Gasping for air

Once upon a time, I romanticized writing. In my fairy tale world, the muse was best inspired by candlelight and an oak roll-top desk. 

Partially, that was my excuse not to write. I've learned over the years that pretty good prose can happen at a coffee shop, or in my dungeon. In the summer at the cabin, or in the winter at my rented duplex. With or without Diet Coke, though the addition of whiskey sometimes helps. I can even squeeze in a few paragraphs while waiting for my stepdaughter after school. Or I can spend an entire weekend locked in a small trailer and still produce quality work.

I understand this takes some of the romanticism out of the craft, and am certain my husband will immediately begin disassembling the office he built for me in the basement so he can house his sports memorabilia. 

But let's be honest. My muse doesn't really care if its hanging out in my kitchen or the trendiest coffee shop in Edmonton (but if anyone knows what this is, let me know - I do enjoy good coffee.)

What my muse does care about - whether he looks like Dean Winchester or Jeffrey Dean Dalton - is that I take care of me. Physically, mentally and emotionally. When one of those factors isn't in peak form, my writing suffers.

The physical one is easy to figure out. I don't need the scale to remind me I've gained some weight since the wedding almost two months ago. And in some ways, it's an easy fix. Today (hurrah) I began working out again and have revisited the program that helped me lose 30 pounds in the first place. Baby steps, I know.

Mental and emotional health, however, are a bit harder to assess. First you have to figure out what's wrong.

And then - slowly - take care of the problems.

It's that part I sometimes struggle with. 

I'm not great at knowing when to let go. But why fight for something that doesn't want to be fought for? Why make an effort when it isn't returned? As my friend Rocky would say: make a list of what needs to be fixed. And then breathe.

I realize I've been holding my breath for the last two months. Tip-toeing around the issues that have been bugging me. Forgiving when it hasn't been earned. Feeling guilt for things beyond my control. The naysayers have made me think I shouldn't follow my heart, when truly, it's never steered me wrong.

I'm breathing now - and as I take deep gulps of fresh air, I'm starting to see what I've been missing. I covet toxins, because change is just too scary to face. I accept being walked on, because it's easier that way. I've held on to relationships too long, for all of the wrong reasons. Cared too much about what people think - when really, the only person I need to please is me.

My muse hasn't been impressed. 

Now, he's pushing me to shed those toxins and take deeper breaths. 

My reward is a greater sense of focus, better writing, more personal satisfaction. And ultimately, a healthier and happier me.

My personal a"muse"ment (gag)

I'm not sucking up.

I thought long and hard before choosing my handsome husband as this week's muse.

Truth be told, he's been more than my muse this past week. He's been my rock. 

Jeff isn't a reader, and God knows I've hassled him enough about not reading everything I write. But in the end, I know I wouldn't want him to. While many of my male characters have some of his characteristics, not every scene with a man in it is "all about Jeff." 

Instead of reading, Jeff does a lot of talking. And gentle encouraging. 

This past weekend, he gave me the freedom to write. Two whole days of literary bliss. And while I wrote, he worked his butt off. His goal is to make enough money so that I can (sigh) write full time. But not only did he take on a side job to start that process, he also took on the responsibility for his daughter and the dogs.

So this weekend, it was just me and my characters. Hanging out. Talking trash and creating mayhem. 

What absolute bliss.

P.S. - Thanks for the friends who checked in to make sure I wasn't drowning in Absolution. While the opportunity to immerse myself in writing is heavenly, knowing the great support I have makes it all that much sweeter.

Irritated by spelling, bad grammar

I admit it. I'm a bit of a grammar snob.

I don't profess to be an expert on the dictionary, the thesaurus, or even punctuation. And I definitely wouldn't make Suzanne's Grammar Police force. 

But I do understand the difference between you're and your, it's and its, too, two and to, and effect and affect. 

Today's youth (and yes, I am stereotyping a little) care little about spelling and grammar. I blame technology to some extent. Even with a full cell phone keyboard, who wants to spell out "Hey, what are you doing?" when "hey, wot doin" takes far less time and energy (and fewer characters.)

Sadly, youth aren't the only ones plagued with bad prose.

The decline of good writing began when the writer stopped wielding the pen and found the keyboard instead. Spellcheck replaced the dictionary, and the green squiggly lines under the sentence alerted you when your grammar was wrong. But spell check doesn't catch the difference between your and you're - and we've become so accustomed to the green squiggly lines, they are mostly ignored.

Further decline occurred - yes, even with adults - when the world discovered Facebook and Twitter. How many status updates do you read where the spelling is atrocious and the grammar is laughable? Far too many, in my world. And I'm not talking about the kids, either.

Life itself is partially to blame. In today's fast paced society, we've been forced to show emotion through status updates and emoticons, rather than compose a real letter to talk about how we feel, or even thanks in an email. Handwriting is a lost art and email isn't far behind.

None of this is news, of course. Maybe I'm just trying to figure out why "sexii boii" is now annoying, but not nearly as annoying when written by a teenager versus his or her parent. 

Inappropriate content

What classifies as age appropriate?

I may not be a teenager anymore, but I remember the key events in my life - first kiss, first boyfriend, first love. The first time I picked up an "inappropriate" book. 

It was called Christina's Treasure. I have no idea who wrote it, and I don't remember where my friend and I found it, but I do recall the two of us reading it in the shadows and gasping at the "graphic"sex scenes. The book was well worn, spine cracked and pages furled. And the author introduced me to words that still make me blush.

Back then, I'm not sure where the book would have fit in the market. But I do know teenagers wouldn't be reading it "in the shadows" today and the scenes I found so graphic would seem tame compared to what you'll find in the book stores now.

As an author who wants to write everything from romance and erotica to thriller and young adult, I'm struggling with my now old fashioned views on what's age appropriate and what deems me a prude. As a new stepmom, that struggle is amplified.

My 13-year-old stepdaughter hates that I won't let her watch True Blood, and rolls her eyes when we discuss "dating" rules. She huffs at me when I suggest she show less cleavage, and pouts when I ask her to delete photographs that have undertones of sensuality.

And as I scroll through her friends' pictures, my helpful teenager shows me the "bra" shots, the excessive make-up, the short skirts, the pouty lips, and then the colourful comments on each image. I don't remember when I first used the word "sexy" (or rather sexii), but I'm confident it wasn't at 13. 

My throat catches when I read out loud to my teen Bella and Edward's first sexual encounter. Feathers are flying, I think. Was my first time like that?

I spent a good portion of my writing life shying away from taboo topics - what if my mother saw what I wrote? But now, taboo is in. Sex continues to sell. Controversial books of yesterday pale in comparison to what the kids pick up now. Drugs. Alcohol. Pregnancy. Homosexuality. Kids are reading about these issues today.

I read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. (But would now concur that even as Willie Wonka, Johnny Depp is sexii <3)

My teenager will still watch the Wizard of Oz with me. But at the end of the movie, she'll take the Yellow Brick Road off the beaten path, and suddenly, we're not in Kansas anymore. 

So where are we?

As an author who must meet the wants and needs of an evolving publishing industry, it's important for me to find out. As a stepmom who wants to arm her teen with solid decision-making tools, it's more than important - it's vital. 

Making Mondays more a"muse"ing (gag)

I'm generally not a fan of Mondays. But ever since I decided to change the "face" of my muse each week, Mondays are looking a little brighter.

This Monday I'm going with Damon from the new drama series Vampire Diaries. I confess to jumping on the vampire bandwagon, though my own writing hasn't strayed there - yet. 

I'm hooked on J.R. Ward's sexy vampire books, enjoyed Stephanie Myers' Twilight series, am saddened by the end of True Blood (watch for Eric as an upcoming muse), and now, have another reason to look forward to Thursday nights. 

Damon isn't just another pretty face. Okay, maybe he is, but he looks pretty darn impressive even when he's vamping out. He out-vamps his somewhat wimpy co-star, and he's got that hair I just want to twirl my fingers through. 

And in this picture - which I chose after much deliberation and considerable scrolling through  Google images - he has that whole cocky smirk going on. Yummy.

Yup, pretty certain Damon is exactly the kind of inspiration I'm looking for this week.

Dodging "the end"

Creativity truly begets creativity.

Ever since I immersed myself in all things writing, I can't seem to stop the ideas from flowing. In addition to the two series characters I've been playing with, I'm obsessed with the concept of a dark and romantic stand-alone novel, and just last night, a fabulous young adult book was born - at least in my brain.

Which is where it has to stay. For now.

Part of me recognizes the idea factory starts churning when I'm in my zone - when the writing starts to gel, the characters come to life, the story almost writes itself. But another part of me understands the factory has a manual switch I "subconciously" flick on when I'm nearing the end of a project.

I hate "ends" - not just in stories. But in life, too. I'd rather suffer through a job I didn't like than quit. Pretend a friendship is solid instead of accepting it's long past its expiry date. I fear death, not so much my own but of those around me. Goodbyes are not my thing.

So as I near the finish line on a couple of projects, I have a suspicion I've employed the best stall tactic I know.

That isn't to say I shouldn't explore the ideas. And yes, I have written them down in my moleskin notebook. It just means I have to take (as my friend Rocky would encourage) a DEEP breath and plug through to the end.

And somehow convince myself that in this case, "the end" is a good thing.

In honour of my mentor

I'm bowing to my mentor today.

I've been fortunate to study with Steve Berry,  author of such amazing books as the Venetian Betrayal, the Alexandria Link and the Amber Room. There's a reason he frequents the New York Times Bestseller list.

It's all about craft.

Though he'd humbly deny it, Steve is a craft master. I keep a copy of his eight craft rules in my purse at all times, and stick them on post-it notes beside my computer whenever I sit down to write. (That and the wonderful advice from NY Times Bestselling author James Rollins: I give myself permission to write crap today. I suspect neither Steve nor Jim has ever written true crap.)

I used to try and "avoid" Steve's rules, foolishly believing I could make it in this industry without adhering to the eight principles that have not only helped Steve top the NY Times Bestseller wall, but also become one of the best teachers on writing I have ever met. 

As my critique partners can attest, I don't buck Steve's system anymore. 

I've taken flack for it - just today, one of my partners deemed me mean and vicious. And yesterday, another of our tight little group said the craft rules echo in her head as she sits down to write. I know what she means - for a few weeks after studying with Steve in Hawaii, his voice was ALL I heard.

The most basic of his rules is simply to "write tight." I've embodied that so much in my recent projects that now, as I work to flush out the characters, deepen the atmosphere, I find myself fighting for every word. I'm pretty sure Steve would be happy to hear that. 

The eight craft rules have made me a better writer, and for that I'll always be grateful. Perhaps even more important, though, was his strong encouragement to find a writing critique group. 

I'd been looking for awhile, but only just recently have I found a group of women I gel with. Our writing styles are quite different, our processes unique. But we all have the same goal - to tell the best story.

My stories are getting better because of these special friends. My writing continues to improve. And, to my surprise, hanging out with my three writing peers has some wonderful side benefits.

• I like them. As writers. As people. I think I'm verging on love :-)
  
• I remain immersed in the world where I am most happy.
• I can lean on them - for advice, for brainstorming, for encouragement, and for a kick in the pants when needed. 
• I am learning - even armed with Steve's craft rules, they have so much to teach me.
• I am falling in love with my story a little more every day.

I'll never forget the advice my mentor has bestowed upon me with such generosity. I hope someday I will be able to pass on his wisdom to aspiring authors.

P.S. - Steve's latest historical adventure, the Paris Vendetta, hits shelves December 1. Buy it.