NaNoWriMo Take 3

Next week kicks off NaNoWriMo. I'm sure if you are reading this you already know that because everyone who even remotely writes is talking about it. I'm nothing if not unoriginal.

This will be my third NaNoWriMo attempt. Yes, I'm going to give it a shot. And I'm firmly refusing to dwell on past failures. This is the year I succeed. Hang on while I have a Stuart Smalley moment...Okay, I'm back.

My problem isn't so much that I can't manage to write 50,000 words in a thirty-day period. I can do that, no problem, especially given that the whole point of NaNoWriMo is quantity over quality. The objective is to crank out the volume, put any old junk on paper as long as you get it done, the idea being that you can go back after it's all over and rewrite and revise and edit your little heart out at your leisure.

Nope, quantity isn't an issue with me. Both the past two years I'd cranked out a good 20,000 plus words before the end of the first week. I'm wordy. When you remove quality from the equation, I'm downright prolific.

My problem right now is deciding which of my half a dozen ideas I should use. I hate to waste a good idea, one that requires twice the word count goal of NaNo to come close to finishing. Sure, I could double my daily output goal and shoot for 100,000 words in a month instead of 50,000. But I'd really like to finish this time, and I'm thinking I can do this if I hold myself back.

I do have an idea or two that could be told in 50k words. Ideas that aren't epical or full of a cast of thousands looking to be part of a series. Ideas that don't require tons of world building and subsequent world explaining.

Problem with those ideas is that I haven't done much in the background department. My characters are kind of loose, not really pinned down as far as backstory. I love to know my characters, and at this point I have names but not a whole lot more. Maybe a handful of basic character traits and an idea of who loves who...

Too, my plot ideas are really more like generic situations I'd like to explore. The kind of "what if..." questions that most writers find popping up all over the place. I don't have any outlines. I only have a handful of scene ideas. Truly, this baby could potentially wander all over the planet, aimless and out of control.

Maybe this is the best way to start. Kind of cold, without the pressure of having to stick to a specific plan, worrying about quality even though you aren't supposed to. If I know up front that my characters are mysteries and my plot isn't set in stone, theoretically there should be no staring at a blank screen, wondering how to translate the images in my head to words on a page.

And I do have four days to do a bit of planning.

I'm getting excited. What a great feeling!

Motherhood Trumps Love

I’m pretty sure I’ve said it before – here or elsewhere – that I’m not a huge fan of romance stories that feature kids. At least not very young kids. I can buy into the divorced/widowed hero/heroine with older children, ones who are pretty much self-sufficient. But any romance that involves offspring who don’t carry a valid driver’s license are instant no-goes for me.

Because in my experience, motherhood always trumps love.

I watched a movie the other night – Beyond Borders, if you must know, and this post contains MAJOR SPOILERS – and as much as I really wanted the heroine (Angelina Jolie) to find happiness with her star crossed soul mate (Clive Owen, who, BTW, Oh. My. God!), I couldn’t let myself enjoy the story.

Because Angie baby had kids. She’d gotten married before she met Clive and she and her husband had a son. Later, after finally consummating her relationship with Clive, she has a daughter who we all can figure out is probably Clive’s child. Two kids. Neither one older than ten or eleven.

So when Angie learns that Clive has gone missing while do-gooding in Chechnya and determines to find him, I’m cringing. Because I know what might happen. And I know she knows what might happen but, blinded by love, is selfishly ignoring.

I’m cringing when she kisses her sleeping kiddies on the cheek and leaves them a “I’ll be home very soon” letter.

And I’m cringing when she’s getting shot at by Chechnyan guerillas.

And I’m nearly screaming in disgust when she steps on a landmine. I had predicted what could happen, and it did. She deluded herself into thinking it wouldn’t happen, but it did. Not to her. To her kids.

Because she has now left two small children without a mother. Half-orphans. And in my book, there’s no greater crime than abandoning kids that way. To intentionally put yourself in harm’s way, exposing yourself to possible death and knowing that you’d leave behind kids who still need you, is unforgivable. It’s selfishness, pure and simple.

I’m not a big fan of martyrs. And my heart just breaks when a mother has to choose between the well-being of her children and her own personal happiness (see Cast Away for the perfect example in Helen Hunt’s character). I find nothing more tragic than when a woman meets the man of her dreams after she’s already committed herself to a family. It’s so completely unfair that she would have to give up romantic fulfillment in order to take care of the kids she probably loves above anything else in the world. What an impossible choice. I felt for poor Anna Karenina. Until she threw herself under that train.

Too many kids don’t have loving mothers. I personally cannot imagine what my own growing up would have been like without my mother. In fact, at nearly middle-aged, I still think I’m too young to live without my mommy. The idea of my own kids growing up without me makes me kind of nauseous. Not that my husband isn’t fully qualified to raise kids on his own. I just hate the idea of my children having to cope with growing up without my love and support. Life is hard enough.

So I would never put myself in danger unless I felt it absolutely necessary to save their very lives or the life of another person. I certainly would never risk my life for my own happiness at the risk of their happiness.

As much as Angie loved Clive – and she did love him, deeply, passionately, completely – her running off and getting herself killed left me not with the feeling of how tragic her story was, but feeling horribly sorry for the son and daughter who now have no mother. Their pain even overshadowed the pain I felt for Clive, who watched the woman he loved die right in front of him. He’d made choices that put him in danger. Those kids were victims of their mother’s choices.

Yes, if she wouldn’t have gone to Chechnya, Clive would have died. And I would have cried for her loss. Instead I just feel resentment toward her on behalf of her kids.

Having kids means making sacrifices. Sometimes it’s tragic and sometimes it just sucks, but, hey, that’s the way it goes. Characters who ignore such a fact for selfish reasons - no matter how romantic or desperate - are unsympathetic to me. I simply cannot root for them to win, no matter how badly I wish they could make it all work.

Bullet Update

Jack's bullet - remember that? Turns out he was shot by his father.

Who was attempting to save him from a grisly bear attack.

And was mauled by this bear during the attack and died as a result.

Leaving Jack with a bullet too close to his heart to remove, mourning the father who died trying to save him.

Have I mentioned how much I love this guy?

And it's not even the bullet that cinches it for me. It's the fact that Jack beat up his brother when his brother called Marin a "hot piece of ass".

*sigh*

The De-Evolution of Wesley

Recall that I admitted that during my hiatus, I discovered Angel?

(BTW, to hold myself to my own vow, I'm admitting here that I've determined once I've seen all episodes one time, I'll stop TiVoing it every day. I'm half-way through Season 3, so only two and half seasons to go. I'm thinking of maybe Charmed as my next paranormal habit...)

Anyway, yeah, I got hooked on Angel because I've pretty much memorized all of the Buffy the Vampire Slayer episodes but still thirsted for something - anything - taking place in the Buffyverse. I was hoping Angel would feed the need, which it has. But I've gotten something so completely better than more of sexy, brooding Angel.

I've discovered Wesley Wyndham-Pryce.

What an amazing character. From his first appearance in Season 3 Buffy, the man goes from bumbling, naive comic-relief cum accidental antagonist to one of the most tortured dark heroes I've ever seen portrayed on television. By the fifth season series finale of Angel, Wesley is almost, if not more, tortured than Angel himself, the vampire who spent a hundred and fifty years killing, raping and torturing humans only to be cursed with a soul and an eternity in which to feel the guilt. To become darker than Angel is a real accomplishment.

Not that Wesley didn't have reasons for all of his brooding angst. Let's see, he was rebuffed by the woman he loved when she began a romance with a work colleague, but not until after he'd tried to kill said lady-love when he was infected by a misogynistic rage demon. Then the poor bloke went on to kidnap Angel's son because he believed he was saving the tiny infant from being murdered by Angel himself. Unfortunately, the information he'd been fed leading him to believe the baby was in danger proved false, and none of his so called friends allowed him a chance to explain what he'd planned or how he'd been double crossed, instead choosing to villify him and send him into a spiraling depression, suffering from an almost debilitating guilt. He eventually climbed out of the dog house, earned the affection of his true love, only to suffer her death before the two of them could spend any time together. She died in his arms, terrified and in great pain, something I imagine to be beyond horrifying.

The man is cursed.

But he's absolutely fascinating! Never have I been told a story where the hero goes from good and decent and normal downward into darkness and dispair in such a way. Usually, when we meet a tormented hero, he's already dark and tortured. Something in his past - some events that occured off-screen - has already damaged him to such a degree that the story becomes about redemption. Can the heroine (or love, as the more generic case) bring this poor soul out of the darkness and into the light of a happily ever after?

In Wesley's case, we get the reverse. Losing both the love of the woman he wants and the love of his friends sends him falling into a despair from which he never fully recovers. Instead of love healing all, we witness the power of a lack of love to destroy all.

And a big round of applause to Alexis Denisof, the actor who did such an amazing job of taking Wesley from physical prat falls to get the laugh to sobbing as he watches the woman he loves suffer a horrible death, leaving us to wonder if suicide isn't far behind. He went from being nails-on-a-chalkboard annoying to a character I couldn't take my eyes off.

I'll admit I have the canny ability to justify pretty much anything, but I'll say I truly believe I've learned something by my little Angel addiction. I witnessed a character study unlike anything I've ever found.

Blue Hawaii

My current work-in-progress is set in Hawaii.

I've never been to Hawaii.

I've gone to the library and checked out a dozen books on Hawaii. I've wasted spent numerous hours minutes on the internet procrastinating researching different aspects about Hawaii, from how long it takes to fly there to the best surfing beaches on Maui and night clubs in Honolulu. I think I might even have mastered the way to pronounce words made out of 19 vowels and only 3 consonants.

I'm a firm believer that writers can write about places they've never actually visited. How else could you account for the gazillions of historical fiction stories out there? I'm fairly certain that no one has ever actually been to 12th century Scotland or Regency London. So a good imagination can certainly overcome limited travel experience.

Thing is, the devil is in the details. I could spend the next six months researching Hawaii, but there are tiny things I need to know that I will never find out without seeing the places with my own two eyes. I want my hero to enter a well-known museum, and I need to know where the ticket counter is, or if there even is a ticket counter, and what would he be able to see from the lobby or if there even is a lobby. Stuff like this.

And these details aren't just color. There's the stuff you need to know to place your story in reality and make the reader feel like she's actually where the hero and heroine are. Then there are details that are intrinsic to the story or plot itself.

If my hero is a cop and he sees a dead body tucked behind a small wall while he's still standing in the lobby of a well-known museum, I'd better be darned sure there is a lobby in said museum, much less know if any other part of the museum can be seen when standing in it, right?

Too, there is something about seeing things with your own two eyes. Flowery descriptives in books and even photographs can kind of give you an idea of what things look like, but until you've gotten the 3-D, smell the air, hear the waves on the surf experience, a Hawaiian beach could look just the same as a Virgin Island beach or a Riveria beach or a Florida beach.

So, I'm looking to go to Hawaii. I figure if I call it research and one day actually sell the story I'm working on, I could write the whole thing off as a business trip, right? Problem is, I can't go to Hawaii any time in the next...oh, say...ten months or more. Not to mention talking the hubby into the idea that Hawaii would be the perfect place to vacation (he's so not a beach bum type of vacationer) and coming up with the funds and what to do with the kids. Details.

Honestly, I'd love to go alone. Because when I'm in book researching mode, I become...well, let's just call it a little antisocial. I'm walking around lost in my own head. I want the freedom to explore some inane detail or non-touristed off-the-beaten-track place. If I want to spend three hours walking up and down the streets of Honolulu, taking pictures and notes of businesses and other everyday minutae, I certainly don't need a hubby and two kids wondering when we're going to go back to the beach.

But a trip to Hawaii - by myself - is not even close to a possibility any time in the forseeable future. Nor is a trip to the Middle East, the other location where some of my stories are set. That particular situation has a whole set of issues that are so far beyond my ability to solve, I'd be better off setting a story on the moon.

I'm going to have to find a way to make do, short of setting all my stories in Chicago or some place within a 50 mile radius. Any ideas?

All Is Lost Without Hope

I'm a fan of Lost, from the beginning, but I'm going to admit that the writers are just about to lose me as a viewer.

It's not for the reason I think most Lost viewers might give up the ghost. Those of you who watch the show understand how infuriatingly frustrating the whole situation is. For every single answer we get from any given episode, ten more puzzles are introduced. Progress isn't made in leaps and bounds, or even baby steps, but more like millimeters.

Honestly, sometimes I truly believe if it weren't for Sawyer and Sayid (who, btw, hit a new level of hotness last night), I'd have been long gone.

But last night the story took a direction that has pushed things to a new plateau of frustration for me. They've entered into caged dog territory. Because from what we've been shown, there is pretty much no way the good guys (Kate, Jack, Sawyer, Sayid, etc.) can outwit and ultimately defeat the bad guys (the Others).

Now, I appreciate an underdog story as well as the next person. In fact, I really like underdog stories. But I have to have hope. I have to know in my heart of heart that no matter how dark things might get, ultimately the good guy at least has a chance to win. I'm not saying that he has to live HEA, get the girl, become rich and beautiful and tra la la through the daisy fields. Heck, the good guy might get killed in the end. And I'm actually okay with that.

If he's fought the good fight and had a fair enough chance to win.

But when the hero (or in this case, heroes) face obstacles at every turn, and there is no way for him, her or them to overcome their problems, I get frustrated. I feel helpless because I see these people as helpless. Nothing they can do will make a bit of difference, so why should I bother watching?

In the case of Lost, Kate, Sawyer and Jack are being held prisoner. They are in cages or enclosures that are unbreak-out-able. Cameras pick up their every move and spoken word. They are outnumbered by a substantial amount. They have no weapons, whereas their captors are armed to the teeth. And it seems that the Others are highly skilled in the games of mental torture. We have no idea what they want with our heroes, why they've captured them or what might happen to change things in any way, shape or form.

As it stands right now, it looks like Kate, Sawyer and Jack are pretty much goners.

I think this proves how critical hope is in a story. Even when the underdog is the most hopeless of creatures, I need to believe that there is a sliver of a chance that he can prevail. Heck, even Frodo had Sam.

The writers at Lost better keep feeding me Kate and Sawyer hits because I'm getting pretty frustrated, and right now they are the only thing to keep me coming back. Sure, I'm just dying to have answers to the 5,348 questions this stupid show has created. But I have no desire to watch my favorite characters bang their heads against a brick wall.

What Is It About a Bullet?

At the end of last week's episode of Men In Trees, they showed some highlights from this week's coming episode, as these shows usually do. In the preview, one of the characters - okay, my new boyfriend, Jack - has what seems to be an asthma attack and ends up in the hospital. While there, the doctor points to a small, solid object that shows up in the X-ray they've taken of Jack's lungs. Jack's friend-but-not-girlfriend Marin asks the concerned doctor what the object is.

Turns out, it's a bullet.

Now, I don't need any more reasons to find the character of Jack appealing. First of all, he's played by the incredibly sexy and gorgeous James Tupper. I could simply watch this guy mowing the lawn and be happy forever.

But it's not just James's hotness that I find appealing. The character of Jack is one of those monosyllabic woodsman types. He grunts more than he speaks and probably feels more comfortable in a room full of grisly bears than a room full of people. When he wants to avoid an uncomfortable situation, he disappears to go fly-fishing. He's a man's man, a stereotypical uncommunicative male who offers an almost insurmountable challenge in finding a way to open this guy up. What's not to love about that?

On his arm is a tattoo - LYNN it says - and even if my own name didn't happen to be Lynn, I'd still have to swoon. Because you just know this isn't the kind of guy to commit to a tattoo unless his feelings for this Lynn person ran incredibly deep. Which, we find out as the show progresses, they did, and you can see that he still stings from the damage Lynn inflicted when she left the picture. I just want to pull him close and offer tons of comfort. Jack is the kind of guy who doesn't fall in love easily, but when he does, you get the idea that he falls hard and forever.

Did I mention that he's great with animals? And wears these fabulous thick sweaters, and probably smells like wood smoke and other yummy things.

And now, there is a bullet.

I have no idea whatsoever what happened to him to put that bullet in his lung that way. I suppose I'll find out this Friday night, when I see the full episode. It could be something really stupid, but I'm hoping not. I only know that this bullet adds an edge to Jack. He's so quiet, you can't help but think he hides all kinds of secrets. And I personally find dangerous secrets to be my favorite kind.

So, I'm chalking myself into the freakishly weird category, since I find a guy with a bullet wound all the more appealing. In real life, I'd be horrified if someone I loved had even gotten shot at much less actually hit. In real life, there is nothing sexy at all about bullets or guns, for that matter. I'm firmly anti-gun. Heck, I don't even believe hunting is okay, despite the fact that it thins herds that would starve if left to fend for themselves in their ever-shrinking natural environment and I know a quick death by rifle is preferable to a slow starvation.

Much to ponder, this latest layer. Can't wait until Friday, though.

Jack has a bullet!

Montage

You know those montages they use in the movies? Snatches of scenes and moments, usually played against some mood or time-setting music that show anything from the boxer training his way back to heavy-weight champion-fighting capacity to the young couple just fallen in love as they ride horses along the beach and have pillow fights and gaze lovingly into each other's eyes over candlelight. Montages are a staple shortcut, letting viewers believe that a good amount of time has passed full of all sorts of activity without having to actually spend the money or manpower showing all of this activity. The poor man's way to show not tell.

The other morning I was lying in bed thinking about my current story when an honest to goodness montage flashed through my brain. I had images of my hero and heroine falling in love, set to music with glimpses of them engaged in various activities. I imagined that if my story were a movie, this montage would happen right after my couple had spent their first romantic night together, and I confess it contained a whole lot of cliche falling in love scenes.

And I had to stop and laugh because I realized that what I was thinking about was indeed a movie montage. Nothing more than a shortcut to get my hero and heroine from Point A to Point B without having to write a whole bunch of "showing" scenes. None of the things I was picturing held enough substance to create a real scene with conflict and/or character development, nor would it move the story forward in any real sense. The only purpose for such a montage was to indulge my desire to watch my hero and heroine being together and being in love.

I tried to reach into the montage to grab out some key elements, something that was unique to this couple or especially intriguing or funny or poignant. I don't have a problem writing a scene that is more character/relationship development than true plot movement. But nothing I'd imagined qualified.

Besides, even if I hadn't realized what I was creating in my brain was pure fluff, I would have no possible idea in the world how to turn something that 100% visual into the written word. No dialogue. Snatches of tiny scenes lasting only a few seconds. Heck, I'd need to find a way to have the music playing in the background while the reader read it if I had any hope of capturing the mood I wanted to evoke.

I've never had one of those montage moments before. Usually I come up with bits of a scene, or a line of dialogue, or a general feeling I want to capture at a particular moment. Often nothing fully formed, but never something so blatantly empty. I don't know if this means that I'm regressing or if I'm growing because I was able to see it for what it was. Or wasn't, as the case is.

Dipping Just a Toe

Part of my unintended hiatus from blogging included a break from blog reading. At first it started off as simply me just being away from my computer for a time as I was working on home improvement projects.

But as the time away stretched, I became overwhelmed with the amount of backlog I had created for myself. I have about two dozen or so blogs I visit regularly, and with each day that slipped by, I imagined I had two dozen entries more I hadn't read. The task of catching up became overwhelming, so I kept staying away. See the cycle that's looming?

Thing is, I sit down at my laptop with every intention to write. First, however, I need to check e-mails (naturally). Then it's a quick stop over at Television Without Pity to see if recaps of my favorite TV shows have gone live or if anyone has anything inciteful to say. Then I begin the round of blogs. I keep searching for more things to read. More things to keep me away from writing.

Next thing I know, my time is up and I need to go do some real-life task or another. I've wasted my precious free time with not much to show for it.

By not blogging I was also not blog-hopping. I'd like to say this freed up a bunch of time for writing, but it didn't. I've kept myself busy with other things.

Now, however, I'm back on the wagon so to speak. I've committed myself to blogging every week day to warm up my writing muscles. And I've begun to dip my toe back into the blogosphere. I've determined that I'm not going to read backlogs, however. I'll read as many entries as appear on a blog's first page, but I'm not scrolling back into the archives.

And I'm not going to beat myself up if I don't visit every single blog every single day. I have about five or so must-visits, but I refuse to feel bad if the others I hit every other or third day. I've broken the habit of that particular time-suck and I need to be strong against its allure.

Do you think it's human nature to lean towards addictive behaviour, or is it just something that's in me? Good thing I never really enjoyed the taste of alcohol or ever started smoking. I'd have been doomed.

No Mistakes, No Story

Here's my set up.

Miss Kick-Ass Heroine is doing her job when she bumps into Mr. Exceptionally Competent Hero. Their jobs are similar although their goals happen to be at cross purposes. Great conflict just waiting to be exploited. Things looking good.

Except, both Kick-Ass and Exceptionally Competent need to change a bit in order to arrive at their HEA. Both need to gain some insight into how the other character has a point and that even though they've each been successful so far, sometimes it's necessary to try things a different way. In order to move these two kids in that direction, both characters need to make mistakes and learn from them.

Except, Kick-Ass and Exceptionally Competent don't make mistakes. They are achievers in their chosen fields, reknowned for their ability to get the job done. They are stubborn (yes, to a fault) but dang good at what they do.

If Kick-Ass makes a mistake, she topples into TSTL terrritory. This is unacceptable because she's made it this far because she's the complete opposite of TSTL.

If Exceptionally Competent makes a mistake, he comes across looking foolish. How has he become so well-known for his special skills and abilities if he makes such mistakes?

If either character falls down on the job, one has to wonder how he/she ever got this particular job in the first place.

So, what to do.

I'm not talking about characters here who have no flaws. On an emotional and personal level, Kick-Ass and Exceptionally Competent are fall down messes, a direct result of the fact that they've spent so much time becoming stellar at their jobs they've completely neglected the rest of their lives. The story explores how each character brings out those flaws in the other, and how recognizing those flaws makes them vulnerable and able to fall in love with each other.

But professionally, I'm still stuck.

My only hope is that I can somehow use the attraction Kick-Ass and Exceptionally Competent feel for each other as some kind of befuddling mechanism. Their normally cool professional responses get all mucked up because they've somehow let their personal selves come to the front.

This might work.

Blogging solves all sorts of tight jams, doesn't it?

Pilot Pimping

A quick endorsement: If you are at all inclined to watch television, I highly - HIGHLY - recommend the new TV series Friday Night Lights. I watched the pilot this afternoon (TiVoed from last night, but the pilot is re-airing tonight) and was left pretty much speechless. Really. It's that good. Critics agree, so it's not just me.

The premise is kind of off-putting for a big-city non-jock like me. Adapted from the fictional movie which was an adaptation of a non-fictional book, FNL centers around a west Texas small-town high school football team. I'm so strongly against the glorification of youth sports that a show like this was predestined to turn me off. I watched it expecting it to be some kind of Dawson's Creek on astro-turf and thus I'd be able to cross it off as a possible Good Show for Procrastination Purposes. How totally wrong I was. Not a drop of over-wrought teenage angst in sight. Too, I can honestly tell you that even if you don't know how many points a touchdown is worth, you will still like show because the characters are what really makes it amazing.

I won't go into detail about why I loved this show. I'll just let it speak for itself.

Check it out. You won't be sorry.

Sink or Swim

While I was gone, I got myself a teeny tiny part-time job. I'm talking teeny; six hours a week, two mornings. Small money, smaller stress. I'm hoping it helps me get myself into a steady weekly routine. But it does mean that my blogging might not happen until evening instead of mornings as I'd prefer. Already I've blown that whole routine objective.

So, last night I gave up all semblance of good sense and ventured out in a killer storm to see a movie. Me and the two other ladies in the theatre endured a one-minute power outage that happened about 20 minutes into the film, which earned us the reward of a free refund pass even though the inconvenience was pretty much zero. Sometimes, I guess, stupidity pays off.

And what, pray tell, would incite me to drive through pounding rain and risk lightning strikes? Kevin Costner, of course. And Ashton Kutcher. Maybe in reverse order, I haven't quite decided. I'm such a sucker for coming of age/mentor-mentee/training for the military flicks that I couldn't pass up The Guardian. Rain, schmain.

The movie was good. I'd even venture great, but I know I don't have a leg to stand on that claim. It's nothing that will haunt you by any means, but it certainly kept me entertained for two hours, as well as gave me a huge, healthy respect for the men and women who work as rescue swimmers for the U.S. Coast Guard. I took a scuba diving class in college, and many of the underwater training scenes brought back some pretty uncomfortable memories.

For those not in the know, the story revolves around gruff Ben Randall (Costner), a well-seasoned Coast Guard rescue swimmer who, after losing his entire crew in a horrible rescue-gone-wrong, is sent to train new recruits at the killer USCG "A School", where rescue swimmer wannabees earn their fins. As you would expect, he bumps heads with cocky super-star athlete swimmer Jake Fischer (Kutcher) who hides a past trauma that hits closer to home than Ben ever could have guessed. Your normal training montages and cliches follow, along with some pretty spectacular rescue scenes. Nothing you couldn't predict, but well done all the same.

Which is where I am today, sitting here with a big smile on my face. Because although most of the critics have panned The Guardian for being unoriginal at best and downright paint-by-numbers at worst, I liked it. Because it was done well.

For so long I've felt paralyzed by the idea that nothing - not a single one of my ideas - was truly original. That at every turn, I was bumping into something - plot, theme, character, concept - that I'd believed I'd come up with all on my own, that was something uniquely original to me yet clearly was not. At all. Mine alone, that is. And since everyone out there keeps holding aloft the High Concept novel as the end all be all way to get yourself published, I've felt more than a little dispair upon learning that, frankly, there actually is nothing new under the sun. I've believed I'm so totally screwed.

But watching The Guardian made me see something. Just because something isn't new doesn't mean it isn't worthy. Yes, many aspects of this movie were culled out of the greats like An Officer and a Gentleman and Top Gun. Heck, one doesn't even have to go back a full year to find a fairly similiar flick in Annapolis. (A little aside here to say that I found The Guardian far superior to Annapolis, so if you hated the latter, don't let it keep you from seeing the former. The similarities are thin.)

But I liked The Guardian. I didn't mind the cliches because they were done well. I liked the characters. I liked the plot. I thought the acting was good, the special effects outstanding, the accuracy sold well enough that I, as an ignorant civilian, bought what I was told. I was entertained.

And in the end, isn't this what counts? If a writer can take an old idea and present it well, give it good service and entertain those who look to be entertained, isn't that the ultimate goal?

I enjoy watching those coming of age/mentor-mentee/military training movies for a reason. I expect to see certain cliches, otherwise they don't qualify as coming of age/mentor-mentee/military training movies. When I see a movie trailer for the newest version of the old story, I get excited about it. Can't wait until it comes to the theatre (see the above about how I'll even risk killer storms if I'm highly motivated). I don't care if it's a story that's been done before. And before. And before that.

It's like ordering the same flavor of ice cream because it's your favorite. I love mint chocolate chip ice cream. If an ice cream store has it, that's what I'll choose. Now, some places do it better than others. Ben and Jerry's puts out my favorite - Mint Chocolate Chunk - and I really like Baskin Robbin's version. The local mom and pop ice cream shop in my town offers only a mediocre mint chocolate chip, so when I go there I tend to choose something else. It's always refreshing to go for the mocha almond fudge.

But in the end, I always return to mint chocolate chip. I don't mind that it's not high concept. As long as it's done well, I'm satisfied.

That's my new goal. I'm going to strop trying to be the most original person out there and focus on doing what I like very well.

I'm going to be the best mint chocolate chip ice cream cone in the world!

Yeah, over-enthused a bit much.

Back On the Blog

Haitus over.

Come to find out, blogging is kind of like some reverse addiction recovery program. Instead of pride when I say it's been nearly two months since I've last blogged, I'm ashamed to admit I've gone so long without a fix. Not to mention that I've messed up my perfect a-post-in-every-month archive over on the side.

Let's see, what have I accomplished in the last fifty-some-odd days?

Read a few good books. Tune in at some point and I'll give you my opinions on J.R. Ward's third installment of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, Lover Awakened (awesome!!) and Suzanne Brockman's controversial (sort of) Into the Storm (close to awesome).

Became hooked on Angel. Just what I really didn't need, a show already in syndication that I could conceivably watch every day until the end of time.

Have discovered a handful of new TV shows that seem promising. Studio 60 On the Sunset Strip and Men In Trees are my new must-sees.

James Tupper is my current newest crush and forever boyfriend. Hands off.

I re-decorated two kids' bedrooms, complete with fancy painting schemes.

Got said kids back to school.

Over-committed myself as a volunteer at same school.

Have vowed to learn how to say "no".

And most importantly, I've learned that re-starting a good habit is as hard as giving up a bad one.

Hiatus over.

Is It Real or Is It Memorex?

So, how does it work when a writer wants to use the names of real things/people/books/etc. in her fictional world? Does she need to get permission?

For example, if my heroine is a journalist, can she write for Glamour or Cosmopolitan or Vanity Fair? Can my ex-Secret Service hero have worked on President Clinton's security detail? Can my newly famous starlet heroine buy the Bel Air mansion right next door to Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie (not that they own a Bel Air mansion, but I'm flying off the cuff here)? Can it be a United flight that gets hijacked, the NBC television studio that gets taken over by a crazed gunman, or the New York Times that spills headlines warning of a deadly plague heading toward the U.S.?

How close to reality can I skim before I hit legal issues? When and where do I have to give credit? When do the real people involved with these real places/people/institutions whatever crawl out of the woodwork to cry foul and nail me for the faker that I am?

And how bad is it to offer up substitutes?

If my chick lit heroine writes for Dazzle or Jet Setter or Blue Blood Monthly magazine, does the reader mentally understand the parallel to the real-world counterpart? Does having worked the Secret Service detail for ex-president Martin Smith carry the same sense of competence one would expect simply in seeing the words Secret Service? And does owning the Bel Air mansion next door to Rake Famous and Fiona Fabulous, the fictional reigning couple of fictional Hollywood, denote the same sense of fairytale and voyeurism I imagine I would feel if I ever entered that world?

I really don't know. But I need to. Quickly.

Aging a Bit Painfully

Robin Uncapher just wrote an At the Back Fence column over on AAR that is so timely for me as to be kind of eerie. She discusses the role age plays on romance novels: in who buys them, in how the age of the heroine is perceived, in what is considered acceptable versus creepy...well, just go read the article because I'm not doing it justice.

But this is timely because last week I celebrated a particularly difficult birthday. I'm not ashamed to admit my age - I just turned 39 - but I am somewhat wary about admitting how difficult I found the day. I know I'm still in the prime of my life, hopefully with at least another 39 or more years to go. To call myself 'old' is as insulting and ridiculous as the size 3 supermodel calling herself fat.

Even so, I spent much of my birthday near tears. I told myself it was because my daughter was giving me fits all day, but I know the truth of it is that the idea of turning 40 scares me silly. See, 40 is the age I think of as my mother's generation. In my head - and heart - my mom is still 40 and I'm no older than 20 or less. I may have all the trappings of an adult - mortgage, kids, utility bills and a minivan in the shop - but I'm still just a kid inside.

Hitting 40 means no more delusions, though. No one thinks of a 40 year old as anything but an adult. When you hit 40, you are what you are. Your mold is cast and you've chosen your path, for the most part. When you hit 40 and make drastic changes, people give you that knowing mid-life-crisis smirk. Certainly the Stacy's Mom song applies to a mother still in her mid thirties, because moms in their forties can't be hotter than their daughters. I know that the day I turn 40 will make me no different than I was at age 39 and 364 days, but it's a line that does mean something intangible once you've crossed, however stupid and un-substantiated those stereotypes might be.

Which leads me to Robin's timely column. As I writer, I'm always contemplating the ages of my characters. And I admit - albeit shamefully - to a great deal of ageism when I go about deciding how old my heroine and hero are.

When I first began reading romance novels, I though nothing at all of those drastic age differences. An 18-year-old heroine paired with a 30-plus hero seemed only natural. Not in the least bit strange or off. Of course, I mostly read historicals then, but in my young mind, 18 was certainly mature enough to be engaging in Serious Relationships and Hot Sex. Since most of the 18-year-old guys I knew were far from sexy and mature, it made sense that an older hero step in to educate the young lass. I couldn't imagine any of my guy friends in such a sexy, dashing role.

As I've aged, not only does such a wide age gap between hero and heroine raise the Ick-factor flag (pedophilia is in no way sexy or acceptable), the idea of an 18-year-old as a mature character becomes laughable. What in the heck does a person less than two decades old know about real love and commitment and what it takes to make a life together? Sure, nubile late-teenager bodies make for pretty mental images when reading those sex scenes, but such a young girl should be attending frat parties/cotillions/boarding school, not crossing verbal swords and exchanging bodily fluids with a man old enough to be her...much older brother.

So I entered the phase in my life when the ideal age for a heroine became something in her low twenties. Young enough for all the parts to still be firm and high, yet old enough to pass the jail-bait test. Certainly people who are over 20 are no longer kids.

Except I still have some problems. Although 20, 21 and even 22 are technically not teenage years, I identify those ages with my own college years. I certainly wasn't a grown-up when I was in college, despite the fact that I could stay out all night. If you can't buy a drink in a bar legally, you certainly shouldn't be allowed to star in a romance novel.

Now, when I begin to write a heroine who is only 23 or 24, I think of where I was at that age. Just starting out in the world. Selfish and aware enough of it to know I was no where near ready to be married. In fact, I still think I married extremely young at 26, and if I had to do it all again, I think I would have postponed it a year or two (same guy, different year is all).

With years comes the wisdom of experience. And it's impossible to regain the niavete of youth, when you felt like you knew everything when you really had no clue how young and stupid you were until much later. Once upon a time, 22 seemed very adult. Now, not so much.

Which puts my heroines in their late twenties. Old enough for the shock of reality to have settled, for some heartbreak to soften the edges, and for the inkling of what relationships require to blossom. Young enough that sex is still an exciting adventure, things are still in their intended places, and good health is taken for granted.

As for how I identify with characters in novels that I read, now that I'm heading upwards in numbers myself, I admit that I avoid books that feature heroines who are older than their late thirties. I no longer can imagine myself in the romance-novel scenario, so I'm unable to accept heroines who are my age contemporaries as heroines. Kind of like reading stories that feature kids and babies. I know the reality of having children - that kids are the antithesis to romance. They wear you out. They offer a vessel in which to place a lot of that love you once could lavish only on your significant other. They make spontaneous hot monkey sex on the kitchen table completely impossible. Stories that contain a couple who can't keep their hands off each other despite the presence of a little human relation anywhere in a four block radius strike me as completely unbelievable, so I can't lose myself in the fantasy. I know the reality to well.

At my age, the likelihood I will meet a dashing ex-Navy SEAL/cowboy/millionaire shiek and he will take me away after learning that I'm a spy/repressed librarian/immediately orgasming virgin is about on par with my chances of getting struck by lightning after having bought a winning billion dollar payout lottery ticket. So I need my heroines to be young enough that such a possibility is...well, possible in order for me to lose myself in the story. To escape in it and truly enjoy it. I'd much rather put myself in her shoes, which is easy enough to do if she's a well drawn character, than wonder if I'm doing something wrong because at my age, I've never experienced such adventures.

I don't know how I'll feel when I hit 50 or 60 or 70. There's a good chance I'll look back fondly on my forties - the decade when my kids will truly become independent - and think of it as the time in my life when I was the sexiest and most alive. I'll perhaps want to read stories about 40 year-old divorcees finding love a second time around.

Now, though, I need my reading and writing to take me away from my reality. I need to come to terms with my own aging before I can come to terms with the aging of fictional characters. No, I'll never be able to lose myself in stories where the heroine is barely graduated high school. I know better now. But I'm not far enough away from my twenties and thirties to think of those ages as too young.

I won't go into how much it bothers me that I feel like some kind of dirty old woman if I dare admire the nicely sculpted torso of the college-aged guy who mows our neighbor's lawn. It's simply too depressing.

Treasure Hunting

I have to give props to my local Borders bookstore. It has an amazing romance novel section. At least two full aisles are devoted to the genre, with shelves that reach over my head. They pull hardbacks and over-sized paperbacks together, analogies are shelved with each other, and the rest is the normal by-author alphabetized.

The Barnes and Noble nearest me, which just so happens to be about 1/16th of a mile down the street from Borders, isn't quite as nicely organized. I imagine they devote the same amount of shelf space to romance because the B&N shelves go way higher than the ones at Borders. But they don't cull out special titles other than newest offerings. For some reason, shopping for romance at B&N makes me feel slightly inferior. Perhaps this is because the romance aisle is set toward the back of the store, whereas at Borders they are located in the dead center of the store. I don't feel like I'm slinking off to the back room.

Actually, though, I rarely buy romance novels at brick-and-mortar bookstores. I prefer to get them either on-line or at Walmart/KMart/Target. The former is preferable because I can buy in batches and find every single title I'm looking for at one stop. This is never the case when I go to B&N or Borders. In fact, I usually mean both stores when I throw out a "I'm going to the bookstore" because I always try B&N first (I have a membership card there and can save 10% right off the top) but then end up heading to Borders if I can't find what I'm looking for. And as shamed as I am to admit it, I like saving the buck or so I get when I buy paperbacks at the discount stores. Especially if I'm taking a gamble on a new author.

The only books I buy at B&N/Borders not on-line are new releases that I just can't wait to get my hands on. This causes its own frustration when I cruise on down, my heart thumping in anticipation, only to find out the book isn't shelved. I'm the type of person who loathes to ask for any help, so I'm stuck between wanting my book and dealing with the angst of sending a sales person to the stockroom in search of it.

One thing B&N/Borders stores have that I can't find elsewhere are the bargain books. I love love love bargain books. Especially bargain reference books. I have more books on various topics I've picked up this way, books on everything from the history of firearms to the haunted castles of Scotland. These are books I'd never go searching for on their own, books I'd normally just check out of the library on an as-needed basis, but that I just love having at my fingertips should I require an immediate fact or another. Since you never quite know what you'll find at any given moment, wandering the bargain aisles is a bit like going on a treasure hunt. And it's just not the same cruising the bargain pages of the B&N/Borders' websites.

Before kids, when my husband and I lived in the city, a favorite form of Friday and/or Saturday night entertainment was dinner and a trip to the bookstore. We could spend hours just browsing the shelves. My husband would use the bookstore as a magazine library - pull up a chair and flip through a mag while I wandered the aisles. I always felt guilty on his behalf and would nag him to just buy the dang thing and read it at home. We seldom bought books, or at least rarely ever more than one. Or two.

Now, when I find myself in a bookstore without kids, I'm like a kid in a candy store. I rarely walk out with only one book. In fact, going with the hubby has lost its charm because he always eyes my growing stack with disapproval.

And unlike my purchases from Amazon or B&N.com, I can't just mingle the new books into the shelves with the old. He knows what I'm up to.

How I'm feeding my book addiction.

Tying Up Strings

I've confessed before that I got my bug for writing by first writing fanfic. Regardless of the legal grayness involved in borrowing other people's characters and worlds and using them in your own creations, I still think fanfic is a great way to test your writing wings. Not to mention the ego boost it offers if you prove good enough to earn some positive feedback. For the fledgling writer, a bit of back patting is as essential as a good dictionary and word processing program to get you going. Heaven knows there's far too little of it once you enter the scary world of publishing.

My appreciation for fanfic not withstanding, I haven't written fanfic in well over a year and half now. All of my creative energies are focused on my own, original stuff, and the voices of those favorite characters no longer speak to me loud enough to be heard over the din of original characters. I pushed them as far as their pre-established universe (and the readers of associated fanfic) would allow. When I started adding my own, new characters to the old character's stories, new characters who I fell in love with even more so than the originals, I knew it was time to break out on my own.

But in doing so, I've left some loose strings. Particularly, I began a fairly lengthy story that I didn't finish. I put all the players in position, sent them into a deep chasm of problems and conflict, only to leave them flailing about with no light in sight at the end of their proverbial tunnels. No HEA. No resolution. Only a message promising to finish the story. At some point.

Even worse, I posted as much of this story as I had written. I put it out there and some people came and read. And then I left them high and dry. The worst thing a writer can do to a reader, and I'm guilty.

Every once in a while a reader will enquire when/if I plan to finish it. I feel huge amounts of guilt when this happens because I don't blame them for feeling abandoned. I dragged these folks on a dark ride and have left them there. It's like watching a television show that leaves one season on a horrible cliffhanger, only to have it be cancelled while on hiatus with no resolution.

So I'm thinking I should pick up the pen again on this one. I should finish it and close the box. Get those characters out of trouble, satisfy those readers that stuck with me, finish what I started.

Except, it's been 18 months since I worked on this story, and those characters aren't talking to me anymore. Those scenes aren't playing in my head on endless loop. I've tried everything to get it back. I've reread what I've already written, hoping to get back in the mood. I've looked over the snippets of scenes that I'd gotten down before I became distracted by other things. I've spent time in the shower, thinking it over. Nada. I'm about to dive into the DVDs, hoping if I watch some episodes I'll find those voices again. Hoping.

Because when I sit down with the laptop, I don't want to see that file on my desktop any longer. I'm ready to move on. Guilt free.

Other voices are calling.

I've Found Him...

...My hero to end all heroes. Captain Malcolm "Mal" Reynolds.

This weekend I rented Serenity. I wasn't a fan of the ill-fated Firefly series on which the movie was based until after Fox cancelled the television show because it wasn't until then that I discovered Buffy and the genius that is Joss Whedon. Once I realized I might have missed a great thing, I put the Firefly series DVD on my Amazon wish list, and a dear friend got it for me for my birthday. (Dear Friend, if you are reading this, you know who you are and I HEART you!) The hubby and I watched the pilot, which I loved, but I never got around to watching the other 13 episodes.

Until now.

Mal Reynolds is not perfect as a man. Far from it. He's morally ambiguous far too often, he's too stubborn by far, and sometimes he just needs a good smack upside the head because he can't see a good thing standing right under his nose. He believes in nothing other than his own ability to survive and won't hesistate to dispatch of anyone or anything that endangers that one goal.

But he's loyal. He loves his crew and will do anything for them, despite the bluster he puts out when asked to do so. He's fearless but not stupid. He gets his butt kicked by those who are bigger and stronger, but mostly he wins the battle with quick thinking, a confidence that borders on cocky, and the simple refusal to go down without a fight. Push him too far and he becomes your worst enemy, earn his respect and love and he'll fight for you 'til death.

Sexy and nice looking yet not too pretty, his face reveals a dangerous life lived hard. His sense of humor is dry and irreverant; he doesn't take himself or the universe too seriously because he's a hair's breadth away from the edge at all times.

His backstory is noble and tragic. A rebel soldier who fought against a totalitarian government, his side lost the war, leaving him unable to fit into the society created by those who conquered him and forced to make his own place any way necesary. He'll step pretty far over the line to make a living, but he's no petty criminal or mean-spirited villain-wannabe. He simply does what he has to do to get by.

He's a cross between the old western gunslinger and the Hans Solo mold of space pirate. He'll let loose a string of Chinese expletives in one breath and banish from the dinner table a crewmember who offends a female with off-humour commentary with the very next. His shell is granite-hard, but you just know that if you can manage to crack it, inside is a tender center very few have ever encountered. His biggest fault by far is his inability to let himself be vulnerable. A challenge no girl could resist.

Nathan Fillion, the actor to whom all the credit goes for creating my shiny new perfect hero mold (along with Joss for creating Mal Reynolds in the first place) has only one flaw - his choice in other roles. As I watched Serenity, I kept trying to place where it was I'd seen him before. An IMDB search answered the question. After Firefly was cancelled, Fillion appeared in the final handful of Buffy episodes as a vile, evil murdering preacher named Caleb. The character was beyond creepy. For the role, Fillion dyed his hair darker and adopted a southern accent, but the face is the same. And I just can't get that out of my head.

But I figure with a few dozen viewings of my Firefly DVDs, all I will see will be Mal.

Meanwhile, I need to get busy campaigning with the rest of the Browncoats. Serenity needs a sequel.

Time Travel Trouble

I suppose I should change my blog header, as this, the last and perhaps the next post are about movies rather than books or writing. It's summer time, though, and I've given my brain permission to indulge in pleasures that don't require it to work so much, thus movies instead of books.

Last night my friend and I took in a 12:01 viewing of the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie (woohoo - I had a movie date!!). Won't talk on that now, since there's a good chance I'll go with the hubby this weekend and may have more to say later. It's good. Really good. Kind of long, but since they feed you up some Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp eye candy, who can complain?

This afternoon I found myself with some rare kid-free time and took in a matinee of the romantic 100% chick-flick, The Lake House. It stars Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock, both of whom I thought had oodles of chemistry between them in Speed.

Before I go any further, I want to warn about some major SPOILERS in this review. If you haven't seen it and have any plans to see it, don't read any further. I think the key to enjoying this film is seeing it cold, without knowing how it all plays out, which I explain soon.

If you've seen it or don't care about spoilers and are reading on, the premise of the movie is great. Keanu plays architect Alex Wyler, Sandra Bullock a doctor, Kate Forester. Both characters spend time in a glass-and-steel lake house designed and built by Alex's father. The story begins when Kate moves out of the lake house and leaves a note behind asking the next tennant to forward her mail. When Alex shows up and pulls Kate's letter out of the mailbox then replies to it, a correspondence between the two begins and love soon follows. The twist comes in the form of time; Alex is living in the year 2004 while Kate exists two years later, in 2006.

Up front, I can tell you that the conflict facing Alex and Kate is perfect. Until the very end of the movie, I had no idea of how the two could overcome the barrier of time to be together. I went into the movie figuring that they must be living in some kind of parallel universe situation, where his life track is simply shifted two years earlier than her life track, and the possibility of either one jumping tracks pretty much non-existent.

However, their time distance seemed to be based on some other idea of multiple time dimensions, one I never could quite figure out. Then again, time travel always leaves me befuddled.

I love the idea of time travel romances. I'm always up for the awkwardness of someone who goes back in time and has to figure out how to make due without modern conveniences. I'm not as big on the ones where characters come forward in time as I always figured the shock of life today would kill people use to the past. Either way, it's interesting for me to see how a writer (or director) can pull it off.

But I always get hung up on the whole time/space continuum deal. All of that physics stuff, about what might happen if the same person meets him or herself or if events of the past are changed, how will it affect the future? My mind starts to whirl a bit when it gets going on what seems to me an endless cycle of cause and effect and cause and effect...

Which leads me to my biggest issue of this otherwise intriguing film. Okay - here are those big SPOILERS I warned you about!

In the movie, Kate has a particularly bad day after moving from the lake house to downtown Chicago. She's having lunch with her mother in Daley Plaza and sees a man get hit by a bus. Being a doctor, she rushes to the scene and does her best to save him, but he dies anyway. Her work colleague sees her, despondent, and tells Kate she needs to get out of town to get her mind off things. Kate returns to the lake house, the one place she really felt at home. It's then that she discovers that Alex has left a response to her "please forward my mail" letter and their correspondence - and discovery of their situation - begins.

Fast forward to the end of the movie and the twist I predicted about half way through happens. Come to find out, Alex was the man killed by the bus. He'd been on his way to meet her, having learned via one of her letters that she'd be at Daley Plaza on Valentine's Day, 2006, so when his own time hit that point, he headed there. Kate figures this out and races time to send Alex a message not to come, that he'll be hit by a bus if he does.

Yes, Alex gets the message in time. So, no, he's not killed by the bus.

BUT!!! But...but...but...

If Alex isn't killed by the bus, Kate can't be despondent over having lost a patient whose life she'd tried to save. And her colleague can't see her and suggest that she go someplace she feels good. And Kate can't then go to the lake house and discover Alex's return message. And none of their correspondence would happen. So Kate warning Alex changes what happens, which means everything from that point forward is null and void. The two never know each other. Alex has no reason to be going to Daley Plaza....

See? Circles. And I'm so confused.

But more simply, the entire movie falls apart on that first unraveling. The death of the supposed stranger hit by a bus can't be the thing that inspires Kate to go back to the lake house. A huge plot hole as far as I can figure.

I think the problem comes from having the time distance between the two be only two years. I kept wondering why in the world Kate didn't just do a Google search on the name "Alex Wyler" and find out where he was in her time. In fact, her doing a Google search would have revealed to her that Alex Wyler had been killed by a bus on Valentine's Day, 2006 and she could have warned him much sooner. Eventually - accidentally - she does land in the offices of the architectural firm he created with is brother, and it's then that she discovers that he'd died two years earlier (in her past 2006, her current time now being 2008). She would have learned about his architectural firm much sooner than 2008 if she would have just fired up the old laptop in the first place.

Also, at one point, Alex and Kate do meet. Alex knows who she is, but Kate thinks he's just some stranger since in her timeline, she hasn't even lived at the lake house yet. I kept wondering why in the world Alex didn't just tell her everything or stick to her like glue. But, then again, his doing that would change Kate's future, meaning the two of them might not ever meet in the first place.

My point being, I kept seeing ways the two could meet, but when neither of them followed such a path, I tried to understand what was going on in their world that made it impossible for them to do something so simple. At one point, they do try to pre-arrange a meeting. Alex has to wait two years for it, but they pick a date and place in Kate's present/Alex's future to meet. Alex doesn't show up. Because...wait for it...he's dead. So their meeting once they've learned of each other becomes impossible because Alex was killed the day they "met" via their letters...

Aaughh! My head hurts.

So...all of this to say that the movie was good to a certain degree, but my mind just can't deal with the weirdness of time travel. I'm just not able to suspend my disbelief enough to ignore what seems to me illogicalities in the basic construct of the story.

I will say this. I love Keanu Reeves. But seeing him today makes me realize how time affects us all. He's starting to show his age, which makes me feel a lot better since I've been showing mine for some time now.

My recommendation? If you don't think too hard, this is a sweet movie, with a few tear-enducing moments and a lot of edge-of-the-seating as you wonder how and if these two will ever get together. If your mind can't deviate too far from logical, then you might want to skip it.

Supes Lite

I'm a huge Superman fan.

Actually, I'm a huge fan of the relationship between Clark Kent/Superman and Lois Lane.

In fact, I'd never read a Superman comic or had seen more than the first two Christopher Reeve Superman movies before I fell in love with the Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman television series, starring Teri Hatcher and Dean Cain. That show made me a Superman fan...or a fan of the Superman love story, that is.

So naturally I was excited about the recently released Superman Returns movie starring Brandon Routh and Kate Bosworth. Kind of accidentally, we ended up going to see it on opening night last week. I had no idea when my husband suggested we see it that it was the first night, nor how lucky we ended up being to score tickets.

Anyway, we went and we saw. And the movie is really good. I know it's getting mixed reviews, but I count myself as one of the satisfied.

Sort of.

Because as far as the Superman part of the movie went, I'm totally in the thumbs-up column.

But as for the romance between Superman/Clark and Lois, well...the movie left me a bit cold.

I won't spoil it for those who plan to see the movie. I think it's safe to offer up a brief synopsis: Superman has been gone from Earth for 5 years. During his absence, Lois has had a child and become engaged to Richard White, the nephew of her editor Perry White and played by the very nice looking James Marsden. She's moved on with her life, something that both Clark and Superman find not a little bit disconcerting upon their mutual return.

And as anyone would expect, poor Lois finds herself in quite the emotional pickle when she first glimpses those sexy blue tights and all of the muscles bulging inside of them. Her true love is back, it seems. But she's moved on. Can she press rewind and go back in time, knowing then what she knows now will happen, thus making different choices? Can she have her cake and fly with it, too?

I did feel for her. Richard White isn't a bad consolation prize by any means. Plus there's the boy child making things messy. She can't just walk away from her new life just because the bird in the bush is back. She's faced with the same choice Helen Hunt dealt with in Cast Away, when Tom Hanks shows up about 50 pounds skinnier and a lot less frenetic, but her first and truest love all the same. Does she walk away from her husband and daughter, abandon them to be with the man she loves? Or does she resign herself to a future of settling, always regretting what could have been all in the name of responsibility to those who love her now?

My problem with the romance in the new Superman movie, though, isn't Lois's dilemma or even how she eventually solves it. My issue is that I feel jipped. We viewers are dropped into the story five years after Lois and Superman had their big affair. We didn't get to see any of their falling in love or the bolt of instant heat between them or even the simmer of growing attraction. All of this is implied; we are told that Superman and Lois had some great love before he took off without so much as a see ya round.

Wha...??

But that's my favorite part!! The falling in love junk. The attraction. The heat.

It's like watching the two of them smoking their post-coital cigarettes without even seeing them meet for the first time. I know they have this great, passionate love only because I'm already familiar with the Superman mythos. If I'd been an alien from another planet who'd never heard of Superman before, I'd have been thoroughly confused. You mean these two once were in love? Go figure. And why am I supposed to care?

I suppose since this is a superhero action movie, the romance rides second fiddle to everything else. Fair enough. It's not billed as a romance or a chick film or anything of that sort. Guys wrote it for other guys, thinking if the gals didn't mind the ride, well, bonus dude. But for those of us who are Superman/Clark loves Lois fans, a big piece of the puzzle went missing.

In the end, I still loved the movie for what it ended up being. I guess I need to remove my romantic expectations for Superman and take the story as is. Kind of like Batman. There is no specific lady I expect to see as Batman's one true love, therefore I don't miss the missing romance and enjoy the movie as an action flick about a cool superhero.

I suppose this is what I get for calling myself a Superman fan without having read maybe more than three Superman comics. Does it count that I've seen every episode of Lois and Clark at least half-a-dozen times and every epi of Smallville at least twice?

Oh well. 4.5 stars out of 5 ain't bad.

Vacation, Have To Get Away

I'm heading off on vacation. Two guesses where we're going. My kids would call it the happiest place on Earth. Me? Well, I'd call it a place on Earth.

Anyway, won't be back until after July 4th. And then it's a straight shot down until school starts up again.

In 80-some-odd days.

Not that I'm counting.

Yours, Mine, Not Sure About Ours

I'm out of town this weekend. Heading down to spend some time with my family, which is always interesting and fun.

I got an e-mail from my cousin telling me she had a fabulous story idea. I can't wait to hear it. She's hilarious and highly entertaining, so I have no doubt her idea will be great.

Her e-mail got me to thinking, though, how hard I think it would be to work as a write-for-hire writer. Taking someone else's idea and very specific instructions and making it all work out. Part of the fun for me - the biggest part - is coming up with a new idea. Rolling it around in my head, listening while the characters begin speaking and telling me their stories. I could spend hours sitting in a quiet room, just thinking through ideas. You all know about me and my shower time.

Once before a writer friend and I came up with the idea of co-writing a story. Problem was, we both had different ideas of what should happen and how, and we both thought our ideas were pretty cool and good - on both sides. Hers were great ideas. Just not my ideas. And I didn't have the ability to move my creative brain in a different direction. In the end, we agreed not to write the story together, no hard feelings at all.

So, I'll listen to my cousin's idea. And I'll mull it around. See what happens.

Political Dissonance

Recently I’ve been visiting the blog of a soldier stationed in Iraq. I find his view on things over there very interesting, and he's a very good writer. Not to mention how helpful I find the descriptions, slang, and other real-world bits and pieces he offers up in a context I personally will never have the opportunity to experience (and for that, I thank him since I don’t believe I’d want to experience such a thing as war). Mil blogs are a great resource to those of us writing mil roms.

Yesterday, however, I was very much turned off by his rant against basically anyone who wasn’t like him or didn’t agree with his personal political world view. He’s staunchly hard-right conservative, with all the George Bush worshipping, anti-liberal-hippy-do-gooder bashing and media conspiracy theory pushing it involves. I found his post offensive not so much because of his beliefs – I’m a firm believer that everyone is entitled to believe as he or she chooses – but more of his overall attitude towards those who disagree with him. He claims to be a hard-core American, but I guess I find such intolerance and outspoken hatred of fellow Americans who are using their own freedom of speech to disagree with him more than a little hypocritical. Not to mention his convenient forgetting of American history in which the French had a big hand in helping the colonials out back in that first Revolutionary War, resulting in a United States of America in the first place and thus making any reminders of how the U.S. saved France’s butt from the Nazis during WWII kind of...well, not only arrogant but completely tasteless and ignorant. Regardless of what France is doing now, the past is in the past, and all debts have been paid.

All of this is not to air my disgust with this guy and his views (although, hey, it’s my blog and where else can I do it if not here?) but rather how what he thinks and believes and how he chose to express it really got to me. Long after I turned off the computer having determined maybe I wouldn’t be haunting his blog so much after all, I lay in bed fuming. And wondering how this country manages to keep going when so many of us seem to be so completely divided on such key issues. And what could this guy’s life have been like to have him end up where he is, while I’m so different.

Which led me to realize that, as a writer, I think it would be completely impossible for me to depict a character who held viewpoints so fundamentally different from my own. Never in my wildest dreams could I imagine writing a character who sounds like this blogger. While I can understand some of what he’s saying – and even agree with bits of it – I don’t really like him very much. I would never be able to spend an entire book-writing’s worth of time in his company, listening to his rhetoric all the while wanting nothing more than to tell him to shut the hell up already.

I do think I have the ability to deviate from my own point of view to a certain degree. I have no problem writing characters whose religions differ from my own. I’m okay with people who are more conservative than I am or people who are more liberal than I am. I don’t get reality TV, the WWF, or jazz, but I can understand there are people out there who do. But when the needle hits the extremes, I balk. I simply don’t know how to put my own mind in a place where I can understand such attitudes. In fact, when I do go there, these characters tend to take on a more villain like-role in my mind and in the story. These people become cartoons, someone I can’t take seriously or who I use as an example of how not to be. They are never, ever the heroes or heroines in my story.

Is this the way it is with most writers or do I have a serious design flaw? Do most writers revolve a pre-determined circumference away from their own moral center, unable to reach beyond into the dark corners where their own understanding comes up empty? And if they are able to break free and write real people who think 180 degrees away from their own beliefs, how do they pull it off?

The only chance I have of working against my own belief system is when I build a character from the ground up. Rather than starting with a “Republican, pro-life, NRA card carrying member, homophobic middle-aged man”, I have to start with a child who had experiences in his life that made him turn towards a certain state of mind. I have to avoid the labels on the back end that make me want to back away slowly, my hands raised to ward off danger. I end up with something along the lines of yes, my hero is a member of the NRA, but that’s because his father was killed by a gun-toting maniac while the hero looked on helplessly, and the hero vowed he’d never be that defenseless again. There have to be concrete experiences for the reasons my characters turned out as they did rather than simply that they born into that sort of family and that’s what they were taught to believe.

No matter how I get there, I have to like the person I end up with. No matter what my characters believe – even if it does differ from my own beliefs – I can’t dislike them fundamentally. I can’t view them as boorish louts who insist on hoisting their own opinions on everyone they come in contact with and then vilifying those who don’t agree with them. I don’t have the ability to write ugly Americans unless it’s to make fun of them, and if that makes me a bad writer, then I suppose the title fits.

In the end, for me anyway, it’s not so much the beliefs a person holds but rather how that person chooses to express them. Like I said above, I do think that everyone is entitled to believe what he or she chooses. I do not, however, believe that those people have a right to inflict their beliefs on the greater public, nor to I think that hatred and intolerance towards those who are inclined otherwise is acceptable. You get a lot further with me when you respect my viewpoints while making valid, non-judgmental points to support your own cause. Calling me pro-abortion (and implying that I think abortions are to be carried out willy-nilly and just because some goofball forgot to wear a condom but no big deal) just because I support a woman’s right to choose doesn’t do much to make me want to listen to why you feel abortion is wrong.

Telling me I’m anti-American just because I question some of the decisions my government has made sure doesn’t make me want to consider the possibly valid reasons why you disagree with my viewpoint.

It’s all in the delivery. It’s why they say you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Them old wives, they knew a few things.

Is It Here Yet?

Know how sherbet is supposed to cleanse the palate in anticipation of a fabu desert after a satisfying meal? I've just dished me up a heaping helping of orange because today, Lynn Viehl's long anticipated Dark Need hits the shelves. After the mundane of a Nora, I am sooo ready for this book.

I'm so ready, in fact, that I've been haunting both Wal-Mart and Borders hoping that I might scam a copy earlier than the June 6 release date. Ever since I got lucky with J.R. Ward's Lover Eternal, I've hoped I might strike gold again with some accidental early-display of a much anticipated release. I'm not so ridiculous to think I'll have my hands on Harry Potter 7 a week in advance, but, hey, it happens.

But since I'm a pragmatist, I ordered Dark Need from Barnes & Noble last week. As much as I'm dying to jump into this book, I get a 10% discount by being a B&N member (annual birthday gift from my mother which is much appreciated!) and I had a wish list long enough to qualify me for free shipping, I figured I could wait the extra couple of days for shipping. I'm going out of town this weekend and only hoped that the book would show up in time for me to take it along.

All of this, however, before PBW (writer extraordinaire of the Darkyn series) posted this excerpt from Dark Need. Can I just tell you that I'm twitching already? Thinking maybe waiting two or three days for shipping might not cut it, I figured I could always return my extra copy or give it to a friend (my cousin likes dark books, if I recall correctly...) if I might be able to find an early copy.

No such luck. And as the kids are now officially out of school and shopping for anything, even books, has taken on the appeal of a trip to the OB/GYN, I'm resigned to waiting another couple of days. It's only Tuesday, after all. So my chances of having it to read on my trip are still pretty good.

Did I ever mention that I'm not a very patient person?

I'm Trying, Part 2

Okay, I did it. I finished Sea Swept, just as I promised I would.

Was it good? I give it a solid C.

I didn't hate it. The heroine was a delight; a woman who knew what she wanted, enjoyed sex without apology, and took responsibility for her own broken heart when the inevitable Big Mis happened. Not only did she take responsibility, she saw the situation as disappointing to be sure but not life-ending or wallowing-endlessly-worthy, and she showed the proper amount of anger toward the hero and his part in hurting her. Neither a martyr nor a shrew was she.

As for the hero, he was okay. I could never get a real read on him. Cameron Quinn is supposed to be some sort of ex-playboy rakish sort, although I never really got that.

Story in a nutshell: Playboy professional racer (boats, cars, motorcycles, I got the idea he'd race anything that moved) Cameron Quinn returns to his hometown after his father dies in a car crash and leaves behind a young boy he was in process of adopting. Along with his brothers, Ethan and Phillip, Cam must convince social worker Anna Spinezzi that 10-year-old Seth belongs with them as their father had requested. While the three men try to figure out a way to mesh their individual lives in such a way as to care for Seth properly, they battle the growing rumors that their father's death wasn't an accident but rather a suicide. As you might expect, Anna and Cam begin a relationship, one which is questionable since clearly Anna's position as Seth's caseworker presents a conflict of interest between the two.

I'd chosen this story because I'd read in several reviews that the interaction between Cam, Ethan and Phillip is an amazing example of how men really act with each other. Supposedly Roberts has nailed the dialogue and sibling rivalry and nuances that make some fictional men read like real men and others like womanized-men. Too, so many had chosen this as the best Nora Roberts title out there I figured it was the best place to start.

My biggest problem with the book was that I found it a tad bit...well, boring. Sure, the characters talked like real people for the most part. And the brothers did bicker and snarl at each other like siblings sometimes do. As I mentioned above, Anna was quite refreshing as a heroine with a damaged past but a realistic outlook on life. No quaking virginal miss here, but rather a true-to-life woman who isn't afraid to look a good thing in the eye and grab it.

But the conflict throughout the story was less than intriguing. I never had any doubt that the three brothers would eventually prove acceptable guardians for Seth. And I never had any doubt that Cam wouldn't end up with Anna. The biggest obstacle in their relationship seemed to be Cam's carefree lifestyle before his return home and the fact that Cam hid inconsequential details about the insurance investigation into his father's accident from Anna. Except, I never got the idea that Cam was dying to return to his old life. Sure, he grouched around about having to wash dishes and do laundry and thought about his Porsche and felt bad when he had to turn down a lucrative racing gig. But once he and Anna were doing the horizontal mamba, he seemed fairly satisfied. Nor did Anna seem like she'd be devastated when he left, at least not until the story required that she mind it.

Too, when the big showdown hit the fan and Anna learned what it Cam had kept from her, I kept shaking my head wondering what the big deal was. I didn't blame Cam at all from not telling her; none of the information had anything to do with Seth's need for a stable homelife. Nor had Cam and Anna been a couple long enough for Anna's feelings of betrayal to ring true.

All this being said, I do have to give Roberts her due props in writing a story that I kept reading. While I wasn't dying to find out what happened, I did want to know how she'd play it all out.

The whole experience reminds me of eating comfort food. It isn't devine, it doesn't make you want to eat the entire plate and lick it clean, begging for more. The experience was pleasant and filling in a non-bothersome way, much as a slice of meatloaf fills you up, tastes pretty good, but doesn't necessarily sighing in rapture.

I do think part of my reaction to this story is my overall preferences for books with higher stakes at hand. I'm not big on family sagas, where kids play a big role and the ultimate goal of everyone seems to be the quaint little house with the white picket fence, matching minivan and SUVs sitting in the driveway, 2.8 kids, a puppy, kitten and hamster inside. I live that life. I really have no desire to read about it.

I have on hand the other three books in the Chesapeake Bay series. I have no doubt I'll read them eventually. Maybe even sooner rather than later, as they make good airplane reads and I'm heading to Florida in a few weeks.

But I'm still baffled on the whole Nora phenomenon. I just don't get the appeal - not the general appeal, just the avalanche of success that she's achieved and the legions of fans who claim her stuff is solid gold. I think it all needs to be chalked up to that old adage, different strokes for different folks.

I'm just different folks.

I'm Trying. Really.

I finally caved and picked up my first Nora Roberts.

Actually, that's not quite true. I have read a couple of the J.D. Robb "In Death" books, and once upon a time I read a novella-length Roberts in an anthology. Only thing I remember is that it was set at Christmas time and involved a poor girl and her father and some guy who was wounded and hiding out in their barn.

But yesterday I broke down and picked up a copy of Sea Swept from the library, and today I toddled over to the UBS to pick up Born in Fire, as well as the final three titles in the Chesapeake Bay series.

Up to this point, I have ignored La Nora on principle. Now, I don't know Ms. Roberts in person. I'm sure she's a wonderful, lovely woman. And I know she's paid her dues and works very, very hard for the overwhelming success she's attained. I hold no personal grudges against her and wish her only good health, long life, much happiness, and many more stories to tell. She's truly a talent and deserves the respect of the entire romance community, if for nothing else than because she's our permanent ambassador to the NYT Best Sellers list and has done more than probably any other genre writer in giving the old one-finger-salute to the literary snobs by making gazillions on those "formulaic trashy novels."

That being said, I have steadfastly refused to purchase a Nora Roberts novel because the woman is everywhere. You can't swing a figurative dead cat without hitting a Nora title or a Nora re-release or a Nora anthology, trilogy, series or stand alone. She's everywhere.

And some impish bitch inside of me simply refuses to contribute to the epidemic of Nora books blanketing the world. She certainly doesn't need my money. And she clearly doesn't need my support since there are masses upon masses who adore and worship at the altar of La Nora. I'm an eye-dropper droplet in the Pacific Ocean of Nora fans or potential fans, thus my boycott on principle doesn't hurt her a bit. I prefer to spend my bookbuying dollars on writers who actually might benefit from the sale of another copy, those who are trying to build a career from the ground up rather than raking in the gazillions from re-releases and various permutations of combining past titles while at the same time cranking out dozens of new books to glut the market, leading to a full 1/3 of the space devoted to romance novels in any given bookstore to be lined with Nora Roberts spines and face-outs. Not to mention all those NYT endcaps...

But someone answering a question I had posed over on the AAR potpourri message board suggested a Nora title to solve my problem. Then that very same title showed up in a recent AAR At the Back Fence column. When Sea Swept also appeared as the number one title on the reader-recommended top ten Nora Roberts titles list as well as earning a DIK review, I figured the gods were trying to tell me something. Maybe I should stop being a snob for no reason and give Nora a try. Maybe I was cutting off my nose to spite my face, missing the best flavor of ice cream simply because I refused to try it only because everyone else told me to.

I'm about 150 pages into Sea Swept. And my feelings so far?...Ambivalent.

Yes, I do want to finish the book. This is a humongous hurdle overcome already, since I have at least a dozen books on my TBR shelf that I gave the old 50-page college try only to put them down without any burning desire to pick them back up again. I do want to know what happens to the characters I've met so far. Sort of.

But even so, I'm still not getting it. Why the huge appeal of this woman? Why do so many sing her praises and whisper her name in reverent tones?

And I'm not just saying this because I have a chip on my shoulder the size of Texas. I have legitimate, real beefs that I truly believe would be the downfall of any writer of lesser fame and stature.

For example, head hopping in the extreme. I've heard tell that La Nora can pull off head hopping in such a way as to make it nearly invisible to the reader. She's one of a handful that can get away with it. But in my opinion, it's not invisible. Especially in a book where the POV hops not just from hero to heroine and back again but between several brothers and other characters. I always notice when it happens, and it pulls me out of the story. No, I'm not dizzy. Nor am I ever confused about who is thinking what, so to that end she does pull it off. But I'd just as soon remain in one person's head throughout the entire scene, especially since much of the hopping about seems more about giving the readers visual images of the characters rather than for better story telling.

Another problem is the use of phrases that make no sense to me or are so over-the-top poetic as to be outright silly. I encountered this phrase that made me read it over three times because I found it so bizarre: "Huddled in the dark, his body weeping at every bump, he promised himself he'd kill or he'd die before he went back." Um...body weeping? I'm not getting what that's supposed to represent. And not more than six paragraphs later, there's this to further confuse the issue: "His shirt stuck to his back; his feet began to weep." We won't go into the use of a fairly unique word as weep within two pages, but I do think it fair to question what exact imagery she is trying to conjure.

My last bitch-fest complaint is that she gets away with something that no fledgling writer in her right mind would ever even attempt. The first time we meet the heroine of Sea Swept, she's all alone, driving in her car. We are in her POV and only her POV since there is no-one else around to have a POV. Yet we get a description of her physical features, from hair color and style down to her pale gold skin and almond-shaped eyes, including such un-modesty as "Her mouth was full, with a ripe bottom lip." It's as close to the old looking-in-the-mirror technique as you can get without a piece of shiny glass nearby. Now, I understand that such descriptive works in a distant third-person narrative. Perhaps that's what's happening in this case. We aren't really in the heroine's brain but looking at her from high above. Not only does this cause a distance from the character for me, but with such phrasing it actually serves to make the heroine seem pretty darn full of herself, thinking she's a sexy mama with that ripe bottom lip. What woman thinks of her own lower lip as ripe?

Before I come off as the she-bitch-from-hell, these issues with craft really aren't any big deal. I've enjoyed many a book with much worse. I'm the kind who believes that a great story can overcome craft flaws easily, and because I'm intending to finish Sea Swept, obviously nothing in it so far has offended my writer sensibilities to the extreme.

It's just that for someone so entirely famous, so clearly the icon of an entire genre and so frequently held aloft as the bar for which we all strive, I expected perfection. I expected to be blown out of my socks, so swept away in the story that any craft issues would be invisible. I even went the extra mile to choose what many people say is the best of the best of her work. But I keep getting jerked out of the story.

I know. Maybe it's just that I'm looking for problems. Maybe I want this poor woman to fail in my estimation, so I'm just being a nitpicking fussbudget determined to be displeased. Maybe I should just shut my mouth and my writer's brain and try to enjoy the story.

To that end, I can promise to finish the book. To give it the entire go rather than judge it after only a few pages. I do have my principles, though. No guarantee I won't get any necessary Nora fixes via the library or the UBS. She won't miss me at all.