What Are Your Favorite Books Made Of?

When I write, I start with a story that I just need to tell, but I always try to fill it with things that I think collectively entertain. I like there to be some suspense or mystery...sometimes action. I insert real-life issues (politics, genocide, racism, hate) into whatever world I'm building, hoping to spark something within the reader. I almost always include a budding romance, but most of the time I keep it PG. 

              For me, I'm drawn to a book based on the plot, but completely saturated by the relationships between the characters. In real life, first/new-love is so powerful; I find myself writing it into most stories. The best books are the ones that can affect me viscerally and cerebrally. I do my best to try and deliver that to you, the readers.

              The next book I want to publish, Uncut (current title), started out as a story about hate. People can feel some pretty powerful emotions toward the unknown. Uncut focuses on hate concerning sexual orientation and racism. But, it’s largely about how the two main characters deal with that hate and build something beautiful despite of it.

              I’m getting closer to my sales goal from Incineration and Burning Ascension to move forward with Uncut. It’s the most romantic and visceral book I’ve written. They say that there’s a fine line between love and hate. I think it’s more like those emotions elicit such a powerful response within us that it’s sometimes more fluid and less rigid of a line. It’s why we do and say mean things to our loved ones on occasion—our hold on our emotions loosens and some nonsense slips out.

              Uncut felt like it had to have a stronger romantic presence to compete with the hate—to show that despite living the worst-case-scenario, something beautiful and strong could develop like a plant bursting through the scorched earth after a fire.

              So, no matter what recipe you need to love a book, just know that your writers are trying to find it for you. Know that when you really hate a book, that author was still trying their best to reach you.  When an author hits a home-run for you, that’s exactly what they were trying to do.  

              Happy reading :)

I Need to Read Good Books to be a Good Writer

Have you ever been in the mood for a really good book and been unable to find anything that piques your interest? The more I read and write, the harder it is for me to find a book that I LOVE.   

I enjoy reading most fictional genres. Sometimes, I’m in the mood for a suspenseful thriller, or maybe a smart, literary novel. However, it seems whenever I’m really in the mood for a particular genre, NOTHING is out there. NOTHING. Now, I know that’s dumb. I know there are millions and billions of options out there—I’m just looking for something very specific.

For instance, say I’m in the mood for a thriller, but it has to have just enough romance to add a little angst. I find that a lot of them have either no romance at all, or way too much that it’s cheesy. You know the kind I’m talking about: smart woman, burly man. Woman isn’t sure she can trust man; man is standoffish and mean toward the woman. They go on some obscure adventure where it never quite makes sense why they’re doing whatever it is that they’re doing, and then they fall in love and spend way too much time “getting to know” one another.

If I can’t find something to fill whatever genre I want to read at that moment, my writing suffers. I need that have-to-read-at-all-times-of-the-day book every so often to catalyze something in my head. Most of the time, the genres are completely different. I could be writing a young adult novel and be in the mood for a sci-fi dystopian.

Anybody else feel my pain?

And don’t get me started on a series. I love/hate them. I love them when they’re complete and four or less books. I loathe them when there are thirty books with the same character. I want to read one, but it’s in the middle so I can’t. I just can’t. I have to start at the beginning, so I won’t because I know by the time I get to number thirty, I won’t be interested in the characters anymore.

An author that I LOVE has the start of three new series out but none of them are complete. The horror! She publishes something new at least every few months, and yet these series have been floating around for more than a year!! I can’t take it.

And…Harry Potter. I haven’t read it. I desperately want to. I own all the books. My ten-year-old son read them a year or two ago. But, I’ve heard how great they are, and I know how obsessed I get when a series is that good. I shut down to the outside world and live inside that series for as long as it takes me to read it. I give up sleep. I begrudgingly function during the day so my children don’t die of starvation. If it was just one or two books I could justify giving myself to the story. But it’s more, so I can’t.

I buy mostly ebooks, but my nightstand is still a collection of books that are the first and second books of a series. Waiting on that third one…

Sigh…

I try to take that into consideration when I write. The freedom I have as a self-published author is pretty nice. I can publish my whole series at once. I can control how many books in a series I put together. However, I have to market myself…completely. It’s not something I like to do. I feel uncomfortable, like I’m asking for money, when really I just want people to find that “it” book they’re looking for in something I wrote. I want to give people several hours of an enjoyable story that forces them to relax or set aside the things that they really should be doing…like sleep. It’s overrated.

And marketing takes away from writing. Last week I spent most of my time in the “office” figuring out how to market my books better and connect my Facebook page, Goodreads page, Amazon Author page, and Blogger…Let’s just say I’m glad some of the people around me have given great advice that set me in the right direction (Thanks Alicia and Tom!).

Thankfully, I’m in the mood for a dystopian series, and I found a short and complete series last night. Phew!

All is right in the universe.

Newbie

In just two short days, Incineration, will be available for people to read. Let’s be honest…for friends and family to read. That’s the downside of self-publishing; very few people outside of your inner (and outer) circle will find out about your novel.

            Honestly, I’m okay with that. Already, I’ve had a ton of support from people I know and even garnered some interest from people I don’t know (mind-blowing to me!). Regardless of how many readers I reach, I enjoy writing.

            In a perfect world, readers will love my books and recommend them. I’ll be able to write for a living. Nobody will ever get sick, and we’ll all ride off into the sunset…

            In a realistic world—the one I live in—writing will continue to be a hobby. But I’m hopeful. Hopeful that I’ll sell enough books to justify hiring an editor and cover artist. If I can do that, I can keep self-publishing.

            Being a stay-at-home mom, has afforded me so much. I’ve had the privilege to watch my kids grow and be at their school to volunteer occasionally. Being at home, I was able to learn how to cook and BAKE—which is a good thing because we all need to eat. It taught me how to be happy--and elated--that I get paid with hugs and kisses. But it also allowed me to continue writing.

            I’m trying to navigate my world out of this stay-at-home status, and back into a world where I am part of the workforce. But, I’m learning that it’s nearly impossible to stop being one, and shift over to the other. I can’t simply just disappear from the mornings before school and afternoons when it’s over. I have to find a balance.

            I’ve taken for granted the freedom you have as a stay-at-home parent. Sure, we’re slaves to our children, but we get to decide when we go to the grocery store. If we’ve had a particularly rough night, most of the time we can take it easy the following day.

            I’ve mentioned before that I keep myself busy by taking on insane projects or overcommitting to outside obligations. I incorrectly assumed that what I was doing was comparable to being at work all day.

            The two are completely different things; both busy and hectic but different. Raising little people and having them hang on you, shout at you, and love on you all day is a roller-coaster that is both exhausting and exhilarating. I was wrong to assume I could just sever myself from that and step right back into the working world.

            So, I’ve tried to step back into it casually. Paint a pet portrait here and there. Help out my mother(-in-law) at the flower shop occasionally. But primarily I write.

            I’ve treated writing as a job for years now, even though I have yet to earn anything from it. I set a schedule and stick to it because I know I’m useless once the kids are in the house. I’m lucky to get five minutes uninterrupted. Many of you know what I’m talking about.

            Finally, I feel like my dedication is paying off. Sure, I didn’t get the attention of a literary agent; but I’m still publishing. Considering I’ve already written eight books, it took me a little while to finally jump off the cliff.

            Still, there’s so much to learn. I know many authors offer advanced reader copies to people for review. I can’t even pretend I know how to do that or who to contact. Advertising is also important—and uncomfortable. So…baby-steps.

            In two days, I hope many of you will take the time to check out my book. I want to make this a career and that’s only possible if I have readers, reviewers, and recommendations. I’m so excited and nervous to see what you all think. Please leave a review on the site that you purchased it from (hopefully a good one).

            Thanks for all the support!

Atrophied

We all struggle at some point in our lives to figure out who we are and who we want to be. We spend countless hours shaping that ideal image and even more maintaining it. I’m not talking about a physical image, I’m talking about what it is that we all do to give our lives meaning.

Doctors spend years studying and practicing to learn their craft. Mechanics tediously learn the intricacies of the inside of a car. We all put effort into our goals whatever they may be.

And then…something happens to disrupt the focus you place on yourself. Something catastrophic in your personal universe. You realize how unimportant so much of your life is. You had always envisioned yourself as a cog in this machine that runs the world, but when a gear close to you stops working and the world keeps moving, you realize how insignificant as individuals we really are.

We like to believe that our presence in the world makes a difference. We have to believe that so our lives have meaning and we’re not just spinning our wheels.

But then…

This event happens and you think how selfish you are. How it’s ridiculous that you spend hours a week keeping the house tidy or fretting if you have time for a run. All those wasted hours spent on insignificant things—things that will be there tomorrow.

You start to evaluate everything you do. Is it really necessary for me to train for a marathon? What point is there in writing if it never publishes? What point is there if it does?

You put your life on pause to deal with this event. You’re grateful for the borrowed time you have and mystified how the world can keep moving when you feel like your feet have been cast in concrete. You continue to function on an “as needed” basis doing all the things you have to do to keep your kids and pets alive and happy.

Inside, the person who you worked so hard to become begins to atrophy. You question the point of everything. Why have I spent so many hours working on my craft? Why do I bother cleaning the floors every day when they just get dirty again?

The gear that represents you is faltering, but the machine still works. You actually don’t make as much of a difference in the world as you thought.

You look at what’s going on around the world—at the division within our own country—and ask what difference one person really makes.

As part of the collective population, you are insignificant, but that’s how a group is supposed to work. Each individual has a task, but they are replaceable within the group. Hence: teamwork.

However, from an individual perspective, the cog that was taken away from the machine too early in life is irreplaceable. But still…the machine still works—despite your feelings.

One person’s absence affects the gears that surround them. Each of those gears falter…stutter. They keep turning with jagged movements until they learn how to move without the broken gear. Soon, they’ll begin to spin smoothly again, happily performing their job because together we work better and keep each other afloat.

Just like we as individuals will learn to move on and continue working on ourselves and on our community despite missing a gear—a person. We are survivors. When we heal we gain back the muscle that atrophied. We adapt to our new reality and persevere. We work on our craft because, despite missing an integral part of our machine, there are so many other reasons to keep that machine running.

My life is stuck right now, in the stuttered periphery of a stolen gear. I have to relearn how to run smoothly again—how to enjoy my role in the machine that keeps everything going. It will happen because the gears that surround me keep churning, helping me through my stutter.

Tipping the Scales--Inherent Value

This week I’ve been thinking a lot about what has intrinsic value, and how much is assigned to all life. A giant gorilla, Harambe, was shot in order to protect a small child’s life. The internet is alive and shouting with various opinions on the matter.

On one hand, you have the animal-lovers of the world crying foul, demanding someone be held responsible for the loss of an innocent gorilla’s life.

On the other hand, you have the people arguing that the child’s life was worth more than the gorilla’s life.

I’m learning just how divided our country is, and this is only one example. The U.S. was born with the hopes of being one cohesive nation working together in pursuit of freedom. Between the protests concerning certain potential presidential nominees, and now the gorilla versus boy argument, I’m suddenly aware of how divided our country truly is.

It’s not in human nature to go with the flow and agree with every single thing presented in front of us. That skepticism and curiosity is what has formed us into a forward moving species. We are presented with a problem, we try to find a way to fix it. We’re constantly coming up with easier ways of getting things done. Sometimes, we think of too many ways to solve that problem—hence the division.

There’s nothing wrong with that, but somewhere along the line, I feel the scale of how much value certain life forms hold is out of balance. Am I happy that a beautiful, majestic gorilla was shot? No. But I think the zookeepers were put in an impossible situation, and they chose to ensure the safety of our own species. I would expect no less.  

If a lion starts walking around a baby elephant but hasn’t pounced yet, do you think the herd of elephants should wait to see what happens? They don’t. They charge the lion because animals are hard-wired to protect their own species.

Listen, this argument could go on and on starting with having animals in captivity, letting nature take its course, to protecting endangered animals. We could argue that the parents are at fault, but honestly, my kids outnumber me and have on more than one occasion been out of my sight. We can’t blame them. Accidents happen. Results of those accidents aren’t always easy. The lines always blur when you aim these situations at the human species and not elephants versus lions. Ultimately, it’s a comparison of the value of life.

This mentality extends into various aspects of life. Terrorism, hate crimes, gender discrimination. All of it begins with a skewed perspective on how much value a particular population has.

I easily understand how people can have a different opinion concerning political nominees or gun control. What I can’t understand is how we forget that we are all the same species. The life of the homeless man begging for food doesn’t have less value simply because he has fewer things or is afflicted with addiction or mental illness. His life still holds value.

In most of my books, I’ve tried to include some sort of discrimination or oppression. While I write because I love the creative process, I also have something to say. It’s not usually the focus in my stories—I don’t think my skills are fine-tuned enough to create an exemplary literary novel—but I include it to provoke thought.

I just finished writing my seventh book, and I’m already brewing a new story. I grabbed a current issue from this decade and I’m going to inflate it, project how bad it could really get, and then try to navigate our society through it. The heart of the problem has ties with how people measure an individual’s value. I have to admit, at this point, I’m not sure which “side” I’ll be on in my story. That is, blurred lines.

Reading the articles about Harambe definitely made me ache for the gorilla, but also for the family. I am not envious of the situation the zookeepers were placed in. I know if it was my kid that fell into the enclosure, I would do anything to ensure their safety. Just like a herd of elephants would do anything to protect their baby from a lion.

I want my next story to introduce that confusing ache. That feeling that no matter what the outcome, a tough decision has to be made. I want the readers to question themselves: how would they react? 

Time to Wake Up

The last eighteen months have included some of the most difficult months in my life. There’s been illness and death—that dreaded word: cancer. My body is healthy, but my heart is weighted. Each beat is a heavy pull of blood through the chambers. If you know me, you know that I bury that pain deep within me.

You know that I don’t cry about it. I keep chugging through life, the wheels turning uninterrupted. In fact, I keep myself so busy I leave little time to think. I clean too much, organize too much, and relax too little.  

It’s not the first time in my life that I’ve had to deal with things that are difficult. We all have those moments in time. I know my way to get through it is quiet. I know that I bury myself in books and writing. I sequester myself away from people. But my patience thins. I appreciate good things in my life a little less. If I’m numbing myself to the pain, I’m also numbing myself to the joys in life. I’m indifferent.

My body might hold all the stress; I might look perfectly content on the outside, but I can’t fool how my system handles it. Occasionally, my heart beats a little faster for no reason. My ability to tolerate simple stressors reduces and I become irritable more often (sorry Cory). Not always, just sometimes. Caffeine and sugar only make it worse which is horrible because I love to bake and subsequently eat it. I can do without the caffeine, but sweets!?—come on.  

This past weekend, I was able to go back to the Chicago area to see family—some of whom I haven’t seen in nearly eleven years. It made me realize how much I love these people. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed, cousins will always pick up right where they left off. My heart is so full for a different reason. It made me realize, that maybe I should disrupt the spin of the wheels moving me forward.

I should slow down and pay attention to the way my kids laugh when they’re happy. I look at my nine-year-old (ten next month), and I realize that he’s not such a kid anymore—and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s almost as tall as me. Another year (crossing fingers). My daughter has broken out of her shy shell and blossomed into a girl, comfortable in her skin. My youngest still gives me the kind of hugs only a toddler can give even though he’s almost six, and we’ve managed to survive his crazy antics. That will all be gone soon; I need to pay attention. I can’t afford to miss it.

Writing is an outlet as much as it is a passion. I consider it work—it doesn’t necessarily relax me but I enjoy it tremendously. If I don’t get all the stories in my head out, I feel stressed, so writing is therapeutic. If I could afford to write all day, every day, I absolutely would. Same as reading, it helps my heart to slow and provides a canvas for me to bleed out my pain. Let me rephrase that, not pain, but bleed out my indifference. My numbness. It wakes me up and affords me the ability to live.

Life experiences feed creativity—no matter how good or bad they are. 

So...I'm expecting some decent book writing from myself. :)

Balance of Writing and Family

***It’s two in the morning and I’m wide awake. The night-silence is the perfect backdrop for what I’m doing—no distractions can invade my thoughts. My fingers skim across the keys, barely touching, as I zealously try to get the words out of my head and onto the screen.***

That was typical a few years ago, but I’ve had to dedicate my nights back to sleep. Without sleep, my morning persona is even uglier than normal (I’m NOT a morning person). And, it’s kind of embarrassing when my son has caught me going back to sleep after the alarm on a couple of occasions.

So…I’ve had to work on balancing my writing with the most vital thing in my life—family. I’m not earning any money, so technically it’s just an obsessive hobby I have. Being a stay-at-home parent doesn’t warrant any monetary imbursement either, but one day I have to release these tiny people into the world. I’d feel a lot better knowing that we’ve done our best at molding good, moral people.

Since my home and my kids are my real job, I have to get out of the house to get any decent writing done. Otherwise I multitask. I mean, there’s really no excuse why I can’t do laundry and write at the same time. And, when a 140 pound dog starts asking for a walk, I’m pretty inclined to give it to him. Needless to say, my best writing happens without distractions.

So I make time.

I “clock-in” three times a week at a local Starbucks. I see the same faces frequently, so I refer to them as my coworkers. I grab a tea, or some sugared up latte-ish beverage, put in my earbuds, and write for as many hours as the day will allow (usually five).

But I wasn’t always so dedicated. When I became a mom, I thought I had to give up parts of me. I stopped reading, writing, and painting on any sort of regular basis. I was satisfied being just a mom for many years, but I always did have a feeling that I was meant to be more.

When they were little and I started writing more frequently, it was for a purpose. My daughter wanted to grow up and be just like me—so she picked up a broom. To me, it was devastating. I am so much more than a housewife. It became important to me in that moment that my kids know who I really am—what I gave up to raise them. So I started to write more often, and I picked up my paintbrush again.

Now, they still want to mop or help clean the house (on occasion), but I also catch them writing little stories of their own with elaborate pictures to go with them.

In my own tribulations, I’ve learned that you don’t have to give up anything to start something new; you just have to find a balance. I’ll be honest, it’s something I struggle with every day. If I start a book, it’s really hard for me to put it down. I could sit at the computer and write my stories all day. If I’m painting a pet portrait, I sit for seven hours straight…forget dinner.

I know that if I find success as a writer, and it becomes an official job, the balance will have to change again. I’ve read the blogs of many famous writers, and I take note of the traveling they do. Many of them will take a solo trip somewhere just so they have peace and quiet to write.

I will probably always struggle with balancing everything in my life—partly because I think I can do it all.

Can’t I?