Writing and Reading Romances in the Age of Relationships

So, this post isn’t exactly related to the craft, but it does have to do with how reading and writing romance affects our relationships, an issue that I have always wondered about.Like many of you, romance has been a part of my heart and soul for as long as I can remember. All of the stories I created, whether in my head or on paper, had some romantic element to them. It was the uumph, the glue, the substance of my story. Sure, I could write a mystery or a horror tale, but why not throw together a couple who yearns for each other to make things interesting.When I first started reading romances, I was a newlywed. I can still remember going to the bookstore, glancing around to make sure no was looking and then sneaking into the romance aisle like a wraith. I blushed like a school girl when I saw the bodice-ripping covers and half-naked men gracing some of the covers.Eventually, I got over my self-consciousness (obviously). Now, I stand proudly in the romance aisle, giving whomever dares challenge me the big ol’ hairy eyeball. Usually it’s all in my head, but it makes me feel tough anyway.What I noticed, when I began reading and writing romances, was that I started comparing the heroes in the stories to my own husband. My hubby is my center; he’s my rock. But, his idea of a romantic evening includes watching NASCAR. Sitting in my big armchair, my heart went pitter-pat as the hero professed his undying love to the heroine, all the while reciting a laundry list of all of the cute, wonderful things he loved about her. Then, I would turn to look at my husband, lying sprawled out on the couch, barely conscious, dirty from the garage, scratching himself. .lThere were so many times I almost brained him with the book. Or lamp. Whatever.It got to the point that when we argued, I would think, "Well, John Q. Hero wouldn’t say that to me!" Which is asinine and ridiculous, I know, but, hey, I was twenty. Cut me some slack.In my naivety, I considered ceasing the genre altogether. Of course, I couldn’t do that anymore than I could stop breathing. I mean, come on. Really?In the end, I came to this glaringly obvious realization: romance novels are, largely, written by women. Women who, largely, want their men to understand them in a profound way, to talk to them on a deep level, and last but certainly not least, knock their proverbial socks off in bed.I’m long since past the newlywed phase and I have come to an understanding and acceptance with my husband. When I write now, I can appreciate the differences and similarities between my heroes and my sweet hubby.

To Outline or Not to Outline. Is That the Question?

I'm new to the "biz."Well, I'm new to the business side of writing, that is, the support groups, critiquing partners, publishers, query letters, ahem, finishing my novel. I've been crafting love stories in my brain since I could figure out how to get Barbie to catch Ken's attention. But, in all of those years, in all of seemingly endless hours I've spent pouring my words into story form, I can honestly say that I've never completed anything.Each one of my stories ended mid-way. I'm gangbusters on beginnings. I love to start projects. I'm a habitual list maker. The more grandious and complex the list, the happier I get. Of course, nine times out of ten, I don't get past number two, but hey, I had fun creating the list.When I first joined RWA, a scant eleven months ago, I began hearing different writers talk about the use of outlines. I'd come to realize that there are two schools of thought on the subject: the "fly by the seaters" who just sit down and go and the "planners" who map everything from eye color to the minutie of plot.Oh, how I wanted to be one of those '"fly by the seaters." In fact, I had been one for my entire writing career, such as it was. I have a manuscript (my first official novel) that is still unfinished. It's approximately 650 pages long and I've still got a quarter left to write. This is what happens when I try to be spontaneous.When I started the second official novel, mind you, I had actually decided to take the plunge, so to speak, and try the novelty of an outline on for size (oh, how I love my clichés). My outline was thirty-five pages of narrative, but it went from start to (gasp) finish. And, while my story line changed slightly, I found I was able to move from Point A to Point B and eventually to Point C.Now, I am a big advocate of The Outline.Of course, this doesn't work for everyone. Some say that it takes away from the creative process, which I can respect. Thankfully, this isn't the case for me. It works like a roadmap, a veritable guide, that helps me actually complete what I set out to do.When I started the third official novel, I decided that I wanted a more concise outline, a bare bones roadmap. I recently purchased "Your First Novel" by Ann Rittenberg and Laura Whitcomb. In Chapter Two, there is a section devoted to creating an outline. I'm sure that this isn't an original idea, but it seemed damned clever to me.The gist of it is that you have all of these ideas worked out in your head, whether they're just bits and pieces or a full-blown scene. Taking a stack of index cards, you write down each scene or idea in your story. Then, take the cards and place them in chronological order. There you have your barebones. If something seems amiss, you can switch it around or figure out another scene to tie it together.I have to admit, I hemmed and hawed for the better part of a month on this outline. Finally, I sat my butt down and performed the exercise. To my astonishment, I pumped out the entire outline to my third official novel in less than thirty minutes. It flows better than the second and everything makes damned good sense.

Writing into the New Year

It's that time of year again, ladies.
Ah, the new year. With the passing of the holidays, comes the promise of new beginnings, excitement and yes, New Year's Resolutions. Why is it so much easier to chuck all of our lousy habits and focus on being good? On bettering ourselves? Perhaps it's a cultural rite that Americans latch onto, or the reminder that time is marching on with or without us.
Whatever the case, I'm never quite as excited about starting something new as I am on January 1. Of course, the average person's resolution goes to the wayside before the first month of the year even ends, but that's neither here nor there. You think: I'm different. My will is stronger than Joe Smith. I can do this!
I thought about the requisite diet and exercise resolution. BORING!!! Here's mine: I resolve to use my elliptical machine for more than a coat rack this year. Of course, in my shifty mind, this leaves a wealth of ambiguity. Maybe I'll do more than look at it, maybe I'll hang streamers and balloons from it. Maybe by the end of 2007, I'll be a trim and firm size 4. (Please excuse me a moment. I'm choking on laughter.)
This year, I'm going to make a resolution from which I will truly benefit and actually have a hope of carrying through.
This year, I resolve to set tiny writing goals each week and....wait for it....wait for it...complete them!
But, wait, you say. I already do this. Jen, for a resolution, this is kind of lame. I was reading my January issue of RWR and caught an article on New Year's writing resolutions. I'm sure many of you know to which article I'm referring. It really struck me. Hey, after all, in 2006, I finished my novel. It may not be The Novel or even The Novel That Gets Published, but this is a huge step. One part of the article mentioned setting small goals, so that when you reached them, you kept setting bigger ones until WHAM! You've completed The Big Goal.
I'm setting my first small goal now: 10 pages a week. That's it. Just 10. If I start to pick up the pace, kudos for me.

Writing and the Other Woman

Writing is my first love.It has been a constant in my life even when I spurned it. Which I did. Often. It was waiting patiently in the recesses of my mind, knowing that one day, I would come to my senses and sit back down at the computer. Which I did. And spurned it again. I won't bore you with this seemingly endless process that has marked my twenties. Let's just say the last time I sat back down, I kept my butt on the chair and finished something for the first time in my life.Before I had a chance to enjoy the success, however, reality intruded. Or rather, reality in the form of: "MOMMY!!!!!"Need I say more?How about: "Honey, what's for dinner? Where are my socks? Can you wash my work jacket? When are you going grocery shopping? I need to go out into the shop for the next five years. See you when I'm forty."And then there's: "Why haven't you been returning my calls? I e-mailed you three times? Are you dead? All you ever do is write!"Once I overcame the dilema of my own neuroses (i.e. laziness, fear of success/failure, an underwater basketweaving class to take), I realized that I had a whole slew of others to contend with. For the last ten years, I have devoted myself to my family and friends. This has, by no means, been a hardship. I love my family. I love my friends. That goes without saying. But, now, my first love, that other woman, has come back into my life, this time to stay (I hope). How in the world do I juggle this? I spent the first two weeks of November hunched over my keyboard, pounding out 160 pages of my novel. I finished it in a fervor, red-eyed and hissing at my family when approached for things like OJ, snacks, and dinner. I resented every moment that took me away from my computer. When the dust settled and I came up for air, I realized that this approach doesn't work. Not for me and certainly not for my family.I came up with a pretty good working plan: I write M-W-F for two hours while my daughter is in preschool (provided that the baby isn't scaling the walls and/or poking his stubby little fingers into the dog's eye sockets) and after the wee beasts go to bed in the evening. It's all good in theory. But, as I walk by my desk, a laundry basket glued to my hip, I stare longingly at the square, flat screen. At the boxy keys that sound like heaven as I run my fingers over them, tapping out a melody my heart and soul recognizes. I begin to pant. A flush creeps its way up my throat. I can literally feel the power that sings through my fingers as I pour my soul out onto the page.Come on, it taunts. Just for a minute. Nobody will notice. Barney is on. The kids are fine. You know you want to.I have no self-control. I smoke, I eat things that I know I'm not supposed to. I drink too much coffee. How can I possibly resist the power of this machine who holds me captive? I sit down, running my fingers laschivously across the screen. Stop! a part of me screams. Once you start, the world will cease to exist! And this is a bad thing?In the end, the temptation passes. Why? One word: REVISIONS. Sure, it's easy to pass the computer by when I only have to reread and read again my MS. Of course, I've just completed the outline to my second MS. Hopefully, I'll get it together by then.

Who are you people and why are you calling me Mommy?

So, the doctor says I have gastritis, or a pre-ulcer condition. Oh, yippee. Excuse me? You want to put your finger where? I hope you're taking me out to dinner afterwards.

The most relaxing part of my day yesterday was when the "student" was drawing my blood. The real nurse watched my kids. This is a sad state of affairs.

Moments earlier, I'd stopped in the cafe at the doctor's office, sucking down a refreshing diet coke while my wee beasts screamed at the top of their lungs. People were staring. Why doesn't she do something about those kids? Normally, I'm Nazi Lady, the mean mommy. Today, I have a burning hole in my gut and my patience, never plentiful on a good day, has worn thin.

Wee Beast #1 is mad because I bought a blueberry muffin when she wanted another treat and Wee Beast #2 is wailing because he's tired and being a general poop. My father in law, bless his black heart, says I'm letting the inmates run the asylum.

Well, if that's the case, I have one question:

Where in the hell is my padded room?

I HAVE THE GUN, SOMEONE PULL THE TRIGGER

Here I sit, on a bitterly cold morning, the remnants of snow days past sitting outside my window. The holiday season is here, the house is toasty, merriment abounds.

Bull.

Why you ask? Oh, I'll tell you.

One word: Synopsis

Or rather, Mother Bitching Effing Synopsis.

When I finished my first manuscript, I thought, "Hey, I did it! The hard part is over!"

Not so much.

First, there was the revisions. A new brand of hell designed specifically for me. WTF? So, I pulled my hair for a few hours and went to work. Ha, you bastard! I have conquered thee! After I commenced my much deserved happy dance, I sat down at my computer and thought, "Now it's time for the query letter and synopsis." This should be the easy part, right?

I repeat: Not so much.

For the last two days I have labored at my computer, with which I have a love/hate relationship as it is the medium for the crapola that flows out of my brain. Charlotte Dillon, here I come. I have printed about 50 pages of "how tos" for this new and thoroughly daunting new task. I have created 10 pages of dog crap masquarading as a synopsis.

How can this be so difficult?

I wrote a 380 page manuscript for crying out loud. How hard can it really be to type out 2 little pages? Perhaps it is because this is what will get my proverbial foot in the door. If I ass out on the synopsis, I can kiss my manuscript goodbye. Well, that's probably a little melodramatic, but hey, I'm desperate.

So, in closing, please, please, please someone put me out of my misery.