Holidays and Hammock Sex

I'm still Christmasing in Austin where the weather's chilly and rainy. I've enjoyed the family and meet-ups with old friends, as well as lazing around with a glass of Bailey's and a remote in my hands (my version of a yuletide two-fer). I've hardly even cracked open the laptop except to peek at my erotica novella, which has me all blocked up at Chapter Two. I peek, I sigh, I get distracted. What can I say, I'm a virgin at this genre.

But people, I have a chapter to deliver before January 1 and, well, I've got a headache. Please, no cock-block jokes. It hurts my feelings on the same scale as vacuuming up tinsel—an exercise in futility if ever there was one. I once uncovered tinsel in my carpet ten years after I last threw it on a tree. Instead of dragging out the vacuum for the thousandth time, I curled into fetal position.

So today I figured if I got out of the house, some inspiration might hit. I stole away to the local B&N, sipped on a house brew, and reread the first line of Chapter Two where my horny characters discover a secluded hammock in the woods.

"So here we are, just you and me and nature."

Yes, I know. Lame. But it was merely a jumping-off point for the next time I opened the doc. Plus I think ten words in 30 days is real progress, don't you? Actually, my protag wrote it. That bitch was leading me down the path to outdoor nookie. Erotica, remember? It's serious shit that's supposed to make you all hot and bothery. Thing is, after your character discovers a hammock in the woods, the scene devolves into comedy.

A story so often writes itself, you see, and while I've resisted this turn of events, my character is insisting on a roll in the hammock. Probably a roll that reminds her it's not the fall that kills you, but the sudden stop. Peeps, I can't seem to stay away from the slap-schtick. Anybody who knows me will not question this. Is that bad? Perhaps humorous erotica is its own subgenre. Whatever. Hammock sex it is. Once I quit fighting it, I wrangled out another 500 words that renewed my faith in my compositional abilities, filled me with optimism about 2011, and gave me a good giggle (as erotica often does, even without a hammock).

I'm now back at my daughter's house, and here's my one and only Christmas pic, which is me actually keying in this blog post. Booyah! I really am a writer! I'd raise a glass of Bailey's to your happy, safe, and peaceful New Year, but they hid the bottle from me. Still, I send strong vibes that mean the same thing.

Don't forget your black-eyed peas, y'all!
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Let's Get Reacquainted

I just finished my novel. Yay!

You'd think, right? But anybody who's ever written a novel in hopes of publication knows that I'm only at the halfway point. Kind of like laying an egg. Somebody still has to get it from nest to market, so you can buy it and get it on your breakfast plate. Yes, I just compared my writing to something I shoot out my ass. 

Bon appétit!

The writing of a novel is only the first part of the process—and I'm not sure it's even the hardest part, given the rigmarole yet to come my way, including agent hunting, contracts, publication, and marketing. Wait, what am I saying, of course writing is the hardest part! I birthed a romantic comedy, for god's sake, and the rewriting labor alone took three months with no numbing agents or mind-altering substances—though I do feel hung over and, frankly, I think I tore. 

The only cure is more hair of the dog, so while I'd like to celebrate my big finish, I have bigger eggs to fry. (Hey, poaching metaphors is my specialty.) I'll keep you posted on things. Meantime, let's get reacquainted. Leave me a comment and I'll pop by for a visit.

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You Are Dead to Me

My Darling*,

It pains me to tell you this. I don't want to—really, I don't. Alas, I've been plotting your demise. I admit, I had trouble imagining life without you as I reveled in your magnificence. You were virile and sexy, intelligent and witty—like you jumped right out of a Conroy novel—in the beginning. Indeed, you exhibited a passion that left me reeling. I adored everything about you, even your spelling.

While I was blind, you were immune to conflict. Every tweak I gave you was for naught. When I finally took a step back and critiqued you constructively, I asked myself, are you really necessary to me? Are you still relevant? Are you simply cluttering things up? What part did my ego play?

When others gasped (reading you far better than I), I knew it was time to drop you like a hot potato—so cliché. I must make sacrifices, darling. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one—so said Mr. Spock once. Besides, you are not tight. And I like tight. Everybody likes tight.

Oh, I could keep you around, try to modify your behavior, juxtapose your more salient points, or even attempt to resurrect you to some epic glory. But my trust in you would be misplaced. My darling, your entire life was scripted. Now I see your flat and flaccid impotence for what it is: boooorring. And I can quit you.

From my point of view, all words are important. Except yours. Repetitive and passive, you lack the elements of style. When I delete you for good, you'll leave a space. But only a small one. As your creator, I must slice you and dice you, bury you in my garden, and forget about you. And then I'm going to make a scene. With the proper perspective, I'll transition and move on. Because, succinctly, you are dead to me now.

This entire post, filled with darlings, will self-destruct . . . eventually.

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* All good writers must do this little thing known as "killing your darlings." How hard is it to delete words, sentences, paragraphs, and even entire chapters when you've put so much time into them and they seem perfect, so darling? Believe me, it's HARD! Sometimes later revisions change everything, and going back and deleting (or killing off) what no longer works is a must to maintain the integrity of your story and the writing. So this was my impassioned kiss-off to my beloved darlings. Curiously, it's made its own point.
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