Month: July 2011

Shaken Baby Syndrome

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Here in Santa Fe, our clouds have a golden lining.

Snazzy, eh?

So, when I was in Memphis a few weeks ago, talking to the River City Romance Writers (many thanks to LaTessa Montgomery for inviting me!), we had a long and winding conversation. I asked them what they wanted to hear about from me: career path, digital first publishing, writing erotic, writing short, writer’s life? They said, yes.

We ended up talking about all of those things, which made for an interesting conversation.

The thing about being a professional writer, and by that I mean, wanting to make money from your work, is that most discussions about it naturally include both aspects of creativity and considerations about the market. Neither aspect can be escaped. Stories must come from our creative selves. I know there are some authors who say they care nothing about art and treat writing entirely as a business. I suspect they simply view their creativity in a different way. And, no matter how much other writers cling to the purity of art over commercialism, we’d all like to be paid well for our stories. The demands of the market cannot be ignored.

However, I’m a believer in making sure these things occur in the correct order: creativity first, then market. If you put these two things too close together, guess what results? Yes. Shaken baby syndrome.

See, our new stories, or even story ideas, are like infants. They have soft spots in their skulls. Their plot backbones can’t hold up their heads. They can’t stand alone, much less feed or defend themselves. When we have a new story, we must cuddle it close and nourish it. Lots of quiet. Some silliness and fun. Maybe long walks and wordless humming. It’s a special, intimate time.

When your story is new, you can maybe show it to a few special people. The ones you know will coo and tell you how beautiful your baby is. They might cuddle it too and speculate on what a fabulous future your baby might have. Choose these people carefully.

Because there are other people who won’t be so careful. There’s the selfish love-interest who’d just as soon kick your baby into a closet, all the better to have your attention. There’s the careless teenager who criticizes your baby. Worst of all are the industry professionals.

It’s their job – and they’re good at it – to take your baby and shake it. To shake it hard and see if it’s neck snaps. Then they’ll hand it back to you with a sorrowful look and suggest that it might be brain-damaged. They’ll tell you your baby can’t hack it in the market.

Of course it can’t – it’s just a little baby. And now they’ve damaged it. Perhaps fatally.

Now if you grow your baby up, feed it the best nourishment, work with it to make it strong and smart then, when it walks into your agent or editor’s office, it can take a bit of slapping. And likely give back what it gets. Then they give you the happy smile and say, yes! Now this kid has got what it takes. Let’s send her out on the town! She’ll take the city by a storm!

I know this can be difficult, especially when you have an agent. After all, an agent’s job is to look over your babies and tell you which ones might make it and which she thinks you should just smother in their cribs. This happened to a friend of mine. She took her new novel idea – that she was tremendously excited about – to her agent and the agent said, Meh. She said there were too many other kids out there like it. Don’t feed it, she said. Let it die.

My friend isn’t working on it. But I know she still has that baby tucked into a back room and she’s feeding it on the sly. She can’t let it die. She loves it.

I’m totally behind that. I think she should grow this kid up, like the princess hidden away in the deep, dark forest. Then, when she’s sixteen and more beautiful than anyone else in the kingdom, she can trot her daughter out and say, see? Look at *this* kid! She could be Queen of the realm.

So, my point is, baby your new stories. Realize how fragile, how vulnerable they are. It might take a lot of time for them to be strong enough to take the vicious blows of the marketing end. Don’t expose them to that. Protect them. Be good to them. Love them.

Then bring out the tough love and put them through the wringer before they face the world.

Your stories will go on to lead brilliant lives. I just know it.

And Then It Rained

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Rain comes to the Galisteo Basin.

I know a lot of you out there have had WAY TOO MUCH rain, but we so have not. In fact, the first six months of 2011 made for the driest year on record for New Mexico. And for a place that’s already a desert, that’s saying something.

This has been a dry like I’ve never known. Now I know where all the buried soaker hoses run, because only the plants right next to them stayed green. Our skin has itched like crazy with the dry, which no amount of lotion seems to affect.

Then there are the fires. Blazing on the horizon, filling the sky with smoke. Filling our lungs with particulates from Los Alamos that are nevertheless, we are assured, perfectly safe. It’s difficult not to feel the press of the Apocalypse under these conditions.

But, ah, the rain.

This storm filled our rain barrels and soaked the ground. We’ve been hitting 95 every day and having to run the AC through the afternoon, but the rain dropped the temperature to 58. I put on a sweater because the windows had to stay open, to let that sweet, clean, moist air fill the house.

This morning we walked out of the house and David said he smelled smoke, still. I said no, you’re smelling petrichor.

He said, “what the hell is petrichor?”

I scoffed at him. “It’s the smell of rain on dry earth, duh.” (This is only one of the delightful features of living with a writer.)

But it’s a real thing and once you know what that smell is, you’ll always remember how it feels when the rain returns.

Take Back Those Metaphors!

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We went back to Wyoming for the first time in nearly two years, to go camping with David’s family. The landscape felt immediately familiar. Not like going home again, but like recognizing a part of your own body. I suppose Wyoming will always be a large part of me.

I hadn’t realized that before.

A lot of the things we do day-to-day are reflexive. We don’t really think about the influences that shaped us, the expressions we use.

A little while back, I was on a conference call with my boss. She lives in New Hampshire, but grew up in the South. The call was set up by a guy in the company who usually moves in different circles than we do. He brought us together with another company, which planned to bid on a project and needed the expertise my boss and I have. So, most of us don’t know each other – and Laurie and I are the only two women on the call.

He starts off saying, “Why don’t you lead off, [Dan], since this is your wheelhouse.”

She and I are on IM together. So I type to her “Did he say wheelhouse? Is that a boating metaphor?”

She says, “Isn’t it trains?”

I say, “No, no – that’s roundhouse.”

From there they talked about us being in a huddle, running the ball down the field, shooting from outside and loading up the bases. I kept playing “try to guess the sports metaphor.” It took some effort, because I am just so not a sports kind of gal.

The guys didn’t mean to be exclusionary, of course. If we’d pointed it out to them, they’d have been abashed and apologetic. We’ve told this story a few times and a number of men have said that half the time they don’t know what the sports metaphor means either.

But my boss and I have decided to Take Back the Metaphors. It’s time that those of us who did not grow up playing team sports introduce our own views of success. Some possibilities.

“Let’s run that one down the catwalk and see who snaps a picture.”

“With shorter hemline and some creative accessorizing, this could be a whole new project.”

“All we’re doing is slapping a fresh coat of cosmetics over the wrinkles – we need a full facelift here.”

And, offered by my niece while camping in Wyoming:

“That lipstick will never last 12 hours.”

So, please, join our movement. Use the metier of your choice and Take Back that Metaphor!

With a Little Help from My Friends

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The first morning at the RWA conference saw us playing. There’s not much going on that first day, until you get to the Literacy Signing that night. (There’s a great video of the madness that is the Literacy Signing here, if you care to see.)

So, with no need to attend the business meetings, we took off on a long walk with my roommates. The lovely Tawna Fenske already did a blog post (she’s so efficient) about me and Marcella as bunk mates. The thing is, we had a great time together. I wanted to see Rockefeller Center, Tawna wanted to see Central Park.

Of course we did the carriage ride.

Our driver had a lovely Irish accent, too. Amusingly his patter consisted of him pointing out sites where movies had been filmed. Most of which we’d never seen. I finally asked him if he’s a movie buff and he admitted that, no, it was just part of the job. He seemed surprised to be carting around a carriage-full of romance writers, particularly when I told him what I write.

More and more, conference for me is about spending time with friends like this. People I usually only “see” online. Laura Bickle is one of those. She arrived later that day, with just enough time to tie a little wine on before I had to work the registration desk before the signing.
Turns out that’s a great time to work the desk, because a lot of the big authors arrive right before the signing. The best part? They’re all registered under their REAL names.

So when Eloisa James stepped up and I couldn’t find her packet, I had to ask her if she has another, legal name. At this point, they look abashed and glance around to see who’s nearby. She leaned over the desk and said, “…” See, I swore not to tell. But I learned at least five secret identities. And yes, it’s totally enough just to know that I know the secrets.

The other funny thing was that the big speakers, like Diana Gabaldon, were done the great favor of having their registration stuff put in their rooms. Only a lot of them hadn’t BEEN to their rooms yet. Ironically, they couldn’t enter the signing without a name badge. When I told Diana her stuff was in her room, she gave me the terrified puppy-dog eyes. This was half-an-hour before the signing. She was afraid that, if I sent her to check-in and go to her room, she’d never make it through all the people in the lobby.

I ranted once before about how writers will never be rock stars. But Diana Gabaldon at a huge gathering of romance writers and readers? Totally a recognizable rock star.

We printed her up a special name badge. She was charming and grateful.

As I do every year, I also attended the Secrets of the Best-Selling Sisterhood seminar with Jayne Ann Krentz and Susan Elizabeth Phillips. This time I asked how they’ve maintained their friendship over all these years – if they have strategies. They seemed taken aback by the question and I wondered if maybe it wasn’t always easy. Finally they said that they don’t live near enough to irritate each other.
See? Just another reason to value those online friendships.

But it was really lovely to spend some in-the-flesh time with them, too.

Stealing My Own Thunder

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Okay, so, yesterday I told you all about my Attack Cupcake at the Harlequin Party.

I know you’re all still waiting to hear how the big outfit went over. You know, the one I angsted about, that took the combined efforts of at least five people to figure out?

Meh.

I don’t really have any good pics of it, but I’m posting this one that I don’t like for posterity’s sake.

The outfit was fine, I think. It didn’t quite gel, I wasn’t Katy Perry in Gautier, but it was good enough.

Or it would have been, except for Cat Woman.

See, I dressed as Cat Woman for the FFP Gathering (lead pic with the ever vivacious Michelle Miles). It was a crazy evening for me. I made sure The Gathering was set up, went to the Carina Press cocktail party, then back to The Gathering. So I just brazened it out and wore the Cat Woman outfit to the Carina Press cocktail party.

It was a total hit.

I thought I’d get some funny looks and snide remarks, but no. Everyone seemed to think I was making a fabulous statement. I kept explaining I was double-booked – they didn’t care. Angela James said she had the urge to grab my ass, but thought it might be sexual harassment, even though she’s not technically my boss. Thankfully I managed to persuade her that she has ultimate power over whether Carina accepts my work and she refrained. She did, however, attempt to talk me into wearing the Cat Woman costume to the formal Black and White Ball later that night.

“Um, this is not a formal outfit by any stretch,” I said.

“Those are totally formal ears!” they assured me.

The upshot is, I put on my very fancy, extremely complicated, layered outfit, that really did look pretty close to what I’d imagined and everyone was disappointed. Over and over they stopped me saying, “Oh no, why did you take off Cat Woman??”

I would respond, “hey, I worked really hard on this outfit!” And they would say it was nice, but I could tell they didn’t care.

They only wanted Cat Woman.

One woman said to me, “you should have worn that costume – then no one here tonight would ever have forgotten the name ‘Jeffe Kennedy.'”

There’s a moral to this tale, though I’m not sure what it is. Any guesses?

Would you have worn Cat Woman to the formal ball?

The Tale of the Attack Cupcake

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Thanks to the hysterically funny Victoria Dahl for this pic of me at the Harlequin party. Yes, this was well after midnight. I still like it.

I talked a little bit about the RWA Conference on Word Whores on Sunday. I’ll keep filling in with the stories this week. But since I already started with the Harlequin party on Word Whores, I’ll finish telling you all about that.

So, I headed over to the Harlequin party late. This is because I was at The Gathering through the PRISM ceremony. (Petals and Thorns took second place – alas no trophy for me! It was still a way fun party.) I dashed out of there, changed clothes, and went down to the taxi stand. The bell captain was loading another group of gals into a cab, so I waited. This pretty young woman walked up to me and asked if I was going to the Harlequin party and would I like to share a cab. We laugh, because we’re both dressed in black and white, so the “going to the HQ Black & White Ball” is such an obvious flag. I am, of course, delighted to share the taxi ride.

She introduces herself: Nalini Singh.

Yeah – way famous, mega selling author Nailini. And, it turns out, nicest person in the world.

We chat on the ride. When we get to the Waldorf-Astoria, she sticks with me and introduces me to people. I got pulled away at one point and lost her. Later I ran into her again and I apologized for poofing. She laughs and says that’s how these parties are. Then she asks if everyone is being nice to me.

Everyone was so great to me.

This party was AMAZING. The DJ played every girl power song you can think of while everyone danced barefoot or in our party-favor Harlequin footy socks. I had a mini-chocolate eclair with gold leaf on it. The coffee stations had bottles of liqueur lined up to be added to your cup at will. I drank flute after flute of champagne. There were stations manned by handsome young men where you could build your own ice cream cone or cupcake.

After lots of dancing, I decided I deserved a cupcake. I chose a red velvet cupcake and the handsome young man swirled cream cheese frosting on it with a pastry bag, then added my choice of chocolate shavings. It was a thing of beauty.

Proudly I carried it, and my champagne up to this balcony area. There I see Candy Havens. We hug. We chat. I feel my plate wobble. We both watch my special cupcake tumble from the plate and splat, icing-down, on the carpet.

We start to giggle. Yeah, who invited us to the fancy party?

I recover and reach to pick it up, but even as I do, this woman facing away from us, taking a photograph, takes a step back to position herself. Candy and I watch in impotent horror as her stiletto heel impales the crumpled cupcake, then rides off with her as she strides away.

We totally lost it. Gasping with laughter, we are unable to stop her, to tell her. She disappears into the crowd.

And, of course, because we were laughing so hard, I hadn’t picked up the frosting splat before another bare-footed guest stepped squarely in it.

Alas.

Oh, and I did get another cupcake. After I cleaned up the first.

I sat down to eat it.