And Then Things Started Happening

I came back from Sleuthfest in Orlando on Sunday, March 4. A lot of normal stuff happened during March, but the quantity was daunting--life, y'all know what I mean.

Then, late in March I got an offer from Henery Press to publish LOWCOUNTRY BOIL, the first in my mystery series about a private investigator named Liz Talbot. At the time I had an agent, who still had submissions outstanding. My instincts were screaming bloody murder to go with Henery Press. I have had so many conflicting feelings about which direction I should travel on the publishing road--there are many forks these days--but suddenly I was no longer conflicted. I knew what I wanted.

On Thursday, March 22, I signed the contract with Henery Press. Happy Dancing ensued. LOWCOUNTRY BOIL will be released in trade paperback and all e-Book formats on September 18, 2012.

Then, on Monday, March 26, I got a call at 9:09 a.m. EDT from Romance Writers of America® (I would tell you who called, but I was so excited I haven't a clue) to let me know that LOWCOUNTRY BOIL is a 2012 Golden Heart® Finalist. More Happy Dancing ensued, but now I was pinching myself while I danced. For weeks I kept thinking they'd call me back and tell me there had been a mistake. So far, so good on that.

And the, on Friday, April 27, I got a call from Cathy Perkins to let me know that LOWCOUNTRY BOIL is a finalist in the Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Mystery/Suspense, Mainstream Category (unpublished division). I remember her name for two reasons: I know she's the Mainstream coordinator, and she left me a voicemail as I didn't hear my cell phone ring. Naturally, there was more dancing and pinching.

Somewhere along the way, I decided I needed a better website than the pitiful thing I had done myself. So, the talented folks at Bemis Promotions are working on a new site, which will be up sometime in June. When it goes live, this blog will be moved to a tab on the website, so that I'm integrated. I hope y'all will come visit me on the new site. I've started packing up to move, so blog links and so forth have been disconnected, but I will reconnect with everyone as soon as I'm moved.

I'm ecstatic with all the recent developments. Thank you so much to everyone who has supported me as I've chased this dream. I feel like I've finally reached the starting line. I know the real work starts now. I have a lot more books in me. My imaginary friends are shouting at me right now because I'm blogging and not playing with them.

Peace out,

Susan



 

Some of the Nicest People are Planning a Murder

Some of the nicest folks you'll ever meet are planning a murder--or three. Seriously, it's a puzzlement, when you think about it. Mystery writers--folks who spend their days plotting inventive ways to kill people and hide the bodies--are, as a group, so pleasant.

I'm just back from Sleuthfest in Orlando. This annual event is a writers' conference sponsored by the Florida chapter of Mystery Writers of America. I saw old friends and met many online friends in person. Everyone I came in contact with was open, friendly, and helpful.

A few standouts (for me) among many workshops offered Thursday were Daniel Palmer's "Coming up with Your 'What If?'" Reed Farrel Coleman's "Building 3-Dimensional Characters," and Hank Phillippi Ryan's "Get Your Motor Going." In addition to presenting helpful content, these folks were all genuinely entertaining. I'm positive all the workshops were just as wonderful, but my efforts to clone myself have been largely unsuccessful, and thus I could only attend one in each time slot--I had to choose. I hate to choose. I'm horrible at making decisions. I digress.

One of the (many) highlights of the conference for me came Friday morning. I arrived early for the panel discussion, "The Traditional Mystery," (one of my favorite panels) and chose a seat near the front center. I like to make sure I don't miss anything. Anyway, I'd been there a few moments, flipping through my program, when I looked up to see Charlaine Harris walking towards me with a friend. For the record, Charlaine Harris is one of my very favorite authors--I know, me and millions of other folks, right?

I'd set my purse on the seat to my left. Charlaine sat in the next seat over. We smiled and said, "Good morning." I tried so hard to act normal and not at all like a lunatic fan. I was mostly succeeding and was so proud of myself that I felt the need to share this information. I turned to her and said, "I'm trying really hard not to act like a total fangirl."

She smiled real sweet and said, "I was just admiring your sweater."

"Coldwater Creek," I said.

And then we had a lovely conversation about how we both loved shopping online in general, and Coldwater Creek in particular, and how if she'd seen that sweater she'd have bought it. Something about Charlaine put me instantly at ease. You know how some famous people travel with an entourage and give off this vibe that screams, "Back off, I'm far too important to be bothered by the little people?" These people are the polar opposites of Charlaine Harris. (None of those folks were at Sleuthfest, of course.) She introduced me to Paula, her friend and assistant, who was equally charming. Truly, I have never met more delightful people.

Charlaine's keynote on Saturday was fabulous as well--humorous, and inspiring. My only disappointment was that I already own all of her books, and had forgotten to bring one to have it autographed.

But you see, she makes my point. This warm, friendly woman has come up with enough creative ways to kill people, not to mention vampires, shape shifters, fairies, and all manner of supernatural creatures, to fill a shelf in my bookcase.

I think maybe writing about murder must be therapeutic. Getting all of your frustrations out by killing off the people who get on your last nerve, even if it's just on the page, must release a happy hormone or some such thing. That's my theory, anyway.

Peace out,

Susan

The Striptease

A friend of mine and I were solving the problems of the world via protracted phone chat/bon bon eating marathon last week when the conversation turned to her work in progress. Her local critique group felt that she needed to front load more backstory. I cringed.

I hadn't read her current project, but I'm not a fan of this strategy. When I'm reading a mystery or romantic suspense novel--and that's the genre pool she and I read and write in--I want to experience the story through the close point of view of the main character. And I want the protagonist to reveal the story bit by bit, as she lives it--dances it--like a striptease.

If a striptease artist walked on stage fully naked, (or nekkid, as we say in the South, when one is unclothed and up to something) it would be something other than a striptease. Some may get their jollies this way--in states where this is legal--but not me.

I love the mystery, the suspense--the tease. I want to see the dancer all dolled-up in layers of clothes and accessories--fur, jewelry, hat, scarves, belt, gloves, high heels, skirt, jacket, blouse--you get the idea. Then, piece by piece, each article--each clue--is peeled away, revealing the next. The striptease is a long, sensual dance, an art form unto itself. Reveal too much too soon, and you ruin the dance for me. I don't want to see the garter belt until the very end.

Y'all know we're talking books here, right?

Peace out,

Susan

P.S. Mamma, I swear I've never seen a strip tease dance in my life. You well know I was raised better than that.

Okay, Let's Try This Again...

Well, well, January, here you are back already. I know what you're thinking--that I haven't kept a single one of last year's resolutions, and you're right. But I think I've just been going about this resolution thing all wrong.

This year, I'm going to stick to resolutions I can, well, stick to. For example, instead of declaring my intention to exercise every day--which even I know is a joke--I'm resolving to exercise more than I did last year. (Trust me, this is an easy one. Even I can do this.)

Also, instead of adopting some exotic new diet from another region where people eat all they want of certain foods and stay thin, or one based on counting or measuring ANYTHING, I'm simply going to vow to eat healthier than I did in 2011--again, easy.

And I'm going to put first things first. Every day, before I check email, sign on to Facebook, tweet, blog, or any engage in any other form of electronic interaction, I will write. This is easy, because it's what I really want to do.

For some reason, I've gotten into the habit of checking in with all things Internet before my day begins. This is a huge mistake, because once I'm online, it's almost impossible to get off. I click a link on a Tweet to check out a blog, which leads to reading a few other blog entries on the same site, then clicking a link to something else that looks interesting...and four hours later it's lunchtime and I haven't written anything except a status update and a tweet or two. The only thing that comes before words on the page is family.

That's it, January. That's all I've got. So next year, you can forget all about being smug. I can do this.

Peace, out...

Susan

And Then One Happy Day I Signed With a Literary Agent

So, I've been sitting on this news for a while, just to make sure I didn't dream it. Since I've pinched myself black and blue, and Sugar has read the copy of the executed contract and assures me it's real, and I've waited a month to make sure she didn't change her mind, I feel safe in sharing the happy news that I've signed with Denise Little, an agent with The Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency.

I have an agent.

I say those words aloud to myself about fifty time a day. Sometimes I tell random strangers. People look at me oddly, but I'm accustomed to that, really. I mean, when you do things like run off with a man's vodka in the grocery store, you grow immune to the look that says, "Poor thing, she's Not Quite Right." Full sanity is highly overrated and, I suspect, boring.

Anyway, this year I have one more thing to be thankful for. (The list is long--I am ridiculously blessed.) Denise is enthusiastic, has been in publishing long enough to know the industry well, and is possibly the hardest working person I've ever come across. I count myself exceedingly fortunate to be her client.

Peace, out...

Susan

Why Excel is Like Duct Tape

Sugar, like many men, can fix almost anything that breaks with a roll of duct tape. It has uses far beyond those originally envisioned by its designer--as does MS Excel.

Not so long ago, in another life, I was a project manager. This is one of those job descriptions like "consultant," that can mean many things depending on the context, and while I once toured the Adam & Eve warehouse in North Carolina (purely professional--they had distribution needs, I had distribution software--though they did offer me a free sample of my choice) most of my days were spent staring at Excel spreadsheets.

So, when Sugar gave me the green light to make things up and write them down full time, (thus securing his position as a patron of the, ahem…arts) at first I was adrift without my lines and columns. I tried story boards, which in my case were foam boards with elaborate charts and pictures of my characters cut out of catalogs and magazines. But large foam boards were difficult to transport, which was a problem since my life most resembles that of a gypsy. I tried making notes about each chapter on index cards, but since I can't read my own handwriting, this didn't work out either.

At this, my larval stage as a writer, I had not yet considered the profound question of whether I was a plotter or a pantser. I had no clue that I needed to be one or the other, as I had not yet read the hundred books on writing that now have their own shelf in my bookcase, nor had I attended the slew of conferences and workshops that would come over the next few years. I was winging it. Hey, I'd READ a lot of books. Surely I could write one... Yes, in fact, I was that ignorant.

After a few months of experimenting and suffering from depression as a result of spreadsheet withdrawal, I figured out that Excel worked great as a writing tool. I've learned so much in the last few years, and as with any craft, I know I need to continue learning. But the one thing I've hung onto from those early days is the use of spreadsheets for plotting. (I now know that--big surprise here--I'm schizophrenic. I'm a plotter who turns into a pantser at the drop of a hat. (Okay, if you're not a writer, and you've read this far, a pantser is one who writes by the seat of his/her pants--organically. Her characters tell her what happened and she transcribes their story.)

I have one Excel workbook per project. Within that workbook, I have one tab with a spreadsheet for characters. This tab typically has columns for not only biographical info and physical description, but quirks that define the character. Another spreadsheet has a plot outline. This starts simple, with a beginning, middle, and end, and expands as I add lines for each chapter as the story comes together. When my characters take over and tear off on a tangent--and I love those days; those days are magic--I simply open the spreadsheet and document where they've taken me when we get back.

There is one danger in using Excel as a plotting tool for a novel: a reader cannot keep in his/her head everything that you can keep track of in a spreadsheet. I learned this the hard way, and had to rip out my first novel at the seams and remove an entire subplot and several characters.

On the plus side, Excel is highly portable, and I can read what I type into my lines and columns. Excel helps me maintain order in my virtual universe. If only reality were so easily organized...

Many plotters and half-breeds like me struggle with how best to organize their work. Check out Julie Weathers' blog post from yesterday. She has a copy of J. K. Rowling's solution posted.

Peace, out...

Susan

What About Bob?

A few years ago, when the company I'd worked with for 11 years went out of business, Sugar and I decided it was time for me to give the writing thing a spin. I'd dreamed of writing and sporadically tried to fit writing into our lives for years without much success. Now it was my turn.

I've been a voracious reader practically from the cradle. I'd write what I loved to read, I thought. What I didn't realize was that my eclectic reading habits were producing a schizophrenic manuscript. It wasn't sure whether it was romantic suspense, a mystery, or women's fiction. I needed a critique group.

My first critique group--and one I still attend when I can--was the Greenville chapter of South Carolina Writers' Workshop. This is a great group--tons of fun--and for the first time I had the chance to talk to other writers about writing. One of the first friends I made was Bob Strother.

Bob is very low key. In fact, he speaks so softly that you'll miss what he says if others are talking in the room. And you want to hear what Bob says, because he's a smart guy and a talented writer. What I didn't know until much later is that Bob is also an ex-Marine (yeah, I know, Marines are Marines for life and all) and he may be soft spoken, but he could kill any of us eight different ways if he took a notion. Bob's a master of critique in that he can tell you what you need to fix without burdening you with how he would write it if it were him.

I've lost track of how many short stories Bob has published, but I've read many of them in our group. Each is well-crafted, and it's fascinating to me how different they all are. Some make me laugh out loud. Others are so creepy they have prompted me to ask his wife, Vicki, how she sleeps next to him at night knowing what goes on in his head. One was nominated for the Small Press Pushcart Prize.

Main Street Rag is publishing a collection of Bob's stories, Scattered, Smothered, and Covered, which comes out in February. It's available for pre-order right now, and I've ordered my copy. You'll want one, too. Just click the title link and it can be yours.

Peace, out...

Susan

My Muse Loves Chocolate

Whenever I get stuck, I reach for one of the Big Three: Dove, Lindt, or, in a real crisis, Godiva chocolate. Before long, words are spilling out of my head onto the page. My muse loves chocolate. Pasta is good, too. And wine. My muse may be a lush, actually.

Today I'm polishing off the leftover Halloween candy because it's Wednesday. I'm not blocked at all, but this is a preventative measure. Typically, my work week starts on Monday morning. I'm SO a creature of habit, and sometimes if I have an appointment or whatever on Monday, my week gets off track.

Both Monday and Tuesday this week were filled with necessary chores and errands. Well, okay, and brunch with friends. Anyway, to make sure my muse didn't balk today, I started eating chocolate right after breakfast. Just to be safe I had pasta for lunch, and I'm thinking a glass of wine might not be a bad idea.

Of course, if I do that, I may not make it to 5:40 Jazzercise...

I have to keep my priorities straight. The Muse comes first.

Deadlines, Commitments and Ailments, Oh My!

I confess...I have been very, very slack in the exercise department for the last two weeks. My VOLUPTUOUS figure has not graced the dance floor all week this week, and last week was spotty at best. But, as always, I have many reasons (not to be confused with excuses).

First off, I had several deadlines for submitting stories that came all at once. And, since I am trying, oh so very hard to become a PAID writer, I must submit. I mean, the blog is great, but it well, doesn't pay much, and most agents and editors like to see publishing credits before they'll take on your novel. So, there were deadlines...

And, there were commitments. And, by this, I don't mean that I was committed to a mental facility, although, one could make an argument that such a thing is in order. Thus far I have successfully avoided the men in white coats. But I have had other things on my to-do list, like fluff the house umpteen times so a realtor could show it. Did I mention our house was on the market? I can't remember. Anyway, here's how this works: They call, I clean and try to make the house look like no one lives here, then I have to leave and go elsewhere for an hour or two so they can show it. It's really fun when I spend several hours getting the house ready, drive around for a couple of hours--because, after all that house cleaning, I'm sweaty and icky and not fit to go in anywhere--and then they don't show up.

Under the ailments category, somehow week before last I did something to my knee, my right foot and my neck. Probably this was due to the transition from vacation to trying to make up for vacation a little too abruptly. Perhaps I should have eased back into Jazzercise more gradually. Bodysculpt followed by a regular Jazzercise class two days week before last was the culprit, I think. My body was not ready to be sculpted.

Anyway, I didn't sleep hardly at all last night, and I when I did, I had a horrible nightmare. I was in surgery (some chest or abdominal thing was being cut on). I got straight up from the operating table and went to Jazzercise in my hospital gown. The Queen of Pain was there, and she cracked on me severely because I had missed a class while being cut open and stitched back shut. She was not impressed by my REASON. I slunk out of there in shame. I'm not sure what to make of the dream, but I think my body is going in to dance withdrawal. I've got to get back on track. I'm thinking the score right now is Demon Diane 103, Susan 4.

But today, there's this deadline...

Peace, out...

Catching My Breath

Okay, I know it's been a while. But I have a trunk of reasons. And they're all boring, so we'll skip those. I'll do better, I promise. The Blue Ridge Christian Writer's conference was awesome! I got back home on the 25th and have been recuperating ever since. There was so much going on it was hard to absorb it all. But I had a great time, made several new friends, met some wonderfully talented folks, listened to some fantastic motivational speakers...and spoke to a terrific agent who agreed to read my first three chapters.
Now, for those of you who are not struggling to get your first novel published, you might not realize what a big deal this is. This is tremendously superb news. I am happy. Please be happy with me. All together now....who-hooo!!
Now the bad news...the food was good but fattening. I did walk a lot, and it was uphill both ways, but I didn't come close to burning off the calories I took in. When three full meals plus three snacks are placed in front of you every day, well pounds tend to accumulate. All of my hard work being tortured by Casey has been undone.
But today, I hauled myself back to the dance floor and also signed up for another session of Personal Torture...I mean Touch.
I signed up for the same class that Shona is in...oh boy, I haven't told y'all about Shona. Shona is the funniest person I know who does not have a microphone. She needs one. The first time I met Shona was in a Personal Torture class the day after Mother's Day. She was allowing as to how she made her children call their daddy's girlfriend and wish her a happy Mother's Day because she likes her and wants her to stick around (so the kids can spend quality time with their daddy, giving Shona a much needed break). I laughed till I cried when she was telling this story, but I can't post all the details until I check with her...she might not want it on the internet. But everything that comes out of her mouth is hysterically funny, so you want her in your Personal Torture class to help keep your mind off the pain and agony.
I've been giving some consideration to the possibility that I'm spreading myself too thin (which is why I seldom have time to BLOG anymore). I'm in three local critique groups, and just palled up with an online critique buddy who I met at the conference. I may be spending more time critiquing and reading other people's critiques of my work than I am actually writing. I am considering cutting back. Also, the thing I'm finding is that often the people doing the critiques have conflicting advice, which requires me to spend an inordinate amount of time deciding who's right.
SO...I'm getting myself back on track, and hopefully will be posting more regularly. In the meantime, on a serious note, y'all pray for Myra and her family. Her mother's real sick and is being transported to a cardiac care facility in Florida.

Peace, out....

A Writer's Dream

Last week was an exciting week at Jazzercise. Many highly entertaining things transpired, (about which I could write volumes) culminating with the TV folks arriving on Friday to tape the 8:15 class for a business profile spot. Sometime soon y'all can tune in to Charter channel 10 and see for yourself the high concentration of talent in the dance arts that thrives in the Taylors Jazzercise center. We even wore makeup on Friday so that we could look beautiful right up until the point when it all slid right off our smiling faces in a river of sweat.

But, I am so excited about where I'm at right now, that I'll have to tell you more about all that later. Jim (you remember my wonderful husband) is working in Vermont this week, and because I was working up to a huge pout about missing him and all, he brought me along. Now, Vermont is beautiful, and in the evenings, we will go out and have dinner and see some of beautiful Vermont, but the most exciting part for me is the hotel. Now, you might be surprised that someone could get excited about a Hampton Inn. But I do my best writing in Hampton Inns and/or Holiday Inn Expresses. Here's why:

Hampton Inns and Holiday Inns go a long way to attract business travelers. They actually have fairly nice hotels. The ones we stay in have beds that are at least as comfortable as the ones at home. They are insanely clean, and (most of them) brand spanking new, and because Jim spends more nights in their hotels than our home, they tend to treat him really nice.

There are zero distractions. My cell phone will only ring when I turn it on (unlike the one at home--and if I take that one off the hook, folks who love me come knocking on the door. Let me say here how grateful I am that I have folks who love me enough to care and come knocking. Unfortunately the ratio of calls is one from them to every ten from people doing surveys and such.) The peace and quiet in a hotel room is delicious.

Someone else cleans the room.

I cannot do laundry, run errands or battle possessed refrigerators.

Anytime I feel like a stretch, I can ride the elevator downstairs to the cozy lobby and get an always fresh cup of one of three kinds of coffee with my choice of flavored creamer or a cup of one of about twenty kinds of tea, and a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie (or an apple or banana). All of this is free.

I have my laptop. I have wireless internet access. I have peace. I have maid service. I have cookies. Life is good. I am wallowing in it.

Peace, out...

The Victim of a Vast Fat-Wing Conspiracy

This morning, when the alarm went of at 5am, I convinced myself that I would go to the 8:15 class and hit the snooze button. As 8:00 drew near, I decided that, since I just finished yesterday's class a mere 13 hours before, I should wait and go to the 6pm class, and finish out the week with evening classes. I could start next week, I reasoned, with morning classes.
That would have worked out just fine, if it were not for the intervention of the Vast Fat-Wing Conspiracy (VFWC). The VFWC sent gremlins to cause the latch on my fuel tank to freeze up. When I got to the gas pump, I could not put gas in my car. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I'm bad about running my car way past empty to the fumes, which is exactly what I had done right before the problem with the fuel latch. So, I prayed all the way home and commenced to looking for the keys to Jim's Durango. Jim is in Dallas on business, and of course I could not find my keys to the Durango, so I had to call him (at his client's office) and ask him where his keys were. Now, it is not my fault that I had to do this. If he had left his keys anyplace sensible, I would have found them right off. But they were in an otherwise completely empty chest of drawers in the office. (???) So, with keys in hand, I went to get gas for the Durango, which, according to the electronic display that tells you how many more miles you can drive until you are sitting by the side of the road, had 49 miles to empty. I could get gas later, I thought. I had an appointment at the psychologist office (yes, I know I'm leaving myself wide open here, but trust me, it is not me that's crazy--it's my imaginary friend), which was only 3 miles away. Now, math is not my strong point, but I figured that 3 + 3 had to be less than 49. Wrong. Well 3+3 must now equal 47, because when I got home, I had only 2 miles to go until empty. I decided to let Jim worry about that one when he gets home and fiddled with the latch on my car until I finally got it open.
By this time, I was running late for the 6pm class, but maybe had enough time to get a little gas and get there half-way through the opener. I go back to Ingles, and am pumping gas into my car when this nice man says, "Excuse me, ma'am? I was just heading into the grocery store, and I noticed that your right front tire is completely flat." I looked where he was pointing, and bless Pat if the thing wasn't flat as a pancake. Obviously, the VFWC had sent another gremlin to let the air out if my tire. The nice man said, "I think there's an air compressor behind the booth." He pointed at this contraption with hoses hanging out of it like tentacles. Then he smiled and went into the grocery store. Now, I am convinced that if I were 23 and skinny, he would have put the air in for me. However, since I am 24 (the official Jazzercise age) and VOLUPTUOUS, I had to fend for myself. I finished pumping gas--something which, by the way, I truly believe that married women ought not ever have to do, but if you run out while your husband's in Dallas you do what you have to do. Then I drove over to the giant metal octopus. It wanted quarters. Of course, I had no quarters. I went to get change and fed it. It started making this heinous racket and I jumped back about three feet. I was afraid to get close to it. I worked up my nerve, and approached it politely. It didn't bite when I picked up the end of the hose--which actually turned out to be only one very long hose. After closely examining the flat tire, I figured out I had to twist off the little cap thingy on the little thing that sticks up. I did that. Then, I put the end of the hose on the little thing that sticks up. I waited, and waited, and the machine was making all that racket, but my tire didn't seem to be taking on air. I stared at it more closely, thinking maybe it just took a while to get enough air in there. After a minute or two, I happened to glance down at the handle, and I saw what I had missed before. A gun-like thingy that you had to press to get the air to come out. Once I pressed it, the tire pumped right up. But then I wondered, how much air do I need? I put air in till it looked right, then let go of the handle. A little stick popped out that had a measuring stick on it, in increments of 10. It was at 20. I had no idea if this was enough, but thought, what the heck, there's time left on my quarter, I'll put in some more. So I did. When the little measuring stick got to 30 I quit. Astoundingly, (according to Jim) this is close enough to right that I didn't hurt anything.
Next there was the issue of the black grease and muck that the VFWC had smeared all over me when I wasn't looking. By this time, it was 6:15, and I decided that the best course of action was to head on over to Panera Bread to wash up and get some dinner.
On a more successful note, I did get a lot of writing done yesterday. I've sent out the first 3 chapters of LCB to several friends from my writer's group and my sister, who were generous with their time and agreed to to critique and copyedit. When I get them back, I'll polish and send them out. Meanwhile, I'm working my way through the rest of the book, converting it to first person. I like it much better this way.
So tomorrow, I'm going to make it to Jazzercise at 8:15, and next week, I'm going to try really, really hard to get there at 5:45. Y'all hold me to that, okay?

Quicksand

Today I worked on chapter two of Lowcountry Boil. I decided to rewrite it in first person, but it's not from my protagonist's point of view. It's from her brother's. I worked on it for an hour or so, changed my mind and recopied the old version, changed my mind back and worked on it a little more, tossed it a second time...this went on all day. When this kind of indecision abducts me, I feel like I'm drowning in quicksand. I finally finished the chapter in first person, but I'm just as likely as not to toss it out again tomorrow. I feel like I accomplished less today than I did yesterday (nothing).
On another happy note, I got two short story rejections from a literary magazine today. Oddly, that did not depress me. I used to go into a decline every time I got a form rejection, but I've been inoculated. A growing stack of rejections will do that. It's just another sheet in the folder. The law of averages dictates that sooner or later, somebody somewhere will publish me if I am relentless enough.
Jazzercise didn't happen today, but it's not my fault. I couldn't sleep last night, worrying about getting up at 5 to make the 5:45 class, so naturally I over slept. I decided to hit the computer early (to make up for yesterday) and go to the 6:00 pm class. I had good intentions. Circumstances too mundane to commit to the written word conspired against me, and, alas, I missed the 6:00 pm class too. But, I made it through the day without the aide and comfort of a Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte. Now that depresses me. Hey, Dairy Queen is still open...

Wow, Where Did That Week Go?

It's Friday already again. I feel like somebody stole a week from me. I didn't get everything done that I needed to...I want an extension!! I made it to Jazzercise three times this week and did not pass out a single time, although I thought I had for a minute in Wendy's class yesterday. Why is it that when an instructor is trying to loose weight, (Wendy had a baby a while back) we all suffer for it? That girl was in turbo drive. She worked us like marine recruits. She sure looks good, though. I asked her what she's been doing, and she told me the name of some program she's doing that's like Weight Watchers, but with a Bible study. Now, I don't know about y'all, but I think there's something basically wrong about getting weighed at church. I'm already confessing my sins, putting me up on the scales to document them is just going to send me into some sort of traumatic episode that will no doubt lead to stress eating. I think I'm just going to pray before I get on the scales at home, and hope for the best.
I had two writer's group meeting this week. Monday night was the Christian Writer's Group. We had a small group, but a lot of good discussion. I took the second scene in the new novel I'm working on. I can't talk about that one yet. Something in my circuitry gets fouled up when I talk about something before I write it. It's like all the life goes out of it. Last night was our first Thursday meeting of the SCWW (South Carolina Writers Workshop) Greenville chapter. There were sixteen people there, and ten readers, which is a lot. I read the latest version of the first chapter of my novel, Lowcountry Boil. It went pretty well, I think. I don't know what I'd do without all those extra sets of eyes. It's amazing to me how many times I can read the same sentence and not realize I've left out a word. Overall, it was a good week for writing. There were a couple of days I didn't get my four hours in, but there were also a couple that I wrote for seven or eight. The blogging thing is off to a slower start than I'd hoped. I think for the accountability thing to work, I've got to do it more than once a week!! In the immortal words of Scarlett, tomorrow is another day!!

In The Beginning

So, last night halfway through Jazzercise, when Casey was holding forth about accountability and trying to sign us all up for 'Personal Touch' (which I absolutely cannot afford at my current rate of pay as an unpublished writer), I decided to create a blog. I figure, I can be accountable to my blog for free. And there are so many things I need to be held accountable for, not just exercise, although that is a biggie. When I started pondering the list of things I felt like I should do (and be held accountable for), I had a panic attack, so decided to pick the three biggies: making church on a regular basis, getting my oversized derriere to Jazzercise and writing every day.
I'm not an experienced blogger. I've read through one or two, but this is new to me and I'm learning as I go. If anyone actually reads this stuff, please be patient with me (and help hold me accountable). For the record, my name is Susan Boyer. I am of legal age, and that's all I care to say about that. In the interest of fairness, I have to tell you that I have a long way to go to become a skinny anything. I am 5' 7" inches tall and weigh...wait a minute...I'll go get on the scale right now...NOT. I am overweight, okay, let's just leave it at that until we get to know each other better. Two years ago, the company I worked for for eleven years went belly-up, and I decided that if I was ever going to be a writer, it was now...then...whatever, I'm still working on it. I write most days, but some days I get distracted, going off on tangents researching this or that literary agent, conference or contest. Those are important things if one ever wants to get published, but some days I spend too much time surfing the internet and not enough writing.
Today is Thursday, and I will write for at least four hours, go to Jazzercise, eat healthy and plan what I'm going to wear to church on Sunday so as to have one less excuse. Peace, out...