida when I was four. But we always went back. My grandparents lived there until they died. Every Mother's Day, every Thanksgiving, every summer, we were there. I know this town, and I know its people. This could be my next book. We'll see.
There are still many details to work out - who is the hero, for example? But at least I have something simmering. Now, back to the Heiress.
Have a great day!
Delia
My best friends have a dental practice. They get a jillion magazines a month, and every time I go in there, Jeanette makes me take a big stack of them home with me. She gives me things like Cosmo and Men's Health because sometimes the pictures are helpful. I've spent considerable time flipping through those slick shiny pages seeking inspiration. Nada.
My clock is set for six every morning. Sometimes I get up then; sometimes I hit snooze and sleep a few more minutes. Today I hit snooze. And I dreamed.
I was sitting in my grandmother's backyard under the pecan tree, writing in a spiral bound notebook. "And finally, you come home because this is where people love you."
All right, it isn't much, but it's a start. We have a heroine who grew up in a small town in Georgia. For some reason she left it. For some other reason, she came back. And it seems to me that she came back wounded because she wanted to be with people who loved her.
I was born in Thomaston, Georgia. Back then it was a small cotton-mill town. Now it's a suburb of Atlanta. But all of Georgia is a suburb of Atlanta these days. We moved to Florida when I was four. But we always went back. My grandparents lived there until they died. Every Mother's Day, every Thanksgiving, every summer, we were there. I know this town, and I know its people. This could be my next book. We'll see.
There are still many details to work out - who is the hero, for example? But at least I have something simmering. Now, back to the Heiress.
Have a great day!
Delia
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
It Always Begins Small...
Yesterday it was my turn to write at a group blog I belong to. It's called Goddesses of Storytelling, and you can read it here: http://goddessesofstorytelling.blogspot.com
I didn't set out to write about Virginia Tech, but when I sat down at the computer, I found I couldn't NOT write about it. These kinds of horrendous stories seem to sneak up on us because our minds won't let us think about the entire thing all at once. First we knew there had been a shooting in a dorm. Then we heard it might not be over yet. Next we knew there was gunfire in a classroom. The story came to us in little pieces.
Other disastrous events follow the same pattern. I was thirteen years old. My Algebra teacher had asked me to take some papers to the main office. As I walked back to the classroom, two boys were in the hall. One said to the other, "Did you hear? The president's been shot." Ridiculous, I thought. Those boys are just being silly. Minutes after I returned to the class, there was an announcement over the intercom system. President John F. Kennedy has been shot. Of course all classwork stopped. I remember my teacher speculating that this would have an impact on the stock market. I can't imagine why that was his thought, but we all react differently to things, don't we? Just minutes later, there was a second announcement. Our president was dead.
Twenty or so years later, I was standing at the end of my driveway with my toddler son in my arms. We always went outside when there was a NASA launch at Cape Canaveral. Even on the other coast, we could see the rocket boosters and the vapor trail in the bright Florida sky. He was squirming to get down. I was pointing at the widening plume of white smoke. Then suddenly the plume split and produced two separate arcs of white trail, now heading back down. This is wrong, I thought. It isn't supposed to look like this.
Jump forward about fifteen more years. I was in my office at my family's business. My sister called. She was on her way to the office and heard something weird on the radio. An airplane flew into the World Trade Center. How bizarre. Must have been one of those small private planes, we thought. Never crossed our minds that someone could orchestrate an attack of that scope and intensity.
This age of instant communication allows us to receive things in little pieces, little bits of information that we then piece together to make the whole picture. But always we find the human element, the emotion, the story behind the story. We must never forget in the face of great tragedy that we need to always be kind to each other, always show our feelings to our loved ones, always strive to make our world a better place.
Have a wonderful day. Hug someone you love.
Delia
I didn't set out to write about Virginia Tech, but when I sat down at the computer, I found I couldn't NOT write about it. These kinds of horrendous stories seem to sneak up on us because our minds won't let us think about the entire thing all at once. First we knew there had been a shooting in a dorm. Then we heard it might not be over yet. Next we knew there was gunfire in a classroom. The story came to us in little pieces.
Other disastrous events follow the same pattern. I was thirteen years old. My Algebra teacher had asked me to take some papers to the main office. As I walked back to the classroom, two boys were in the hall. One said to the other, "Did you hear? The president's been shot." Ridiculous, I thought. Those boys are just being silly. Minutes after I returned to the class, there was an announcement over the intercom system. President John F. Kennedy has been shot. Of course all classwork stopped. I remember my teacher speculating that this would have an impact on the stock market. I can't imagine why that was his thought, but we all react differently to things, don't we? Just minutes later, there was a second announcement. Our president was dead.
Twenty or so years later, I was standing at the end of my driveway with my toddler son in my arms. We always went outside when there was a NASA launch at Cape Canaveral. Even on the other coast, we could see the rocket boosters and the vapor trail in the bright Florida sky. He was squirming to get down. I was pointing at the widening plume of white smoke. Then suddenly the plume split and produced two separate arcs of white trail, now heading back down. This is wrong, I thought. It isn't supposed to look like this.
Jump forward about fifteen more years. I was in my office at my family's business. My sister called. She was on her way to the office and heard something weird on the radio. An airplane flew into the World Trade Center. How bizarre. Must have been one of those small private planes, we thought. Never crossed our minds that someone could orchestrate an attack of that scope and intensity.
This age of instant communication allows us to receive things in little pieces, little bits of information that we then piece together to make the whole picture. But always we find the human element, the emotion, the story behind the story. We must never forget in the face of great tragedy that we need to always be kind to each other, always show our feelings to our loved ones, always strive to make our world a better place.
Have a wonderful day. Hug someone you love.
Delia
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Whatever Happened to...
Suzanne Ashley?
You remember her, don't you? Famous romance novelist in the late eighties to early nineties? Okay, so I succumbed to the most popular procrastination technique of the twenty-first century writer - googling oneself. Only I didn't google my real name, or even my current pseudonym. I googled my old Harlequin name.
Yes, you can actually buy copies of my 1989 release with Silhouette from Amazon.com. Somebody had it listed for $18.00. EIGHTEEN DOLLARS!!!!!! My own MOTHER wouldn't pay that much for it!
I do know this, though: I have about twelve copies of it myself. I'm going to watch that site. If someone actually does pay that much for it, I'll be putting five or six copies up on eBay! Heck, I have it in three languages! Consider the possibilities.
I was thinking of adding a Suzanne Ashley page to my website, maybe making it a tribute page, something about how we all miss poor Suzanne. We hear she's still in a coma. Thing is, the population of people who would get that joke is very, very small. I may do it anyway, though. Just for fun.
So I found this one picture of the cover out there in the great World Wide Web:
Looks a little ratty, doesn't it? Then I realized (Remember, I'm blonde. Sometimes it takes a while) I could take a picture of one of my nice clean copies with my digital camera. How do you think that picture of the T-Bird got there? Duh!
You remember her, don't you? Famous romance novelist in the late eighties to early nineties? Okay, so I succumbed to the most popular procrastination technique of the twenty-first century writer - googling oneself. Only I didn't google my real name, or even my current pseudonym. I googled my old Harlequin name.
Yes, you can actually buy copies of my 1989 release with Silhouette from Amazon.com. Somebody had it listed for $18.00. EIGHTEEN DOLLARS!!!!!! My own MOTHER wouldn't pay that much for it!
I do know this, though: I have about twelve copies of it myself. I'm going to watch that site. If someone actually does pay that much for it, I'll be putting five or six copies up on eBay! Heck, I have it in three languages! Consider the possibilities.
I was thinking of adding a Suzanne Ashley page to my website, maybe making it a tribute page, something about how we all miss poor Suzanne. We hear she's still in a coma. Thing is, the population of people who would get that joke is very, very small. I may do it anyway, though. Just for fun.
So I found this one picture of the cover out there in the great World Wide Web:
Looks a little ratty, doesn't it? Then I realized (Remember, I'm blonde. Sometimes it takes a while) I could take a picture of one of my nice clean copies with my digital camera. How do you think that picture of the T-Bird got there? Duh!
It's a pretty nice cover, as eighties romance covers go. I would have preferred to have Fabio as the model, but this guy's not bad. I like that they worked the roses into it. And it looks like they're in Zachary's rooftop greenhouse. I suppose I filled out an art sheet for this. I don't really remember.
Hey, that reminds me! Somewhere I have a picture of me with Fabio! Stay tuned. That could wind up on the website too!
Have a great day.
Delia
Friday, April 6, 2007
Short Doesn't Mean Quick
...at least that's what I'm learning. Having finished the first draft of THE RUNAWAY HEIRESS, I put it aside for a bit to let it settle before I go back and tweak it. I know it needs a little work before I can submit it. So to keep myself busy while HEIRESS simmers, I thought I'd write a short story.
I've never attempted this form of fiction. You would think it's just like writing a novel only shorter, wouldn't you? It's not quite that easy.
First, I had that whole lotus issue (see the post below this one). I spent way too much time resolving that one. I'm happy with the way that's going, but there is so much more to deal with. The thing is, in a short story, every single word has to perform. There isn't room to ramble around. You have to be sharp and precise. So I find myself agonizing over each sentence. I've changed words more times than I care to think about. I've altered sentence structure to enhance the flow of things.
I've never attempted this form of fiction. You would think it's just like writing a novel only shorter, wouldn't you? It's not quite that easy.
First, I had that whole lotus issue (see the post below this one). I spent way too much time resolving that one. I'm happy with the way that's going, but there is so much more to deal with. The thing is, in a short story, every single word has to perform. There isn't room to ramble around. You have to be sharp and precise. So I find myself agonizing over each sentence. I've changed words more times than I care to think about. I've altered sentence structure to enhance the flow of things.
Then there's the research. Why-oh-why did I set out to write a short story set in Singapore? I've never been to Singapore! I wasn't entirely sure where it was on the map before I looked it up. Oh, yes, I knew it was "over there" in the vague direction of Kuala Lumpur, and other cities whose names roll off the tongue with the ease of dishes in a Chinese restaurant. But I'm learning so much! For example, chewing gum is not allowed in the Republic of Singapore. English is the official language of business. And not surprisingly, the potent cocktail Singapore Sling was invented there.
And if that weren't trouble enough, I made the main character a sailor. Cue Crosby, Stills & Nash, "I have been around the world." Yeah, that's about all I knew about that!
But it's fun, this learning process. I'm going to know a lot more about a lot of things by the time it's over. And that's always good.
Besides, tonight is the night we go to the Thai restaurant. Ah, the things we do for research!
Have a great day!
Delia
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
A Lotus-Covered Door
Truth in fiction. Is that possible? Fiction is by definition not fact. But we want it to be real, don't we? Even though it's made up, it has to be reasonable. Like, you wouldn't have a character get into the back seat of a T-Bird, right? There is no back seat, and even though this is fiction, it should be realistic, right?
So what am I to do with my lotus-covered door?
There is a song written in 1939 called "A Little Street in Singapore." It's been recorded by no less than Frank Sinatra and The Manahattan Transfer. And a great Hawaiian group that my Prince and I love called the Peter Moon Band. Every time I hear this song, I get a particular image in mind, and I wanted to write a short story around that image.
The second line of the song refers to "a lotus-covered door" which brings to my mind a heavy wooden door with lotus blossoms growing all around it, probably even cascading over the edges. It's a really pretty image. Too bad they didn't make it a jasmine-covered door. That would work.
I spent a little time with my good friend Google, checking out the lotus blossom. It's the same thing as a water lily. It grows in mud. The blossoms float on the top of the water. How does the lotus cover a door?
Not to change the subject, but I swear I'm going to name a character "Google" one of these days.
Back to the lotus. This has bothered me for two days. I even asked my girlfriend Jeanette, the resident gardening guru, and she suggested we go to a Thai restaurant for dinnner. Maybe someone there can offer some insight. Great idea. I've already made the reservations. In the meantime, I'm coming up with a different way to cover the door with lotus blossoms. Because I really love that phrase. I want it for the title of the story.
I'll let you know how it goes. And I'll bring back any leftovers from the Thai restaurant.
Have a great day!
Delia
So what am I to do with my lotus-covered door?
There is a song written in 1939 called "A Little Street in Singapore." It's been recorded by no less than Frank Sinatra and The Manahattan Transfer. And a great Hawaiian group that my Prince and I love called the Peter Moon Band. Every time I hear this song, I get a particular image in mind, and I wanted to write a short story around that image.
The second line of the song refers to "a lotus-covered door" which brings to my mind a heavy wooden door with lotus blossoms growing all around it, probably even cascading over the edges. It's a really pretty image. Too bad they didn't make it a jasmine-covered door. That would work.
I spent a little time with my good friend Google, checking out the lotus blossom. It's the same thing as a water lily. It grows in mud. The blossoms float on the top of the water. How does the lotus cover a door?
Not to change the subject, but I swear I'm going to name a character "Google" one of these days.
Back to the lotus. This has bothered me for two days. I even asked my girlfriend Jeanette, the resident gardening guru, and she suggested we go to a Thai restaurant for dinnner. Maybe someone there can offer some insight. Great idea. I've already made the reservations. In the meantime, I'm coming up with a different way to cover the door with lotus blossoms. Because I really love that phrase. I want it for the title of the story.
I'll let you know how it goes. And I'll bring back any leftovers from the Thai restaurant.
Have a great day!
Delia
Monday, April 2, 2007
Those Darn Kids!
That's what they seem like sometimes. Impudent children. Rebellious teenagers. A writer can have a love/hate relationship with his or her own characters. You start off with a clear idea in mind. You know exactly who they are and what they're going to do. Then all of a sudden they take off on some wild tangent you never dreamed them capable of pursuing.
Take Jake and Rebecca, for example. (I'll deal with them later for breaking into my blog.) When I first started writing this book, I had a pretty good idea of who she was. Upscale. A survivor. Someone who's dealt with her past and built on it. Jake wasn't quite as clear for me. All I knew was he'd somehow lost all that was important to him and he barely scratched out a living now.
Then Rebecca walked into his life, and he started calling her "doll." Just that one simple nickname defined his character for me. He's the kind I call the reluctant hero. He doesn't want to join the cause, but he can't abandon it either. Like Rhett at the end of the first reel. He'd rather be playing a civilized game of poker, but the war is raging. What's a man to do?
I love that kind of guy. Rough around the edges. But always, always unable to keep himself from doing the right thing, the noble thing. Even Rebecca gets it. She knows there's gold inside. It may take her a while to get to it, but just the promise is enough to keep her chipping away at his carved-in-stone exterior.
And nothing is appreciated if it comes too easily.
Right, kids?
Have a great day!
Delia
Take Jake and Rebecca, for example. (I'll deal with them later for breaking into my blog.) When I first started writing this book, I had a pretty good idea of who she was. Upscale. A survivor. Someone who's dealt with her past and built on it. Jake wasn't quite as clear for me. All I knew was he'd somehow lost all that was important to him and he barely scratched out a living now.
Then Rebecca walked into his life, and he started calling her "doll." Just that one simple nickname defined his character for me. He's the kind I call the reluctant hero. He doesn't want to join the cause, but he can't abandon it either. Like Rhett at the end of the first reel. He'd rather be playing a civilized game of poker, but the war is raging. What's a man to do?
I love that kind of guy. Rough around the edges. But always, always unable to keep himself from doing the right thing, the noble thing. Even Rebecca gets it. She knows there's gold inside. It may take her a while to get to it, but just the promise is enough to keep her chipping away at his carved-in-stone exterior.
And nothing is appreciated if it comes too easily.
Right, kids?
Have a great day!
Delia
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