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The Muse

Some authors, I hear, get a story idea and painstakingly plot out the whole story arc so they know exactly what to write.  Others say their method is to just start writing and see where the characters take them.  Me?  I lean more towards the latter group, though I do a bit of the first.  But the thing that really dictates what I write is my muse.

I give her way too much leeway.  I work when she’s in the mood to cooperate.  When I’ve got writers block, I make myself write anyway, but that doesn’t mean I get anything usable.  And my muse is a fickle bitch.  I can get a story idea and think it’s great and start writing…and then part of the way through, my muse will cut me off at the knees and while I’m lying there on the floor bleeding, she says, “Too bad, so sad baby girl.  I have this whole other thing in mind that we’re going to try.”  And I listen to her!  I let her move me to something else instead of fighting for whatever I’m working on at the moment.  She’s got too much power.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d be lost without my muse.  I’d be in a world of trouble in fact.  I really would be.  But lately, she’s been particularly idea jumpy.  She’s in my head with an idea and characters and the whole works and the minute I actually start putting words on the page, she jumps to something else.  In the last three weeks, there have been three different plots.  I haven’t written anything substantial in a while now.  And I’m feeling the loss.  So, I need to take her in hand and ask her, politely of course, to help me stick with one thing until we see it through to it’s conclusion. I think she’s giddy at having something published and something else out there waiting for consideration.  (That’s probably actually me)

Dear Muse, we need to write.  Can we try to settle on one thing, please?  It would make us both very happy if we could write a complete tale.  Sincerely, yours, Kris.

Flash Fic Friday

Flash Fic Friday

     His job had transferred him out of state and I had been heartbroken.  After eight months of building a solid relationship, he was moving to the other side of the country.  How could fate be so cruel?  But he had sworn to me that he didn’t want to give me up, that what we had was worth it, worth everything, and we would make long distance work where so many couples before us had failed.
     At first, it had been wonderful.  Every evening, we’d skype and it was almost as good as being together.  I couldn’t touch him, smell him, taste him, but it was almost and it was what he had.  We’d carry our laptops with us as we went about cooking dinner, watching TV, life in general, talking about our days and our lives.
     But then, after six months of that, he’d started to pull away.  He’d make excuses; say he had to work late or that he’d had to meet a client for dinner.  I’d tried to talk to him about it, suggest that we should maybe take a break, but he was adamant that was not what he wanted.  It was a rough patch, we would get through it.  But lately, our skype dates were coming fewer and farther between.  And as I sat there in the corner, staring at the laptop and waiting for him to call, my heart was breaking.  Because this was the fifth time he’d simply not called when he said he would.  Afterwards he sent emails and texts, swearing it was unforeseen and he was so, so sorry.  And I kept falling for it.
     “So what’s his excuse this time?” my roommate’s voice startled me.  I jumped but didn’t look at him.  “Or did he just blow you off again?”
     I didn’t respond.  There was nothing I could say.  Quickly, Julian was across the room, kneeling before my chair.  I couldn’t look at him.  He was beautiful and kind and loving, but he was my best friend.  And I was committed to someone else.
     Julian’s warm hands gripped my calves.  “Forget him, Henry.  He’s not worth it.  Never was.”
     I couldn’t respond.  Didn’t know how.  Julian’s sentiment echoed my own, mostly.  There had been a time when…the chime from the laptop interrupted my thoughts.  I was receiving a call.  Three hours late, but there he was.
     Before I could react, Julian reached over and snapped the laptop shut.  He shoved it off the bed and it landed with a thump on the plush carpet.  I opened my mouth to protest, to say something, anything.  But Julian was quicker, rising up on his knees, and pressing his soft lips to mine. I couldn’t believe it, didn’t even know how to react, but Julian was not dissuaded.  He kissed me gently, coaxingly, until I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him back with equal fervor.
     He pulled back, both of us panting for air, and gave me a soft smile.  His big hands framed my face and forced me to look at him.  “You’re mine, baby.  Always have been.  So you’re done with that jerk.  And you are never going to hurt again.”
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Where Reality and Fiction Meet

Let me preface this by saying that this is my own personal opinion.  Feel free to disagree…

I know that fiction, by it’s very definition, means the story that I’m reading has been made up.  But there has to be some reality in it, something for me to identify with, in order for me to relate with it.  I think most people feel this way.  Even if it’s a fantasy or science fiction novel, where the world can be created to the author’s liking, there still has to be a hint of reality, something recognizable.  If the novel I’m reading falls into that category, then I’ll definitely give it leeway.  They can bend the rules of reality as much as they like…as long as there is something that rings true.

But if I’m reading a contemporary novel, romance or not, then it needs to be based in fact.  Yes, the characters and situations are completely fictional.  But I need there to be recognizable rules.  Things have to make sense.  And this is where research comes in handy.  You can’t move the location of a city or town just because it suits your needs.  If you need a town to be in that particular spot, make one up.  I’m fine if you move a street or a landmark, but don’t just change the real world to suit your fancy.  Not in a contemporary.  Science, nature, biology–they all work in a certain, established way.  You can’t just change it to make your story line work.  If you do, then it becomes unbelievable, in the bad way, and will make me put the book down.

In this era, with the glorious thing called the internet, anything you need to know can be discovered.  Whether by searching for the information on your preferred search engine or by actually discussing things with a person that lives there or is an expert in a certain field, you can find anything you need to know.  I’ve scrapped several story lines because what I wanted to happen couldn’t actually happen…not unless I was willing to completely change the order of the universe.

This may sound a bit ranty, but the truth is, I’ve read several books lately where things I know to be fact were disregarded or changed completely just to suit the authors needs.  And I could think of at least three different solutions where the author could have used a real life solution that would make perfect sense and be more accurate.  When things like this catch my attention, it pulls me out of the story.

I’m certainly not perfect and I’m sure that I’ve made mistakes in my own writing.  But I try very hard not to write anything that is false; at least where reality is concerned.  If it’s a known fact, I’m not going to change it.  There can be a bit of bending, a little bit of stretching…but go too  far and you’ll lose me as a reader.

Do the research.  It’s not always fun, and sometimes it’s incredibly tedious, but it’ll be worth it in the end.  When you have all the pieces together, it makes for a better story.  It’s something that I strive for each and every time I put words on the page.  I’m certain I don’t always succeed.  I’m sure that there are times when I get it wrong.  But I do my research, I talk to people and ask questions, and I try very hard to make that place where reality and fiction meet as seamless as possible.

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Writer’s Block

The bane of every writer’s existence.  i don’t even like to say the words out loud.  It makes it seem a lot more real.  But the truth is, it is very real and it hits everyone who writes.

I get stuck sometimes.  When what’s in my head doesn’t come out right on the page.  Or worse, when what I’m working on has no words at all.  When I stare at the page, reading where I left off, and I’ve got nothing to add to it.  I hate that feeling the most.  Because there are thousands of thoughts in my head and why can’t I seem to make anything at all make sense?  It’s like a pain in my stomach.  It’s like it’s physically painful when I can’t write; not because I don’t have the time or I’m busy with something else, but because there are no words.

The best advice I’ve ever gotten is just to write anyway.  It doesn’t matter what.  Just write.  It could be complete and totally crap, but write anyway.  Get something on the page.  And usually, when I do that, it’s like my writer’s block is forcibly broken.  I might not actually keep a single word that I put down, but better things flow through the hole I made in the block and then, when the force gets stronger, it breaks that block apart and I can write again.  Sometimes it happens all at once, like a dam breaking.  And sometimes it’s a slow process, a little at at time, until the block is completely worn away.

I was suffering from a the block for the last week.  And everything I wrote was awful and I couldn’t keep anything I wrote.  And it was making my stomach hurt.  But I kept writing anyway.  And then, it all broke free and the words were ones I actually wanted to keep.  That progressed the story along and actually made sense.

So that’s the advice I pass on to you.  Write anyway.  It doesn’t matter if it’s the worst thing in the history of all the world.  Get words on the page.  And when you’re done, more and better words will come.

Flash Fic Friday

Flash Fic Friday

“He looks ridiculous and I feel guilty as hell,” I muttered into the phone as we entered the yard.  I had gotten it into my head that now that I was a home owner, I had to have a dog in order to complete the picture.  The gate swung closed with a creak behind me, nearly drowning out my mother’s throaty chuckle.

“Its part of being a responsible pet owner,” she said gently.  “Rufus doesn’t care that he’s been neutered.”
“I care, Ma!” I shouted.  The neighbor startled at my loudness but I waved a hand and returned my attention to my conversation, my voice a little quieter, “I took him to that place and they hacked off his balls!”
She laughed again.  My mother was awesome.  When I had come out, she’d barely blinked an eye.  When I had told her I was moving out and into my own home, she’d cried like a baby and helped me pack.
“Casey, honey, I promise.  Your dog really doesn’t care.  You only do because you’re thinking how you would feel if it happened to you.”
I gave an involuntary yelp and covered my crotch with my free hand, letting Rufus’s lead fall from my hand.  There was a second of panic that he was free, but the yard was fenced and the gate was closed.  He set about sniffing the yard, trying to see around the cone.  I had to laugh at his antics and that settled some of my feelings.  I hung up with my mother with a smile and turned to find Rufus.
The neighbor was still staring into the yard and I realized I still had my hand cupped over my groin.  I dropped my hand quickly and turned about seventy shades of red.  He grinned and I nearly groaned.  Oh he was pretty.  How had I not noticed him before?  I knew he had just moved in but…damn.  He was beautiful.
“Cute dog,” the neighbor called.
I nodded and muttered, “He’s got no balls.”
Pretty neighbor let out a raucous laugh and I felt the embarrassment sweep up my neck again.  Jesus, what was wrong with me?  Faced with a beautiful man and suddenly I lost my filter.
“You still have yours though, right?” he called with a salacious grin.
What?  I choked.  “What?”
He chuckled.  “Maybe you should let me come over and make sure that yours are still intact, hm?”
Oh.  Oh yes.  Yes please.  I grinned and picked up Rufus’s lead, walking back to the house with a little extra wiggle in my hips.  I left the front door wide open.
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The Beginning

Okay.  See, it all started with Creative Writing.  I don’t remember much else about 5th grade.  Except we spent an extraordinary amount of time writing.  And the praise.  I definitely remember the praise.  Yeah, I got kudos.  But I was reading far beyond my grade level so it just makes sense that I would write that way as well.  I was writing love stories even then.  Girl meets boy and love happens.  And I knew, even then, that I wanted to be an author.  That’s how I was going to make my living.  But, of course, life and insecurities got in the way.  And though I wrote and wrote and wrote (because I must write) I barely even showed it to people, let alone sent it in for consideration.

And then I found gay romance and I was hooked.  It felt like I finally understood what I was meant to write.  And the stories started pouring into my brain, the plot bunnies were running wild, and there was no way I could stop them.  So, I wrote some more.  And got feedback from people who didn’t already love me to bits and pieces.  My confidence grew and I was finally brave enough to submit a story to Dreamspinner Press.  It’s my first published work and I’m over the moon excited about it.  These are my boys and this is their story.  And it’s going to be out there for people to read and, hopefully, enjoy.

Here’s what you can expect if you keep dropping by: updates about any current WIPs and new releases, Flash Fic Fridays (which is what it sounds like), and musings about the inner workings of my mind and writing process.  I’m not going to lie, there will probably be some other random things thrown in as well.  But here’s where you can get the updates.

If you’re here, it means you took the time to look me up and for that, I am so exceedingly appreciative.  I love to hear feedback and you can find my contact info at the top of the page.  Feel free to drop me a line and I promise to respond.