You ever want something so much that it’s all you think about? I feel that way about my writing and one other thing. I hesitate to mention it, but this thing has been so fully occupying that it’s almost had me forget about writing.

That, and I’m getting bored with my current project. So it goes to show that this past week has had my focus shifted. I feel a little multiple personality with it. This other creative outlet has nothing to do with writing except the fact that it could be a thing in a book. (ok. ok…I’ll tell you….it’s Capoeira. I.LOVE.IT)

But I digress. Do you find it hard to focus because of lack of focus? Ok. Stupid question. Let me put it this way…something consumes you, but then a new passion flames. What do you do? Leave one to cool while you tend the new one? My desire is never faltering for writing, nor for capoeira; it’s just stronger at times, depending on my life and what’s happening. When the writing seems to trickle, I become creative in other ways.

Capoeira is a way of life. Ask any capoeirista. It’s an amazing art that is more than the rigid Asian martial art in physicality and in regiment. There is such a spiritual and mental–thing about it that I can’t even describe. I found an apt description on another site, but for the life of me, I cannot find it right this minute.

I just feel like an evangelist who wants to spread the good news! I want EVERYONE to find capoeira and love it too. I wish it were closer to home. I love road trips, but to take this trip every week is such a chore, my dedication has to be from afar. And you can only do so much on your own. Part of the enjoyment, the play of capoeira is playing with others. Those are lessons not soon forgotten. I’ve gotten swept off of my feet literally, and it’s because my focus was not on the game at the time.

On a side note, my fellow capoeiristas recognize my dedication to my writing. Part of the ritual of this sport is receiving a nickname. Mine is Caneta, which means ballpoint pen. Hmph. Go figure. And I, of course, LOVE IT.

So, since I can’t play capoeira, and I can’t write anything worth spit, I’m writing about capoeira.

Axe.

Miscommunication happens. Life happens. Things almost never go according to plan. My boss has lists to make lists. I mean really. You can’t plan it that way. You’re setting yourself up for failure. But does that mean to live fast and loose?

No. Be flexible but know the direction you are going.
How does communication and planning have to do with each other and with writing? I’ll tell you. It’s all in theo give and take. If your communication or your style is rigid, it’s less a dialog than it is a monologue. Pick up on your cues from the other participants. Think about their perspective when you’re formulating your response. Ok. Simple enough, eh? So you have a plan then for conversation. Communique 101.

Now on to planning. Making a list, a plan; setting goals. All of this is a smart thing to do. *emphasis on SMART hint hint* But you know, some plans have to be bendable. Dont’ fall into a trap and make them all movable so much so that they don’t get accomplished. Otherwise, what’s the point in setting them as a goal? A small, simple, easy to reach list or a convoluted Long year (or 4 month plan) can all be appropriate based on your needs.
But don’t sweat the small stuff. Come on. We each are usually our own harshest critics. I know I am. I beat myself up often when I can’t meet a certain goal. Then I put it off, feeling down and poopy because ‘is the end game really worth this?’

Yes.
This is how I want to approach writing. I need to respect the give and take which comes with creating anything. Novels are far from the exception. So when life happens and my writing time doesn’t happen like I want it to, I do what? Adapt. Improvise. Overcome.
Da Spouse thinks the order should be Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. Same difference to me. Or is it.

A majority of my writing is Improvise. So when it doesn’t work, I adapt. And I am going to overcome. I have actually overcome much. And very very soon. (fast drafting next week.)

How do you IAD?

To clean. What. you thought it was dirty?
No, I hate, capital H-A-T-E cleaning. Funny thing is, I hate living in a messy environment much more.
so, today, I’m getting down and dirty: cleaning, scrubbing, disinfecting. Whew. It’s a lot. I’ve cleaned my hands to sit down here long enough to share with you my triumph. I have more to do yet. But I needed a quick break.
It got me to thinking that if I can accomplish this today, I deserve some relaxation. But I want to do more cleaning.

Yes. More.
As in editing. Clean up a manuscript that surely has 9 lives. My feline of a work in progress has been off and on for years. But I so want this story to be told that I keep slaving away to it. And just like I don’t like clutter, I don’t like that I have a messy manuscript. But it’s good. The story is good. I just have to let it shine. It needs to be polished and sparkling.

Too bad Pine-Sol doesn’t have a “Romance Novel Fresh” scent.

*sniffs* I do love the smell of a new book in the morning.

I was actually going to blog about how thrilled I am to be a part of the Launching a STAR contest this year. My entry was received today and I have two months to hear results. Yay me! I got it in just under the wire. Almost perfect planning.

I was not planning to send What a Bargain until the last minute. But it was closer to being ready than my historical, and it just ‘felt’ right. Something preternatural prompted that change. And it will be good. Come what may…

But when I came to my search engine and looked for a quick link to my site I faltered. Oh no. I erased the cookies. But why are my bookmarks gone? I clicked one folder after another to find the link which used to be RIGHT there. Where’d it go?

What’s this? A folder I don’t remember setting up that is clearly labeled blogs? Click.
Wow. All of the blogs on which I post. Right. There. Hm.
Either this is spectacular planning on my part (which is not likely…), a stroke of luck, or the smart computer figured out I need a blog folder.

It’s a mystery. But it got me here.
That cold bottom of belly drop feeling is not good. This was only a link. Have you “lost” or “misplaced” or “deleted” a whole chapter? scene? book? I have. That’s worse. And you MUST have good foresight in on that. I save to my computer, a thumb drive and my email. That way, if one method fails, I have backup.
Just like what doctors tell you if you are going to take antibiotics with your birth control. Ok. that was a bit much. But it’s true. You can never be too careful.
Really.
You can’t.

So. Now I’m off to solve a problem of the future by storing left overs in the fridge. Dinner tomorrow night, I have my eye on you….

This is a timely topic because the daily life of a housewife includes many duties. Now, that doesn’t have to do with ownership per se, except for the fact that I need to own up to my responsibilities. Things have to be done, so, I do them. Or procrastinate. But they do get done. Eventually.

Also, one could talk about the joys of home ownership. There’s never a shortage of projects to be done. This on top of the daily chores and tasks. I’m talking about the gutters being cleaned, the garaged re-organized, the broken door in the hall to be fixed, the appliances repaired, the walls painted. You get the picture. It’s really never ending. But it’s MINE. My house, My money pit.

Or of pets. Grrrrrr. I love my dogs. I hate my dogs. It gets to be so tedious to do some things by rote. Especially when it takes away from motherhood and wifely time.

But as it relates to writing, the crux of the matter is still the same. You have to own it. Maintain it. Repair it. Love it and hate it. The time and dedication writing requires is no less than what anything else to which you’re devoted. And with that hopeless devotion (anyone else channeling Olivia Newton-John?) comes responsibility. You remember anniversaries. (housewife) You pay your mortgage and bills. You take care of your pets. (I surely hope so.) Do you take care of your writing?

Some one will. By that I mean, write your story. Only you can. Not let it molder in your mind. With a little luck and a lot of sweat something marvelous will come to fruition. But you have to own it.

Before you enjoy this month’s excerpt, please allow me to thank Bria and Mel, once again.

I had originally planned on giving you a peek at my current contemporary. But at this last minute, I have decided to share with you another glimpse of Constance. The following is from the first draft. It, too, is a section that won’t make it to the final draft. In it, you’ll meet the girl, her father, and other characters. This is what happens when you do a second draft. Honestly, it too is NOT making the final cut. But, consider it an easter egg of sorts. Because it kinda did happen.

***

Easing the covers from her lanky frame, she slinked out of bed and padded over to the open window. Her cousin Benjamin’s cast-off clothes were a comfort on her skin. Her canvas sack was at the ready with biscuits and bacon stolen from breakfast and a lace handkerchief folded, coins within. She slung it across her back. The familiar tree welcomed her like a long lost friend. With no hesitation, she shimmied down and landed without much sound.

The excitement of beginning this adventure sent a thrill humming throughout her being and with hastening paces she made her way to retrieve her horse. She wanted to take her from the plantation. But when Constance got to the stables, she hesitated. The horse might be recognized, and while it was her mount, in reality, it belonged to her father. It will be longer, but I must go on foot.

The decision made, she walked. The moist earth saturated her shoes, but the chill that resulted went unnoticed. The marsh gave way to mud, and then to loamy sand roadways. As she walked along, she realized her gait was too smooth for a boy. Self-conscious, even though no one was looking, she widened her stance with each pace. I feel like I walk as if I rode all day. But she realized that unless she could pass as a boy, a young man, she might be discovered and, well, it would shame her father. Oh, what about my voice? She said aloud her name, and realized not only was the voice a problem, but she couldn’t tell anyone her name was Constance. Constance, Connie, Conner!

“I’m Conner Delaney,” echoed back from the rice fields, with a deeper timbre.

No, not Papa’s name…Oh! Mama was a Reid.

“Hello,” she cleared her throat, “Good day, I am Conner Reid. I hate the British.”

The British. That was all that was talked about lately. The stately dinners her father hosted had on more than one occasion erupted into raucous debate. But unlike her prim and proper sister, Abigail, Constance enjoyed these forays into the mind of men. Her father encouraged her presence, but discouraged her tongue. Although she had sharp wit, many would think her overstepping her bounds to offer an opinion, on anything, much less politics.

For the distance it took to get to the next trading post, she bantered with the air to an audience of owls and other nighttime vermin.

***

The rising sun never was much of an impetus to raise her charge from the depths of slumber, and so Nonny, the house slave, thought nothing of Constance’s absence during the morning. But as the noontime meal was being prepared, the lack of that tomboy’s presence became a niggling thought in her mind. Nonny left the kitchen and entered the main house. As she climbed the stairs and turned towards the girls’ quarters, her apprehension grew. She felt as if her heart was stopped in her chest, knowing something wasn’t right, but unable to name it. She thrust the heavy wood door open and ran to the window. The curtain was halfway in the room and the rest was flapping in the morning breeze, without. She clasped it, dragging it in and felt the dewy dampness of it. Turning toward the bed and seeing no cowling form, she let out a screech. “The gal is gone!”

She ran back into the hall, then down the stairs, clamoring for any help. “Massa Artha, Massa Artha! Miss Constance has done gone! She’s missin’!”

Arthur Delaney heard the commotion and bit into his cigar. Moving his portly form as fast as was possible, he joined the house slave in the hall. “Calm down, Nonny. What has got you all riled up?”

As Nonny repeated her pleas, Arthur’s normally jolly and flushed face blanched. He hastened up to his daughter’s room and saw what a second ago he didn’t believe. This doesn’t make any sense. Connie probably is wandering the grounds. A piece of parchment sat on her night table. With clammy hands, he reached for the missive, feeling ice-cold with dread at its contents. He read the words to himself. Papa, I love you. Do not worry. I am going to make you proud of me. I’ll send word. ‘Till then. C. He crumpled against the bed, clutching the letter.

He looked at Nonny, her eyes wide with fear. She seemed as anxious as he felt.

“What’s she done now? Where’s our baby?”

“She’s gone, Nonny. I know not where. She said she wants to make me proud.” His voice caught in his throat and the tone of voice was incredulous.

Everyday I see her face, I have pride. Not many girls have the fire to learn as she.

This strong man then placed his head in his hands and did what he’d not done since Dora’s death. He wept.

***

A boisterous sound from the hallway jostled Constance awake. She eyed the door, her heart in her throat. The chair lodged against the knob was meager protection, but she was taking no chances. The thin curtains barely contained the sunlight streaming in. Judging by the ruckus on the other side of the door, Constance surmised that breakfast was being served.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and rose slowly. Anxiety and fear were her companions through the night. She spied the washbasin and removed her clothes to bathe. Beneath the disguise, wrappings bound her breasts, her chest ached. I need a break just to breath. With that barrier removed, the air was cold to her exposed skin.

Connie quickly washed and redressed, not wanting to witness her gender. She didn’t care to know she was a woman, much more comfortable without the trappings of frills and skirts. As she combed out her chestnut hair, she realized tucking it into a high-crowned straw hat was going to be impractical. I cannot very well be seen in the hat all of the time. She looked around the room to find something make her more masculine. The table by the bed was bare. By the window a ribbon hung, meant to hold back a curtain. They won’t miss this, I’m sure. She tucked the black material into the pocket of her breeches. I’ll have to cut my hair. She frowned. It is too long to tie back, even if I doubled it. I doubt it would even hold. She twisted the hair up, as she was used to doing, and placed the straw hat on top, and headed downstairs.

When she arrived at the table, other patrons were finishing their meal of porridge, toast and butter. The room was full of men. Would they see through her?

Two others were at the table with her. Both appeared to be farmers or traders of a sort. One was a bigger man, with sagging jowls and a bulbous nose. His face was ruddy, from either sun or drink, Connie thought. The other man was rail thin and wearing a worn jacket. The cuffs were threadbare and careworn. He had a thinning pate. Other than simple morning greetings, conversation was lacking.

Connie spooned the bland mixture into her mouth and choked it down. The soggy oats were lightly scorched, but she had to take her meals where she could get them.

“I say, are either of you gentlemen going towards Market Street?” She looked hopefully from one to the other.

The larger one opened his greasy lips, “Aye. I have hogs to sell. It’s a good two, three days travelin’. Why do you ask, boy?”

The pasty one, “No need to be harsh with the lad, Rodney. He’s only making conversation. I am Reverend Michaels. I’ve only just been acquainted with Rodney Smith a day or so. We’ve decided, as our destination was the same, to share passage. Have you the need of the same?”

“Yes, thank you Mr. Michaels. I’m Cons–Connor Reid. Will there be room for me?”

“Reverend, I’d think you best let invitations wait. It’s not your wagon!” Crumbs gathered on Rodney’s chin and chest, spilling out of his mouth as he spoke.

“Beg pardon sir,” Connie replied, “I would be grateful for the help. I can pay.”

At this, the gleam came to Rodney’s eye. Constance realized she must be careful not to say too much.     Even though she had only a few coins, others would be likely to try to relieve her of them.

Rodney wiped his sleeve across his face, missing much of the mess. “Aye, lad, I can take you, but you have to ride in the wagon with the swine.” Connie paled. “Unless that doesn’t appeal to you.”

She knew she might not get another opportunity. “Thank you, Mr. Smith.” She swallowed. “I only have a piece of copper.”

“Aye, that’ll do. Rev…”

The slim man turned his head sharply at the disrespectful title.

“Looks like we have more baggage, eh.” Rodney’s wheezing laugh commenced.

A cold chill settled in her chest and she realized, that while the trip would be long, it was only a couple of days. Can I trust these men? She spied the knife on the table and considered taking it.

“Mr. Reid, we will leave in a quarter of an hour. Meet us in front.”

“Aye.” She watched as Reverend Michaels and Rodney rose and exited the room. Looking to her left and then the right, ensuring no one was watching, she reached down to the knife, wrapped it in the linen napkin and tucked it into her shirt. Looking around again, she verified she was alone. She returned to the rented room, gathered her sack and made way to the front. The odious duo sat on the bench of the wagon, reins in the meaty grip of Rodney. The Reverend had a solemn expression. Connie stepped up to the duo and gave Mr. Smith a copper piece.

“Just to Market Street, please.”

“Aye” He spat. Connie was already walking toward the back of the wagon, and so missed the vile spittle. She settled herself and braced for the rocking and bucking.

Thank you folks for playing. Please enjoy the other players as well!

AJ O’Donovan, Poetry (PG13)
Stephanie Draven, Paranormal Romance (PG 13)
Heather S.Ingemar, Dark Fantasy/Poetry (PG13)
Babette James, Fantasy Romance (PG 13)
Cynthia Justlin, Romantic Suspense (PG 13)
Kaige, Historical Romance (PG 13)
Julia Knight, Fantasy Romance (PG13)
Ansha Kotyk, Middle Grade Adventure (PG13)
Adelle Laudan, Contemporary Romance (PG 13)
Jeannie Lin, Historical Romance (PG 13)
RF Long, YA Paranormal (PG13)
Caitlynn Lowe, Epic Fantasy (PG13)
Shawntelle Madison, Paranormal Romance (PG 13)
Crista McHugh, Contemporary Erotic Romance (PG 13)
Bria Quinlan, Rom Com (PG)
Megan S., Paranormal (PG13)
Dara Sorensen, Historical Paranormal (PG 13)
Bethanne Strasser, Historical Romance (PG13)

Melissa Aires, Futuristic Romance (R)
Melissa Blue, Contemporary Romance (R)
Jax Cassidy, Contemporary (R)
Christina DeLorenzo, Furturistic Sci-Fi (R)
Maya Doyle, Parnormal Romance (R)
Ginny Glass, Paranormal (R)
Amber Green, Romantic Suspense (R)
Cate Hart, Paranormal YA (R)
Kinsey W. Holley, Erotic Romance (R)
Ali Katz, Erotic Paranormal Romance (R)
Aislinn Kerry, Fantasy (R)
Inez Kelly, Fantasy Romance (R)
Cherrie Lynn, Contemporary Erotic Romance (R)
Mel/Alexia Reed, Urban Fantasy (R)
Rebecca Savage, Romantic Suspense (R)
Fae Sutherland, Contemporary Erotic Romance (R)

Stephanie Adkins, Paranormal Erotic Romance (NC 17)
Evie Byrne, Erotic Historical Romance (NC17)
Ella Drake, Erotic Contemporary (NC17)
Dawn Montgomery, Erotic Paranormal Romance (NC17)
Lauren Murphy, Erotic Romance (NC 17)
Kim Knox, Erotic Paranormal Romance (NC17)
Emily Ryan-Davis, Historical Western Romance (NC17)
Kirsten Saell, Erotic Fantasy Romance (NC 17)
Jeanne St. James, Contemporary Romance (NC 17)

Welcome to my first foray into Excerpt Monday! First, I must thank  our hosts: Mel Berthier and Bria Quinlan. Mel writes Urban Fantasy at a PG-13 rating; Bria, RomCom at PG. I would like to share with you a prologue to the first of the colonial series. This is being cut from the current draft, but will hopefully be enough of a taste to gain your interest.

The rain had finally stopped and little Constance Delaney stood on the long porch of the plantation house and inhaled the fresh after-the-rain smell. It was too crowded inside the home with so many guests milling about. Ever since Mama went to sleep and didn’t wake up everyone was acting strangely. But Connie wasn’t sad. She never cries.

Mama, you told me you’d still be here even when I can’t see you.

A large dragonfly garnered her attention. A bubbly sound escaped her as she chased it. She felt the air beneath her as she jumped off the porch. Her feet sunk in the mud and water splashed up from the puddle. The dragonfly lured her around the corner of the great house and landed on the white rhododendron. What a pretty bug. A murmur of sound eased out of the open window. A familiar voice piqued little Constance’s curiosity, but the tone sounded strange. Papa?

“Dora was my life. What am I supposed to do with two girls?” The muted voiced filled her head. It was her father, but why was he so sad?

“I’ll never love another.” The ensuing sobs rang in her ears. Her brows knit. The insect darted to the next bush. She reached to catch it.

Papa never cries. He always says be strong.

“We wanted so much more from life; she wanted to give me a son. Damn the pox! Now I’ll never get to teach my child how to run the plantation. What difference does it make anyway?” His voice turned sour, giving her an ache in her chest.

Papa can teach me, he said I was a big girl. I don’t want Papa to be sad.

Now the tears came. The salty drops fell from her face and onto the white flowers; the dragonfly flitted away.

Thank you for playing. I’m learning, so bear with me. And check out these other authors:

Kinsey W. Holley, Paranormal (PG)    Babette James, Fantasy Romance (PG13)  Christina DeLorenzo, YA (PG 13)

Caitlynn Lowe, Epic Fantasy (PG)     Nika Dixon, Romantic Suspense (PG 13)  Kaige, Historic Romance (PG-13)

Dara Sorensen, Paranormal (PG)   Bryn Donovan, Paranormal Romance(PG13) Julia Knight, Fantasy Romance (PG 13)

Adelle Laudan, Contemporary Romance (PG 13)  Jeannie Lin, Historical Romance(PG13) RF Long, Paranormal (PG13)

Rebecca Savage, romantic suspense (PG 13)  Crista McHugh, Paranormal Romance (PG 13)

So, I spent of time there tonight. In and out. Not even seen. So, that’s a plus I guess. (Since the patient had improved.)

But we’ve all had our share of that interminable wait. Right?

So, I thought I’d come up with thirteen things to do while waiting in an ER waiting room.

1)Count the fellow waiting patients who are wearing slippers/bedroom clothes. Really. The lady across from me tonight must have been feeling bad or felt that her attire would at least give off the impression she was not well. A satin-lite pajama top. Non matching sweats and blue fuzzy slippers. I prefer the pink fuzzies, personally. At home.

2)Play at the kids table. You know, the one with the metallic sand inside and the magnets on the bottom. It’s fun for about five minutes. That, and my knees/hips couldn’t take the kiddie chair much longer.

3) Watch the weather channel or whatever news station they leave it on and memorize the loops being played.

Now if you do get to be seen before you get to number 4, then you can resume the wait in the examining room. A minute fraction of the time spent is actually face time with staff. Compounded by the fact that each new face asks for the same story. Come on, no communication or reading of the chart?

4) You could count the spatters of, I hope that’s JUST blood, on the privacy curtain.

5)Imagine shapes out of the flecks in the linoleum. Ooh. I see Lincoln’s face.

6)Elevate the bed straight from the floor and when someone comes in pretend to be in a panic and say, “Help! Get me down!”

7) Wear the gown backwards and complain/remark about how cool the air conditing is.

Make a rubber rooster out of a glove.

9) Use the otoscope to look up your nose. Wow. That’s different.

10) Build a ‘log cabin’ with the tongue depressors and see if there is anything to use as ‘little people’ for your new town.

11) Count the tiles in the ceiling.

12)Count the tiles on the floor, again.

13) Play a one sided staring contest with the nurse at the desk ignoring you while she eats. Wow. That’s a big mouth.

Do you have any fun waiting games to add?

It is said that in life, every person you meet has the potential to touch and affect your life; and you, theirs. Yesterday was such a day for me. In my day job, I met a remarkable young woman and her husband. Jennifer and Steve O’Neill. Their pleasant demeanor and open personalities are not the only traits making them so spectacular. Their inr love for eachother, while exceptional and beautiful to behold, and quite inspiring, drew me to them. But their story, their struggle, and their positive attitude: these are what piqued my interest and my compassion.

At  first, it was another report, another patient. “You have a young female patient who has had a bilateral mastectomy.” Further information was given as to the particulars of her care; what was necessary to hear in order to provide her with the plan set forth from the physician. I’m not so callous that just a name or just a diagnosis is how I see my patients. But sometimes, a face, a story to match those benign identifiers makes their case all the more special. She never was just, “the mastectomy in 57. ”

But I went about my day. I did my best as her nurse to serve her. Attended to her pain. Held my breath with her as she saw her chest for the first time. (Jennifer, I really did.) Listened as she told and retold her story.  And became amazed at her fortitude.

Near the end of the day she told me about being on a website for cancer patients and their trials and tribulations.Caringbridge.org
Jennifer

Knowing she’d be discharged home before I arrive to my next shift I gave her and received a beautiful hug wishing her well. And this post is my public prayer for her. Keep me informed, Jen, and I’ll watch for you on Caringbridge!

Thank you for touching my life. As I said, you have affected mine. I’m hopeful I help you in yours.

There  has been much to say on both sides regarding the inclusion or recognition of epubbed, or also known as, digitally published authors. I am working on two submissions right now. One for Samhain and one for The Wild Rose Press. I am unagented. Agents don’t do digital (yet) I do want to make it to print. (part of the allure of TWRP, some do go to print.) But either way, I would like equal representation.

I’m new to these rules and learning the ins and outs of the industry. I, for one, do not understand the rule on advances. It seems that the merits of the work should be what allows it entry for the contest. The nature of electronic publishing and the sheer volume it presents, making it inexpensive to buy, to use, prevents the advance. But if total sales were a value, it wuold surely go to show. I know of a survey asking in which pay range you fit. http://surveys.polldaddy.com/s/904EFBDB8B8B97FD/ Please do excuse my lack of finesse, or of eloquence.

What I so sollemnly want and desire is to share my work. Being paid for it would certainly be nice, but actually, my sole motivation is to share my love of writing with others. I want to have people enjoy something that I provided. What an even greater delight if my peers also recognized my love in my work. (through a contest, of course.)

I AM for change. Only because I can see what is occurring to my friends and fellow authors. Writing is more than just something for fun. I do it because, I have to.

And hopefully, one day, that will included contracts.