In RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME, first book in my Rainbow Rock series, Meg Taylor returns to the town where she, her friend Sally, and their buddy Little Jimmy McAllister were high school buddies. She finds much has changed in ten years. This scene occurs at a local community fair, which Meg attends with Sally and her family, when she spots a man she has seen (she thinks) only once before.

She looked up...and saw him again.

He was in the dunk tank, his back to her, his impressive body bare except for swimming trunks and speckled by the spotty, late-afternoon light that filtered through the cottonwoods, his lion's mane wet and dripping behind him. Meg immediately recognized the man from the bluff; her breath caught in her throat as she turned in his direction. His golden skin was damp and glistening, his hair dark with moisture. Walking without feeling her feet, Meg approached from behind the cage, drawn inexplicably forward as if she knew him, as if she had always known him. Her lips parted and one hand rose involuntarily, as if to touch that warm, damp flesh.

"Meg!" Frank's voice startled her out of her spell. He was in the crowd just to the side of the tank.

Reluctantly Meg looked up.

"I thought we'd lost you!" Frank called, adding, "We're having some watermelon before we leave. Meet us there when you're ready."

Meg nodded as Frank disappeared into the crush. She looked quickly back at the golden man, fearing that Frank's shouted conversation had attracted his attention, fearing even more that he had simply vanished, a figment of her imagination. As she turned, he did vanish. She gasped, and then realized that the boy in front of the booth had struck a bull's-eye.

The crowd roared as the man's perfect form dropped from sight, raising a plume of water that overflowed the tank. He came up sputtering, taunting the crowd, and Meg caught a glimpse of his profile as he turned. I have to see his face. It was more a drive than a thought, and it propelled her between the booths to the front of the tank. She arrived just as he climbed out, his back to her, a towel thrown across his broad shoulders.

"Ya done good, Jim!" someone called.

"Thanks, Tom," he answered. The sound of his voice caused a warm curling in her belly. Astonished at herself, Meg pushed through the crowd, drawing near. Then there he was, an arm's reach away.

He was tall, with a face just as fascinating as the rest of him--a strong jawline, boldly chiseled cheekbones, and a straight, patrician nose leading to a shy, slightly crooked grin. His features were also strangely familiar, almost as if she did know him, and yet she couldn't--could she? And yet there was something about his eyes...
He looked up as she approached, smiling tentatively, then paused, studying her. "Peggy? Peggy Taylor?"

Meg gasped.

The man stepped toward her. "Peggy?" he asked again. "It is you, isn't it?"

She stared, sure she should know the face, but unable to fit it to the body, or the name. Then she knew.

"Jimmy? Little Jimmy McAllister?" She barely recognized her own voice as it poured out like honey.

He stepped forward, reaching as if to embrace her, but then he let his hands drop to his sides. "It's great to see you."

"I, uh . . ." Words eluded her. "You are Little Jimmy, aren't you?"

He grinned, absently toweling his splendid chest. "Yeah, but no one calls me little anymore."

"No." She couldn't stop her eyes from doing a thorough, appreciative inventory. "I can see why not. What happened?"

"I grew." He shrugged. "We McAllisters are late bloomers." He returned the scrutiny. "The years have been good to you, too." The moment thickened as the one-time friends studied each other. "What are you doing back in Rainbow Rock?" Jim asked as he toweled his arms, hands, and throat.

Meg followed his hands with her eyes, suddenly imagining the feel of that warm skin. She flushed. "I, uh, I came to help Sally with her babies. I'm staying with the Garcias."

"That's good," Jim said. "Sally can use the help. I can't understand why she didn't mention you, though."

Meg was wondering the same thing. "My plans were only certain a couple of days ago. I asked her not to tell anyone I was coming."

"Not even the third musketeer?" His look sizzled through her, warmer than the July afternoon.

Meg gulped to catch her breath. "I didn't realize you'd still be around. Didn't you go away to school?"

"Arizona State," he answered, nodding. "Tempe isn't that far away."

"Then you came back?" Meg looked around her. "To here?"

Jim's grin straightened. "I came home."

Moments and years yawned between them, reminders of differences too wide to span. Meg sighed. "So you're working on the farm again?"

Jim's features tensed, an expression so brief Meg wasn't sure she'd seen it. "No. I help out occasionally, but my brother Chris is the farmer, and Kurt helps too. I'm more into commerce, myself. And you? What are you up to these days?"

"Management training, a consultant with Montgomery Adams Seminars."

"Now that sounds like the Peggy Taylor I remember."

"I'm called Meg now."

"Meg?" He tasted the name. "That doesn't sound like you."

She smiled indulgently. "It's all that sounds like me anymore--to me, anyway."

Again the silence stretched. "Say, are you busy this evening?"

RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME is now available as an e-boook for Kindle, Nook, Apple, Smashwords and scribd.com.

Fabulous Firenze

Last month I went to Italy in search of a man I have learned to love. My husband promises he won't be jealous since "the other man" died the same year Chris Columbus arrived in the New World, but he's right that I am fascinated by my new Italian interest.

When I first began reading about Lorenzo di Medici, I couldn't believe he was quite the powerhouse his biographers painted him to be. The first biography began with the statement: "Here was a man born in the Middle Ages who died in the Renaissance. The difference between them was his lifetime."

Really? This man brought the Renaissance all by himself? It didn't seem likely. So I started hunting for the real Lorenzo di Medici, and as it turns out, he probably did.

There are watershed moments in the world's history when all the right people come together in the same place at the same time to effect major change. One such happened when Adams, Franklin, Washington, Jefferson, and a host of others each brought genius, personality, and grit to the founding of the world's first new nation.

Another such time happened in Florence, Italy at the beginning of the Renaissance when a group of geniuses--true "Renaissance men" as we've come to know them--gathered to change the world. And change it they did.

My buddy Lorenzo (we're chummy now; I call him Larry) was at the heart of it, using his own experience as a poet, statesman, architect and artist to recognize genius in others and his great resources as the richest man in the world to bring them together in one place. His actions as a statesman and diplomat created the period of peace in the Republic of Florence that allowed that collection of brilliance to shine and he used his influence to export what was happening in Florence to much of the known world.

In one superb illustration of his influence, he took 13-year-old Michelangelo from the studio where he was studying fresco painting, brought in a tutor (the 92-year-old last known student of Donatello) and created a sculpture school, making Michelangelo one of the first students. When M's father objected to his son "becoming a craftsman" and made his life difficult, Lorenzo took him into his own home as a foster son. Without Lorenzo, there'd have been no Michelangelo.

So I became a believer: Lorenzo di Medici was the architect of the Renaissance. That alone was enough reason to want to know him better. Then as I started thinking of what that sharp right turn in the history of the world had meant to human beings ever since, I began to realize what a critical role he had played in making my life (and everyone else's) what it is today. I said "I have to write about this" and I went in search of Lorenzo di Medici.

I found him. I walked in buildings he designed, touched art he commissioned, sat and pondered in his personal office, prayed in his personal chapel, and stood reverently at his grave. I feel I know him now.

"The Medici book," as my family has come to call it, is still on the back burner while I do more reading and study--and, incidentally, finish two other books I'm already working on, but it will happen and it will be the biggest and best fiction project I have ever undertaken.

Stay tuned. My buddy Larry and I have much more to share.

The Decision?

So I've decided to drop the daily blog and just drop in here now and then when I have something to share. Right now I'm excited about:

• The ANWA writers' conference coming up next month. I have an entry in the BOB (beginning of book) contest and I'm interviewing an agent to rep my work to NY.
• A great trip I'm planning in March: almost three weeks researching Lorenzo di Medici and the Renaissance in Florence, Tuscany and Rome. Oh yeah!
• The LDS Storymakers conference in May and another chance to interview a great agent.
• Getting my Rainbow Rock books up in digital format. Cool!

Whoever you are and whatever your writing goals, I can only wish for you as many exciting projects as I have going on right now. Happy new year!

To Blog or Not to Blog?

For some time now I have wondered about the efficacy of maintaining this blog. It takes time; it takes patience; it takes knowing something to write about. Mostly it takes away time and energy from the other writing I need to do if I wish to remain an author -- and I do.

I conducted a small experiment by simply not having a new blog post yesterday and waiting to see if anyone noticed. Though some of you may have noticed unofficially, no one said anything. Therefore, officially, the missing blog was not noticed at all.

This leaves me in a quandary. If some of you follow me regularly, appreciate my observations about the writing-publishing business, and wish me to continue, I'm yours. If no one really cares, I'm outta here.

In other words, if you have an opinion, please let me know. You can send me direct email at susan.aylworth.author@gmail.com or you can leave a comment on this page. I'll be watching thoughout this week and waiting to see what you have to say with a yes or no decision coming soon. Either way, thanks for being there for me these past months and have a great 2012.

New Year; New Blog

When I began this blog last year, I gave myself a fairly structured schedule for what I would choose as topics with a different category for each day of the week. I mostly stuck to it, too.

As we begin a new year, I am seeking to "emancipate myself from mental slavery" (apologies to the ghost of Bob Marley), and I'm freeing my blog, too. This will become my personal free-for-all, with room to comment on writing and the creative life but many other topics as well. I hope you'll come along for the journey.

May you all enjoy a happy, peaceful and prosperous 2012!

Sympathetic, not Pathetic

The title harkens back to my subject of this end-of-the-year blogging: how we write sympathetic -- never pathetic -- main characters. Author Mary Lynn Mercer has an excellent blog on the subject, written in 2003. For today's web tip, let me send you to her. She is working with the exact character traits and problems I've been discussing here, and she does a nice job with good examples. Check her out!

2011 Top Ten

How do we make sense of the years? News outlets are famous for their lists of important events. Although I suspect that doesn't begin to touch what a specific year may mean to us, I'm willing to offer up my list of the top ten events of 2011 for my own family:

• 1. Top of the top has to be the birth of a new grandson. Welcome, Vaughn Arthur Aylworth, born September 12, 2011.

• 2. Right up there behind Vaughn comes AylaPalooza IV. This biannual reunion has become a family tradition and treasure. This year we had extra family, but among our children, kids-in-law and grandkids, the only one missing was Austin, our oldest grandchild, who is serving a full-time mission in Chile. He's exempt because of his circumstance. Everyone else was there and we had a wonderful time.

• 3. Next for me is birthdays -- lots of birthdays for the wonderful people we enjoyed at AP IV. You all know who you are!

• 4. This was the year when I joined LDS Storymakers, attended the national conference, and became more involved with my writing than I've been in a while.

• 5. I also joined ANWA (American Night Writers; long story), attended their national conference, and got involved there as well.

• 6. Through very little fault of my own, I got elected to the Board of Directors of LDS Storymakers, and I've met some wonderful people who both inspire and help my writing.

• 7. I finished the manuscript for A SECRET FAMILY RECIPE, got it to my editors at Covenant, and had it approved for publication -- sometime in 2013.

• 8. Although I already mentioned birthdays, one stands out: I got to see my dad celebrate his 89th. This means he has outlived both his parents and all his older siblings, and he was there to enjoy my kids and grandkids at AylaPalooza, celebrating with us. You go, Dad!

• 9. I made the decision to write about Lorenzo di Medici, sketched out the basic plot for a story, and have spent the year doing online and book research. Next March I will go to Florence to do more in-person research. So cool!

• 10. Tied for tenth are a number of smaller items: little trips away with my honey, visits to see grandbabies, seeing friends' books do well in the market, watching my sweet old dog show affection to my sweet little granddaughter . . . I've a thousand such moments, all precious.

To everyone who made this year a little more special, to all of you who follow my ramblings, to all who read my books, THANK YOU. This has been quite a year -- and the next one can only be better.

Back to the Sympathy Question

I hope your Christmas was merry. Happy Boxing Day! (at least for the Canadians and Aussies in our midst).

As promised, I'm meandering a little farther into that question of what makes a character sympathetic and when she becomes simply pathetic. A novelist friend told me she likes to put her characters "through hell" before she lets them have a happy ending. That certainly works -- sometimes.

As a popular example of what has worked, let's look at the Harry Potter series. When we first meet Harry, he's a 10-year-old orphan, turning 11, living under the stairs in an abusive situation where cousin Dudley is king. As the series progresses, we see him go through a variety of emotional and physical tortures at Hogwart's, in company with the Order of the Phoenix, and finally, in an all-out war. Surely Harry is put through hell before he gets his happy ending.

Of course along the way there are humorous, fun moments, discoveres of joyous wonder and delight, fast friendships solidified, and an array of successful, happy moments as well as the dark ones.

But what if we had skipped Hagrid and the trip to Hogwart's, Nearly Headless Nick and Dumbledore, and had spent the whole first book watching Harry suffer abuse at the hands of his reluctant relatives on Privet Drive? My guess? There never would have been a second book or the Harry Potter phenomenon that has enthralled the world. We want to see people triumph over terror and tragedy. Watching victims while they endlessly suffer is a different kind of torture, not an enjoyable reading experience.

Perhaps the question is part pacing (How much shall I let him suffer here before I cut off this scene?) and part balance (That torment she just went through was terrible. I need to give her a triumph equal to it before we move on.) I suspect it all comes down to knowing our audience: what they want, how much sad they will endure before a moment of comic relief, how much sorrow they can handle before we give them joy. It's a delicate balance, but well worth learning.

My Gratitude Journal: Birthdays

Part of me (the part I see in the mirror, I think) would sincerely love to freeze time in place, have all the fun I'm having, but never grow any older. Come to think of it, I should have done that a few decades back!

But never mind that. It's one of the truisms of life that we either grow older or we don't. Princess Diana is one of those who will never grow any older. We will always remember her young and beautiful, looking like the queen she might have been. Given that's the only other option we have, I'm grateful for growing older. I'm grateful for birthdays.

As I passed mine this week, I thought of a man I knew years ago when the dh and I lived in Bridgeport, Connecticut. "Ron" had been a combat soldier in Vietnam and had lived through some harrowing scenes. As he approached his Halloween-time birthday, he told us, "Ever since 'Nam, I have promised myself that I'd celebrate every birthday as a gift I might never have had."

Ron had the right idea. We may not appreciate the wrinkles, the changing jawline, the once near-black hair that's now silver unless we cover it, but if we love our lives (and how could I not? I've been so blessed!), we have to appreciate every birthday we get.

As a kid, I never bemoaned my Christmas-time natal day. I came home from the hospital on Christmas Day and my dad has often claimed I was his best birthday present ever. As people around me put up decorations and glittery lights, I always felt they were celebrating with me, and everybody got into the season. When you think about it, some Pretty Important Folks celebrate their birthdays in the same week as I have mine, and that's worth celebrating, too.

This week I'm thankful for birthdays, for every one of them I've shared with the wonderful people I love, and for every one I may yet have in store. As we celebrate one important Birthday this weekend, I wish you all a very merry Christmas.

Feeding the Soul

So I mentioned that I like dramatic stories with heavy emotional content. The one I'm working on right now has all that and more. It's set in the Victorian era (1850s and '60s) in Australia. James is an English Protestant; Eliza and her friend, Molly, are Irish Catholics. Despite the differences, James has set out to court Eliza.

Both women work as domestics and only have Thursday evenings free. Because their employer is Protestant, she insists that they skip their dinner (in Australia, "tea") if they wish to go to mass -- and of course, considers herself magnanimous for letting them go at all. After the first Thursday evening, when James visits with hungry Eliza, he makes a small correction before his next visit. Here's what happens:

James grinned at her gratefully and sat down next to Eliza on the side porch swing. Then he produced a small package wrapped in paper. “I’ve a small gift for ye, Eliza.”

“Ah, James, ye know I can’t accept –“

“You can accept this one,” he said. He untied the string and a pair of warm meat pies sat there between them, so fragrant Eliza thought she might almost be able to eat the smell.

“Oh! They smell delicious! James, how did you --?”

“When we sat here together last week, I heard yer stomach growl.”

Eliza blushed. “I’m sorry. I –“

“After I left, I got to thinkin’ about what time ye leave for mass and when Mrs. Pembroke likes to serve tea. When Cooper and Elsie came in to pick up the grocery order, I asked Cook if what I suspected was true, and she told me the two of you go hungry every Thursday, just so you can attend mass. Is that true?”

“Aye, sure ‘n it is, but I can’t have ye feeding me, James.”

“I bought two meat pies. I thought perhaps I could share a meal with you.”

Eliza looked around, saw Molly sitting a few yards away. “James, if ye don’t mind too much, I’d like t’ share my pie with Molly. She is powerful hungry, as she went without dinner, too.”

James’ expression fell. “How foolish of me. I never thought.” He called out, “Molly girl! Come over here and eat! I’ve food for ye.”

When Molly arrived, smiling brightly, James handed one pie to Eliza and the other to Molly. “I already ate a full dinner,” he explained. “Missus Hogan had me over tonight. I only brought the second pie so we could share, but I can’t eat it if I see either of you two going hungry…”

“We can’t eat in front of you,” said Eliza.

“I can!” Molly eagerly took one pie from the package, made the sign of the cross in a quick prayer of thanksgiving, and began to eat greedily.

“I s’pose we can.” Eliza chuckled as she ducked her head and crossed herself, giving thanks. Then she turned to her benefactor. “Thank ye too, James. This is a great kindness.”

James’ lips twitched in a wry smile. “It seemed the Christian thing to do.”

Stay tuned to hear more about James and Eliza. I think you'll enjoy them.

Birthday!

Paraphrasing Leslie Gore:

It's my birthday. I'll slack off if I want to.

Yeah, that was bad, but the point remains. It IS my birthday, and I feel like slacking off, so here is what I propose: Go do a great web search (try "fiction writing + tips" or "writing historical fiction" or some combination of similar words) and see what you turn up that looks useful. Then add the URL to the comments section. Any of us who read you can benefit.

So what am I pulling here, getting you to do my day's work for me? Well, yeah, I suppose so. Then again, it really is my birthday . . .

What I Like

So what's the difference between sympathetic and simply pathetic? We've already said it may be in the eyes or mind of the beholder -- at least to some degree. Today I want to share the kinds of stories I love to read, and the sorts I want to write:

• I like stories with heart, stories with emotion. Not for me the Transformers II sort of tale that tends to be "like a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." Come to think of it, that "tale told by an idiot" may sometimes be a bit too apt.

• I like stories about real (or at least realistic) people who find themselves in unusual circumstances and either rise to the challenge or find crumble beneath its weight. For me, one of the hallmarks of the Harry Potter series was the fact that, magic or no, the characters there still had to make the same kinds of difficult choices, face the same sorts of physical and psychological threats, and deal with the same character challenges that many real, historical, non-magical folks have dealt with over the years, and especially in times of war. Were my parents any less threatened by the spectre of Adolph Hitler than the students at Hogwart's were threatened by Voldemort? Was either bad guy any less a megliomaniac?

• I love a story of deep, sometimes shattering (but real, please?) emotions -- love, hate, pleasure, pain, greed, lust, altruism. Old Testament tales and Shakespeare's sagas shared in plays have nothing on the good storytellers of our day.

• I want the good guys to win. Yes, they may well go through a metaphysical underworld before they come out on the hilltop, but if the bad guys win, what was the point of telling that story at all? (P.S. - I absolutely hated the movie "The Perfect Storm." Why get me caring about all those people if not a single one of them was going to make it in the end?) Sorry about the spoiler.

• I love the kind of story where people overcome challenges that seem much larger than themselves. Perhaps that's why I admire Scarlett O'Hara despite some of the maddeningly selfish decisions she made. She lived through war, hunger and devastation and not only survived, but thrived. Now, if she'd only been kinder to the people around her . . .

Let's face it: I love stories. The more intensely real and emotional, the better they are. And you?

Sympathetic? Or Just Pathetic?

A writer friend and I have been discussing how far we can take the drama in our books before it becomes melodrama. When does a story go from touching to overly sentimental? And how much can a character be forced to endure before he (she) moves from being a sympathetic character we want to cheer on into a pathetic creature we no longer wish to hear about?

In a way the answer is like the famous Supreme Court decision on what is obscene: We know it when we see it.

For instance, there was a great deal of drama (a created, exaggerated situation, but still real drama) in the first three Twilight movies. Friends who have seen it (I haven't yet) tell me the fourth film (yes, the much-awaited Breaking Dawn, Part I) is shot in soap opera style with every line of dialogue getting extra time for pauses and long camera shots at the characters' eyes. The differences seemed so huge to one friend that she asked if the fourth film had a different director -- and she's a musician, not usually given to noticing such things in film.

In some other respects, it's a matter of personal taste. I can usually go through half a box of tissues before I find something "overly" sentimental. My son John is ready to leave the theater the first time someone on the screen or anywhere in the theater sniffles.

Mostly we know what we like, we know what makes us comfortable or un-, excited or not, fulfilled in our reading experience or wishing we could get back not only the money we spent, but the time it took us to read as well.

Still it's a worthwhile question to explore. For the coming days, I'm going to spend time in this blog exploring it. I invite your comments as well.

My Gratitude Journal: Holidays

This week I'm thankful for holidays. Actually, I'm thankful for them whenever they happen, but this week I decided to blog about it.

I'm thankful for this past Thanksgiving which saw 51 loved faces, all but one of them close relatives, all sharing our Thanksgiving dinner. I'm grateful for the week around the actual day, which turned into one of the best family reunions (we call them AylaPaloozas) we have ever had.

I'm grateful for all the people who made big sacrifices to join us, who contributed to the meals and the cooking, the costs and the fun, and who made the experience what it was for all of us. I'm grateful to my son, Adam, who somehow figured out how to host all 50+ of us and even prepared venison stew for the whole crowd.

I deeply appreciate my daughter's in-laws, the Wrights, who vacated their home so we could use it and then turned the keys over to our family. My daughter and her family stayed there, of course, but so did the dh and I and my aging parents had their own room and bathroom, a fact that enabled their trip to join us at AylaPalooza IV.

I'm grateful for the coming holiday as well, and for everything that Christmas means. This year the dh and I made a little pilgrimage of our own. The first shopping trip of the season was looking for an outdoor nativity scene that we can put on our front lawn to honor this holiday. We finally found one and we're looking forward to setting it up soon. I'm grateful for stores that still carry nativity scenes.

I'm thankful for the great year this has been with a new grandson born and the family all together, and as I look forward to another great one with another grandbaby due, I'm especially grateful for the people who go through this life with me and make it an enjoyable journey.

I'm grateful for holidays, and I'm grateful for all of you. May you enjoy the coming season and find the New Year blessed.

No Name-Calling!

In Monday's post I mentioned the common error of name-calling -- no, not dirty names, but having the characters repeat one another's names whenever they speak in dialogue. It doesn't happen often in real life, although I have a friend who makes a point of putting my name into almost every sentence he speaks. In fiction, it sounds weak and amateurish. I have to admit, though, that it's something I often do in first draft writing and have to catch in revision.

This week's excerpt comes from EASTWARD TO ZION, my first historical. In this conversation James Martin and Eliza Wells are just getting to know one another. He is English, she Irish, and they've met in Australia. James has made a comment about his mother and Eliza responds with a gasp. The first draft of this was full of name-calling; this draft seems a little better. See what you think:

James patted her hand. “Tell me about it?”

Eliza nodded, still trying to regain her composure. “We’d all agreed that it was best for me to leave home to find work,” she began, “and after I’d looked around the nearby town of Castlebar a bit, we knew I’d probably have to go as far as England and possibly farther in order to make a future for myself. I s’pose I knew that, going that far away, I’d likely never see my home again, but I thought my ma would still be there, y’know? That I’d get letters and be able to write back to her, telling her about my life?”

James nodded reassurance, still holding her hand.

“She took ill the day I was to leave. I wanted to delay, but she said no, it was just a minor illness and I should go ahead as planned. I left, but I wasn’t pleased with it. Da sent a letter that caught up to me in Southampton just days after I got there. He told me she’d died suddenly the day after I left her, and she was askin’ for me at the end.”

“He shouldn’t have told ye that,” James said, solemnly shaking his head. “Ye couldn’t do a thing about it then, and knowing it didn’t help you any.”

“I believe Da thought it would be a comfort that Ma was thinkin’ of me.” Eliza wiped tears.

“I didn’t mean to speak ill of your father. It’s just … well, you don’t seem to be very comforted.”

“No, I don’t s’pose it was a comfort, after all.” They sat together while Eliza sniffed and wiped more tears and James held her hand. “I miss her so,” she said after a moment.

“I know,” he answered. “I miss my mother, too.”

I may still revise it further to include even less name-calling, but it seems to be coming along now. Let me know if you'd like to see changes.

Best Fiction Writing Tips

On Wednesdays I try to bring you the best of the web for writing purposes. This week I found a doozy.

It's 101 Best Fiction Writing Tips from the "Write it Sideways" web source. The link I'm giving you here takes you to Part I, but the links for three additional parts are at the bottom.

Some of the ideas will sound familiar; they're repeated on every good writing web site and I've also included a few of them here. Others may give you cause for pause, or even a new perspective on how you are proceeding with your own work.

I commend them all to you and hope you find them useful.

I LOVE Christmas!

Of all the holidays I truly love, Christmas is my favorite, but if I'm being honest, I have to admit it's something of a love-hate relationship. So for the benefit of any of you who may feel the same way, here's my list:

• I LOVE the spirit of the season.
  I hate (or at least, greatly dislike) the rush-rush, hurry-hurry, spend-spend part of it all.
  

• I love the Greatest Story Ever Told, the story of the birth of Jesus Christ.
  
• I dislike the fact that so much of what we see and hear at Christmas time completely misses "the reason for the season."
  
• I love Christmas music, especially sweet older carols, hymns and triumphant songs. "O Come All Ye Faithful" and the "Halleujia Chorus" are up there with my favorite music of all time. I also love that wherever you go during this season, the canned music is Christmas favorites.
  
• I dislike that the canned music we hear everywhere seldom includes a carol, hymn or song of triumph. Instead of "Away in a Manger," we tend to get "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer."
  
• I love the spirit of giving that seems even to reach the Scrooges and Grinches among us.
  
• I dislike that that spirit of giving gets turned into giving diamonds, luxury cars, and even small electronics that cost more than I put down on my first home.
  
• I love that we all seem to show greater care for the less fortunate around us.
  
• I dislike that it takes a holiday to get many of us to care.
  
• I love gaudy Christmas decorations and beautifully appointed trees and Christmas paper and ribbons.
  
• I dislike that we have so much mess left to clean up and dispose of as the holiday comes to a close.
  
• I love favorite holiday foods.
  
• I dislike extra holiday pounds.

So you see, for me it's all about the love-hate that goes along with this time of year. Whether you agree with me or not, I hope your holiday is memorable and lovely. May you have a merry, merry Christmas this year.

Amateur Mistake We All Make

So you want to be a novelist and you are writing the greatest story anyone ever wrote, or at least a good story you'd like to read. Great!

The good news is, if you are smart, savvy and determined, you may in fact become a published novelist whose work will be read by many others and not just your mom. The bad news is, unless you are exceptionally talented, well studied and alert, you are probably making many of the newbie mistakes that all the rest of us made (and sometimes still make) when we're just getting started. Here are a few I've made and a few that always mark a manuscript -- to me, anyway -- as amateur work.

1. Telling, Not Showing

One of my ultimate favorite rules for writers is the exact opposite of this: Show, don't tell. So your main character (MC) is nervous? Don't TELL me, "Joan was nervous." Say something like, "Joan felt her breath coming faster, less evenly. Her hands shook so hard, she had to put them in her pockets so no one else would notice. She kept breathing in short, shaky little gasps." You won't have to tell us; we'll know.

2. Using the Passive Voice

What exactly does that mean? There are complex descriptions, but the basis is this: You're in passive voice when you show the object receiving the action ("The ball was hit") rather than showing the actor doing the action ("Larry hit the ball"). It's another way of removing the reader from what's going on, something you never want to do.

3. Doing Too Much Name-Calling in Dialogue

I've been guilty of this one myself, but usually in the first draft stage. I try to be good at catching it in revision. Here's a quick example of what I mean:

"Hi, Ed."
"Hello there, James."
"So, is it warm enough for you, Ed?"
"Ha-ha, James. You know I hate the heat.
And yeah, it sounds just that bad when you overdo it in your own book. Ugh. Thank goodness for revision!

Overdoing the Modifiers

All of us who learned to type (or keyboard) remember that "the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy yellow dog," but when every noun is preceded by two or three adjectives and the adverbs start being tossed around liberally, it not only becomes tiring for readers, it can even confuse the point we're trying to get across. An excellent way to cut down on modification is to use specific nouns and carefully chosen verbs: Not "The very fit athlete walked really, really fast toward the lake," but "The Olympic medalist speed-walked toward the lake." One writing teacher told me to "use the exact right words, sparingly." I got the point.

Overdoing the Drama

A friend once cajoled me into reading her first manuscript. I got maybe half-way when I had to ask her, "Doesn't anything good EVER happen to your characters?" She didn't realize that making her character a victim who suffered at everyone's hands, who made nothing but bad choices and had nothing but evil occur in her life did NOT make the MC sympathetic; it made her seem like a wimpy, tragic doormat who couldn't make a good choice, even (literally) to save her life. It was NOT a fun reading experience.

The good news is this friend was willing to learn, believed me, and made some powerful changes that greatly increased the quality of her work.

The point here is, if you're a newbie and you're making newbie mistakes, forgive yourself, learn from the experience, and move on. You just may become the novelist you hope to be.

My Gratitude Journal: Reading

Where do writers get started? I'm not sure that's always clear, but one thing is clear: At least most writers begin as readers and work from there. Today I'm grateful for the opportunities I've had to read.

It started early for me. Even before I could speak, I could sit in a parent's lap to have stories read to me. My dad still remembers how upset I became when he started reading "The Tawny, Scrawny Lion" (which he had memorized word for word by then) from a different Little Golden Book. I knew which story went with which cover -- even if he didn't.

In grade school, when the teachers didn't know what to do with me (an event which occurred with great frequency), they sent me to the classroom bookshelves and then to the school library to find something to read. I worked my way through dozens of "chapter books" by the end of fourth grade.

Junior high gave me a bigger library and new books I hadn't seen yet. In seventh grade I read my way through several huge historicals by Thomas B. Costain (THE BLACK ROSE and THE SILVER CHALICE are two of my favorites) and dozens of other adult-level novels. I finished out that year with my first read-through of GONE WITH THE WIND.

By high school I was having fun with Shakespeare while most of my peers wondered why he wrote in such funny language. Let's face it: I was a nerd, a book nerd par excellence.

Still I can't help but wonder what if I hadn't had so much good material to read and so many people encouraging me to read it? I don't like to ponder that thought.

Instead I've made a point of making books available and (I hope) interesting to my children and now, to their children. One of my sons is following me in pursuit of becoming a writer (Sorry, Paul!) and who knows which among my grandchildren may yet catch the muse?

I only hope they learn to love reading as much as I always have.

Nature Can Be Nasty

BENEATH SIERRA SKIES was not only my first book, but my best effort at the people-vs-nature plot. Of course, a story is more complicated when there are a few other things going on as well. Let me share a short segment from the book as an example.

In this scene, Robin and Brandon have been stranded by a plane crash which has left them both with minor, but debilitating injuries. They have lost their location devices so nobody knows where to find them and they've been unable to get any kind of signal out. They have made a shelter in the body of the airplane and are just waking up on their sixth day, awakening to the call of nature, when this scene takes place. It suggests a little more of what is happening in this story:

The wind was howling furiously, clawing at their precarious shelter and driving a heavy snowfall with it. It was a blizzard, the first since their accident.

“Damn, I have great timing,” Robin said aloud.

“Hmm? What?” Brandon awoke slowly.

“Nothing,” Robin answered, her voice dripping disappointment as she trembled with the cold. “It’s just... we’re having a storm.”

Brandon, who still slept with his arm in a sling, edged up on his good elbow and looked out the window. “Um. Looks like a bad one.”

“I don’t think we’re going to have a hot breakfast.”

“No.” The wind roared and Brandon lay down again, drawing Robin close. “Looks like we’re just going to have to stay here and find ways to keep warm.” He nuzzled her hair and she felt a little thrill run through her.

“Down, boy,” she said, pulling away a little.

He grinned lazily. “Suit yourself. It just seemed like a good way to pass the time.”

Oh yeah. They have their work cut out for them.