Thursday's Children Blog Hop: Onward And Upward (And An Excerpt)

So, Thursday's Children is winding down.

A shame. I've had so much fun and met so many awesome writers! Thank you Rhiann Wynn-Nolet and Kristina Perez for creating this little community for us. You guys are awesome, and I'm excited for the devious brainchild you've come up with now!

But, enough crying. In honor of the last Thursday's Children Hop, I decided to publish the first bona-fide excerpt of my new book, What The Body Needs. Enjoy!

At first, she only saw dark.  Dark hair, dark jacket, dark pants, dark shoes.  Dark eyes glittered from a hard face.  Eyes fixed squarely on her.

Jak stared down into her glass.  Too late.  He'd already caught her.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smile.  It was visceral.  Devastating.  The kind of smile that could get a woman to make all kinds of bad decisions.  Jak pounded back the last of her drink.

"Not often you see a woman taking straight whiskey."

Jak tried to ignore him.  He slid a barstool closer.  "Bourbon or scotch?"

She gritted her teeth.  "Bourbon."

The man's smile took on a darker note.  "That's my girl."  He lifted a finger to catch Sam's attention.  "A bottle."

Sam slid over a bottle of Jak's bourbon.  He caught her eye, opened his mouth to speak, when something else distracted him.  Brow furrowed, he strode away briskly.  Jak sighed.  She was on her own.  She turned to the stranger.  "I buy my own drinks."

"Sure you do, honey."  He tossed back his shot, refilled his glass, tossed the second shot back too.

Jak's eyebrows went up.  "Most people only drink like that when they're trying to forget something."

The man picked up her glass and filled it to the brim.  Without a word, he slid it back to her.  Jak stared at it for a moment, then tossed it back.

The man smiled again and poured them each another.  Jak's eyes narrowed.  "If you're planning on getting me drunk, it's going to take more than a few shots."

He tipped his glass to her.  "I've got the whiskey if you've got the time."

"And if I don't?"

His eyes were piercing.  "You do."

Jak's heart pounded.  Damn it, what was wrong with her?  It wasn't as though she'd never been hit on before.  That was what he was doing, wasn't it?  She couldn't quite tell.  Maybe his voice, those eyes, that smile, were giving her the wrong idea.

She glanced at him again, more openly this time.  He wasn't just dark.  He was wild.  Hair a little too mussed.  Shirt a little too rumpled.  That leather jacket had seen a few too many hard rides.  His jaw looked capable of taking a punch, and his nose had clearly taken several. 

But his lips were fascinating.  A thin scar drew the top one into a perpetual sneer.  They were neatly carved, oddly sensual.  Out of place in his harsh face.  Jak fought the delicious shiver that went down her spine.  Lips like that had experience making women scream.

No, she definitely had the right idea.

She'd never needed a drink so badly in her life.  Jak stretched for the whiskey bottle.  His hand closed over her wrist.  She froze, splayed across the bar in front of him.  It was disconcerting.  Intimate.  She forced herself to meet his eyes.  In the dim light, she couldn't make out their color. 

The corners of his lips lifted.  "Buyer pours."

She cleared her throat.  "Oh."  She wracked her brain for something else to say.  "Thanks."  His hand still imprisoned hers.  She looked down at it pointedly.

He ignored her.  His thumb traced a slow circle around the inside of her wrist as he poured them each a shot with his other hand.  His skin was rough, warm.  Jak swallowed hard.  A smile twitched at the edges of his mouth.  Damn.  He must have felt her pulse jump.

She took a deep breath and withdrew her hand.  He let it slide out from under his and raised his glass.  "Your health."

Jak tried to ignore the tingle where he'd touched her.  "What about your health?"

Even his chuckle was dark.  "Trust me, yours is worth more than mine."

Jak snorted.  "I doubt it."  She drank anyway.

The man drank, eyes never leaving her face.  "Interesting."  He refilled her glass.  "Want to talk about it?"  A mocking note edged his voice.

"What?  No."  Not with you.  Jak swirled the whiskey around in her glass.  She looked up to find him watching her again.  "Yes?"

The man shrugged.  "Just wondering what goes on in a head like yours."

Jak stiffened.  "What are you talking about?"

He looked at her a moment longer, then returned to his drink.  "Calm down, honey."  He glanced back at her.  "Your honor is safe with me."  His lips twisted, as if in appreciation of a private joke.

Jak stared at him.  Had he moved closer, or had she?  She glanced back at where she'd been sitting.  Christ.  She had.  From her new seat, she could smell the heady mix of leather and smoke that seemed to emanate from the man's every pore. 

She resisted the urge to lean over and breathe it in.  Instead she studied her whiskey, suddenly unsure whether to drink it.  When was the last time she'd been drawn to someone like this?  Was it her?  The alcohol?  Or something else altogether?

She cleared her throat.  "You been in town long?"

The man's eyes sharpened.  "Who said I'm from out of town?"

Jak forced herself not to cringe, sipped her drink instead.  "Never seen you here before.  And there's a motel next door.  Doesn't take a genius."

He inclined his head.  "Score one for the lady."  He focused back on his glass.  Jak waited.  He didn't look up again.

Her eyes narrowed.  "You're a criminal."  If that wasn't just perfect.

The man sipped his drink.  "What makes you say that?"

Jak pushed her glass away.  "You're not from here.  You hardly seem the type to be visiting family."  She shrugged.  "So you're here on business.  If it was good business, you'd be in a better hotel.  Those bags under your eyes-you don't sleep enough.  Probably work at night."  She sat back.  "And you drink too much.  Guilty conscience?"

The man stared at her, expressionless.  Jak's blood iced over.  "I'm right, aren't I?"

He took another drink.  A shadow of pain flickered across his features, so fast she nearly missed it.  "And why would I admit it if you were?"

Now she was curious.  "Like I said, people who drink like you do are trying to forget something."  She peered into his face.  "What are you trying to forget?"

The man didn't answer.  He drained the last of his drink and tossed two twenties on the bar.  "Rest of the bottle's yours."  With that, he slid off the stool and disappeared into the crowd. Between the bodies, Jak saw the side door swing open.  The outside lights glinted off his leather jacket as he slipped out.

She sighed and reached for her glass.  Sam tore himself away from the blond man he was talking to and made his way back to her, a concerned look on his face.  "Was that guy bothering you?"

Jak snorted.  Now he asked her.  She shook her head and tried to ignore the strange heat pooled deep in her belly.  "Nah.  Who was he, anyway?"

Sam shrugged.  "Never seen him before.  Came in and started drinking almost," he checked the clock on the wall behind him, "Christ, almost four hours ago now.  Said his name was Marcus, I think?"

"Marcus."  The syllables rolled off her tongue.  Marcus.  It sounded elegant.  Patrician.  It didn't fit the dark man at all.  "He say what he was doing here?"

"No, don't think so."  Sam started wiping a water ring off the scarred wood.  He glanced back at the blond, focused on Jak again.  "The amount he had to drink, I'm amazed he remembered his own name."

Jak sighed.  She looked back at the door Marcus had disappeared through.  His presence seemed to linger around it, animalistic and magnetizing.  She sighed again.  She was going to regret this.

She hopped off her stool and waved to Sam, then quickened her pace and disappeared into the crowd before he could say anything.  Satisfied there were enough people around the door to block her, she stole out the same way Marcus had gone.

The night air bit her cheeks and cut through her canvas jacket.  Jak rubbed her arms and blinked, eyes adjusting slowly to the dim light.  The pungent aroma of cigarette smoke pricked her nostrils.  She turned in the direction it was coming from.

A heavy, muscular arm swept her back and pinned her to the wall of the building.  Jak's mouth flew open, but no sound came out.  She did the only thing she could think of and drove her knee towards what she hoped was a sensitive target.

Marcus caught it.  His dark eyes flashed.  "That," he said, "was not very ladylike."  His voice was so low it might have been a growl.  Smoke wafted off his breath.  Usually she hated the smell, but now it only intensified that mysterious feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Jak shifted.  "I-"

His eyes bored into hers.  "You shouldn't be here."

I know.  She swallowed and tried again.  "You left so fast."  She felt like she was strangling.  "I was concerned."

He made a disbelieving sound deep in his throat.  "I bet you were."  His eyes skated over her face, lower.  He shifted closer. 

Jak fought back a shiver.  She couldn't move, couldn't breathe.  She wasn't sure she remembered how.  Deep in her gut, something primal throbbed in time to her pounding heartbeat.  The sounds of traffic from the street faded to the blood rushing in her ears.  She forced herself to meet his gaze.

He shook his head, eyes never leaving hers.  "Nice girls like you shouldn't follow men like me into dark alleys."

The world was spinning.  Whether from the whiskey or something else, she wasn't sure anymore.  A warning siren blared in the back of her head.  Bad decision.  BAD decision.  Jak ignored it and squared her jaw.  "I'm not that nice."

Marcus's face was so close she could see the lines weathered into his forehead.  His lips peeled back from his teeth in a predatory smile.  "Good."

Then his mouth closed over hers.

***

Farewell, Thursday's Children! May you slip gently into that good night. 

Now, onward and upward!

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7. Kate Michael 1	8. Pat Esden: Inspired by what makes her unique 1	9. Yes Please!
10. The Visitor	11. Jessika Fleck: The Type Writer

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Thursday's Children Blog Hop: See? I Really Have Been Working...

"I do not need a bodyguard." -What The Body Needs, Laura Oliva

It's almost embarrassing how long it's been since my last blog post.

Almost, but not quite. Because finally, after much ado, it's almost time for the launch of my next novel! September 1st, guys. It just keeps getting closer.

Things are still pretty crazy, but I thought I'd share what is going to be the backcover copy for my book, titled What The Body Needs. Just to prove that, yes, I have actually been working...

Jak O'Mara is a survivor.

She's survived in her father's construction company.  She's survived in the boxing ring.  And she survived the brutal attack that left her permanently scarred.

For the last five years, she's tried to convince everyone -including herself- she's no victim.  But with the apparent return of her unknown assailant, the life she's rebuilt crumbles overnight.

Ex-cop Marcus Cutter has his own scars, they just don't show.  Following the violent death of his younger sister, he fled his old life in disgrace.  After almost six years, "rock-bottom" feels a lot like home.

As Jak's new bodyguard, Marcus is forced to return to the city -and the memories- he's tried to forget.  All he wants is to do his job, but Jak isn't what he expects.  When he's with her, he finally feels something besides pain.

When the danger escalates, Jak decides it's time to take matters into her own hands and find who's after her, no matter the cost.  Marcus knows he has to protect the woman who's made his life mean something again.  But how do you protect someone who's convinced they have nothing left to lose?

September 1st can't get here fast enough!

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Thursday's Children Blog Hop: Goals, Endings, And The Hashtag

"A professional writer is an amateur who didn't quit." -Richard Bach

At first glance, the symbol now known as "the hashtag" doesn't look like much. Unless you're a mathematician, Tweeter, or obsessive tic-tac-toe player, it's one of those keys that doesn't get much air time.

I confess, I don't use it much, either. In fact, there's only one time it really shows up in my writing.

At the end of a manuscript.

That's really just a long way of getting to this: I finished my book!

When I first sat down at my computer again in mid-March, I had some pretty ambitious goals. I wanted to write 2,000 words per day. I wanted to live a more balanced life. I wanted to finish my first draft by June 1.

I stuck (mostly) to 2,000 words per day. Some days I wrote more, some, less. As for a more balanced life, there are still clothes languishing in the hamper, and the dust bunnies have grown so big I now regard them as family pets. An unexpected, two-week vacation meant I had to revise my finish date, so instead of June 1, I gave myself until July 1.

As of July 1, I had been finished for six days.

Goals are decidedly not my strong suit. I've always been something of a free spirit (read: scatterbrained), I have a toddler who insists on being fed regularly, and there always seems to be laundry to put away.

But they have their value, even for me.

When I'm nearing the end of a book, it's tempting to rest on my laurels and coast. I can drag those last couple chapters out for weeks. Having a set "done" date in mind is just the kick in the ass I need.

Nowadays, I need all the ass-kicking I can get.

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Thursday's Children Blog Hop: Pangs Of Absence

"If I had a single flower for every time I think about you, I could walk forever in my garden." -attributed to Claudia Ghandi

Have you ever said a goodbye that didn't feel right?

I had another post planned for this week, but this subject has weighed heavily on my mind since, well, this morning. When someone I thought I'd said goodbye to for good suddenly popped up again in my life.

I won't bore you with the gory details, but suffice it to say, when I was younger, I went through a rough patch. It resulted in a cleansing; there were people I needed to remove from my life, so I did.

Unfortunately, it also meant having to say goodbye to a few people I'd rather have kept around.

It's never sat well with me, especially since -being young and tactless- I handled the whole thing with about as much grace as a falling elephant. I burned bridges, I hurt feelings, I made a mess.

Then I rebuilt, and learned to live with the bad taste in my mouth.

I'm at a better place in my life now, but I still have regrets. The kind that linger. That show up in your dreams just when you think you've finally put them behind you.  A chance meeting today got me thinking: maybe it's time to make amends.

I was thinking about it, and it suddenly struck me. Much of my writing has to do with moving on. Moving on from past hurts, from people who've wronged you, from grudges once held.

Maybe it's time for me to stop just writing about it, and start doing it.

Thursday's Children Blog Hop: Rhythmical

http://tinyurl.com/mdddfyj

"Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent." -Victor Hugo

Humans are creatures of rhythm.

Our entire lives are governed by it. Eating, sleeping, working, sex. Everything we do occurs to a beat. Writers understand this better than most, slaves as we are to the constant ebb and flow of creativity.

Maybe that's why so many writers are music aficionados. I know I am.

Each time I start a new book, I start a new playlist. I love combing through the world of music for songs that capture the tone, the characters, a snippet of the story I'm working on.

Here, for your enjoyment, are a few favorites from my current Work-In-Progress:

Beginning/Introduction: "Gimme Shelter", The Rolling Stones

First Kiss: "Shed Your Skin", The Pretty Blue Guns

Heroine's Theme: "Not A Pretty Girl", Ani DiFranco

Hero's Theme: "Sinister Purpose", Creedence Clearwater Revival

Suspense Scene: "Run Through The Jungle", Creedence Clearwater Revival

First Love Scene: "Crawl", Kings Of Leon

First Sex Scene: "Radioactive", Imagine Dragons

These are just a few of the songs I've been listening to recently. Now that my book is nearly finished, I'm getting a little nostalgic. As a rule, I don't listen to my WIP playlist once the work is no longer, well, in progress.

This is going to be a hard playlist to leave behind.

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Thursday's Children Blog Hop: Back In Black

"It's been too long, I'm glad to be back..." -AC/DC, "Back In Black"

I've missed you guys!

I haven't been on my blog for a while now- for Thursday's Children, or anything else.  I've been *gasp* working.  But that's not what I want to talk about.

I want to talk about villains.

I'm not the first person to post about them.  I won't be the last. I wouldn't even be writing about this at all, except a strange, diabolical, magical thing happened to me recently.

My villain turned evil.

All on his own. When I wasn't even looking. I don't know how, when, or what happened. All I know is I was writing a scene for him (a late addition to the book), and suddenly, it hit me.

This is one creepy son of a bitch.

I don't know how else to explain it other than to share the scene. This is the first piece of this book I've made public, so I hope you guys enjoy it! It's a tad long, and I should probably warn you: it's not for the faint of heart.

***

It was the red hair that made him hard.

He drew the soft lace curtain closed over the window.  He loved the Bay Area.  Lots of redheads.  Sure, there were redheads other places, but not like here.  They were everywhere here.  So many to choose from.  Pretty ones, ugly ones, thin ones, fat ones.  It didn't matter. As soon as he saw the hair, it was all over.

For them, anyway.

He looked down at the knife, smoothed a cloth over the blade.  Microfiber.  He'd discovered that by accident.  A happy accident, as it turned out.  Got rid of dust, dirt, skin cells, hair.  He paused.  Maybe someday he'd get to meet whoever invented microfiber.  He wouldn't mind shaking their hand.

Not that he'd be able to tell them what he used it for.

He ran the cloth down the blade one last time, admired the serrated edge, the burnished handle.  It had taken him a long time to find it.  He'd combed through catalogues, visited department stores.  At Bed Bath and Beyond, he'd been helped by a redhead.  A petite little thing, with an ass that made his mouth water.  She'd been so friendly.  So naive.  She would have been easy.

But he hadn't had the knife.  The knife was important.  The knife was the key.

He got a firm grip on the handle, and turned to the woman on the bed.  She was blindfolded, but she must have been able to feel his eyes on her, because she flinched.  The white nylon rope that tied her wrists and ankles to the bedposts seemed to glow in the darkness.

Bedposts.  That was another thing.  The bed always needed to have bedposts.

He approached, not bothering to muffle his footsteps.  He'd done this too many times to worry.  Her mouth was duct-taped.  She wouldn't make a sound.  Even if she tried, no one would hear her.

He trailed the tip of the knife gently down her cheek, lifted a red curl off her forehead with the blade.  She jerked.

Slowly, reverently, he slipped the blade down the front of her nightshirt.  It sliced through the fabric with scarcely any effort.  He drew it downward until both sides were gaping open.  She was crying now, blind, mute, but crying; a soft, wuffling sound.

He hardened still further.  It was so much better when they cried.

The scent of her cunt flavored the air around them.  He inhaled deeply.  That was the beautiful thing about cunts.  They were greedy.  Even when a woman didn't think she wanted it, her cunt did.  And unlike women, cunts never lied.

He would play with that in a minute.  But first, he had something to do.

The knife was sharp and effective.  Almost too effective; the first cut was so clean, it took almost a minute to bleed.  But bleed it finally did.  The woman thrashed.  A panicked sound rose in her throat, disappeared into the duct tape over her mouth.  He cut her again.  Another sound.

This was too good to waste.  He slid his free hand down the front of his pants and cut her again.  And again.  And again.

He stepped back and admired his handiwork.  The woman's belly and breasts were covered in neat, artistic gashes.  The sheets on the bed were soaked red.  Beautiful red.  Why did it always come back to red?

He crouched between her quivering legs.  Unzipped his fly and freed himself.  Glanced down.

Good.  He was still hard.  After the first time, he'd had some... concerns... over his performance.  After all his careful planning, to discover he was pushing rope wasn't just frustrating.  He'd gone there to offer himself to her.  To show her how much she meant to him, how much she'd always meant to him.

Instead, he'd been humiliated.

Fury welled up in his chest.  Underneath him, the woman screamed, cried, fought to buck him off.  Between the blindfold and the duct tape, she was as good as faceless.

Which was perfect.  It meant his imagination could give her the face of the woman he really wanted there.

Jak O'Mara.

He settled in and proceeded to punish her.

###

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Thursday's Children Blog Hop: Welcome To The Jungle

the drug addicts off jj signal by firoze shakir photographerno1 on Flickr

"The city is not a concrete jungle, it is a human zoo." 
-Desmond Morris

I would never live in the city.

The crowds. The thousand different smells -not all of them pleasant. The endless concrete. The buildings pressing in on every side would render the staunchest person claustrophobic. No, give me fresh air and greenery anytime.

How odd, then, that cities are what most inspire my writing.

All the aforementioned things fascinate me. I love picking faces out of the crowds, imagining what their lives are like. Trying to guess where that smell is coming from. Seeing the traces of green forcing their way through all that concrete, and the way the glass windows on the buildings mirror the color of the sky.

I'm always fascinated by the effect city-living has on people. There are some who are uniquely suited to it. Cool and collected, they glide over the crowds and industrial filth with scarcely a glance down.  

There are others who are less well-adapted. They rush through their day, always with a slightly harried look in their eye. They are slightly less impeccable, slightly less calm. But they make do nonetheless.

Others still are, at least on the surface, left behind altogether. These are the street people. The people nobody sees, except when they're trying to ignore an outstretched begging cup.  

But underneath the dingy clothes, calloused fingers and matted hair, these are the people who have their ears to the ground. Those calloused fingers take the pulse of the city. Catch one in just the right moment, and they can tell you stories you'd never have dreamed of.

Try though I might, I can't seem to stay away from the city. There's an edge, a veneer of civility that barely covers true human nature, that I find addictive. I want that edge in my writing. I want those people in my writing.

So I may not want to live in a city, but I visit whenever I can.  

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Thursday's Children Blog Hop: Mob Rule

http://tinyurl.com/a424lvn

"Solitude is strength; to depend on the presence of the crowd is weakness.  The man who needs a mob to nerve him is much more alone than he imagines." -Paul Brunton

Many of you probably know by now I recently visited Seattle.  What you may not know is my visit there coincided with a riot.

Last year, the May Day Protests gained Seattle national attention.  Originally billed as a peaceful march supporting immigration reform and workers' rights, the situation deteriorated into one rife with violence and opportunistic vandalism.

This year, I was in Seattle on May Day.

My husband, son, and I were walking around downtown Seattle that morning.  Someone mentioned to us there was a protest planned for that afternoon, and we should clear out.  My husband and son took the Light Rail back to our hotel.

I pulled up the camera on my phone, staked out a spot on a high balcony overlooking everything, and waited.  The things we do for research.

From a writer's perspective, a riot is a fascinating thing to witness.  While I was not present for the actual riot itself (and there was one, though not as devastating as last year's), being there for the build-up and the aftermath provided some interesting insights.

1) Emotion is electric.  People often speak of being able to "feel" the tension in the air before something bad happens.  This is legit.  Everyone was fairly crackling with nervous energy, from the storeowners, to the police, to the people on the street.

There was also a faintly violent undertone that was both intriguing and telling.

2) Mobs feed on passion.  As was the case last year, this year's protests were supposed to be just that: protests.  Despite this, it's easy to understand how a protest can devolve into a riot.

After all, they both feed on the same key ingredient.

Protests depend on passion to be effective.  Riots depend on passion too.  And if you gather together a large group of people who feel strongly about something, it's shockingly easy for that passion to turn septic.

3) You can often tell who is who at a protest-turned-riot.  There are a lot of indicators who is there to protest peacefully, and who is there to wreak havoc.  Clustering into groups, deliberate boisterousness - or, conversely, cold isolationism- and overall attention-seeking behaviors are some.

How people look/present themselves is another.  This is an uncomfortable topic.  It smacks of profiling and prejudice.  But while it should never be the only consideration, it can provide some insight.

In the grand scheme of things, May Day 2013 was fairly benign.  Over almost as soon as it began.  I can't claim to know everything about mob rule because of it.  I had rejoined my family before the real craziness started.

Hell, I wasn't even teargassed.

But what I witnessed was pretty powerful stuff.  If you're a writer, you spend your life seeking to broaden your understanding of the human experience, if only so you can accurately translate it later.

Thanks to May Day, I understand one part just a little bit better.  

Photos I Took

(above) the square at Westlake Center before the first protest march

(above) the first march; already, you can see some people who look like they might be there for something else...

(above) aftermath of the second protest/riot; police blockade at the top of Capitol district

Thursday's Children Blog Hop: View From The Wild Blue Yonder

 

The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page. -Saint Augustine

I missed you guys!

In case you were wondering where I'd gotten to, I just got back from a two-week family road trip.  My husband works super hard so I can write and take care of our son, and I haven't had a sabbatical since I started work on All That Glitters.  Almost two years ago.

Needless to say, it was high time we all took a break.

We drove from our home in the San Francisco Bay Area up to Seattle, Washington.  Stayed a week, visiting friends.  Drove back down to visit a friend in Eureka, California, then continued on down to San Diego.  We puttered around there for a week and reconnected with some more old friends.

In case you couldn't guess, we have friends pretty much everywhere.

In honor of our safe return, I thought I'd share some photos I took during our travels.  We had a grand time, and I even got some research in for future books.  Enjoy the photologue!

(above) View of the streets of Seattle from underground.  We took the official tour.  So cool!  The "skylights" are laid into the sidewalks.  I have visions of setting a future novel here.



(above) View of nighttime Seattle from a friend's rooftop. 

(above) Catching a late-night blues show in Eureka, California.  The harp player is a friend of ours.  I used to go to blues jams every week back when I lived in Redding; it felt good to reconnect with the scene!

(above) The Pacific Beach Pier, San Diego, California.  My husband and I used to walk here back when we were still dating.  It was fun reenacting that- even toting along a tired toddler who wouldn't stop screaming...

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Thursday's Children Blog Hop: Shivs, Slugs, And Shamuses

 

"Aw, lay off the business. It's like any other business, only here the blood shows." -Midge Kelly, Champion (1949)

I love a good, hard-boiled detective story.

You know the kind I mean.  The Big Sleep.  The Maltese Falcon.  The Kinsey Milhone mysteries.

I've been watching film noir for years now.  Recently, I realized it's been influencing my writing that entire time, even though I didn't always realize it.  There are a few things they all have in common that continually resonate with me:

1. Flawed heroes.  I love noir heroes.  The best ones are jaded, tortured, self-deprecating, and yet are tasked with protecting what little good exists in the world.  They always come through in the end, but far from being made whole by the journey, oftentimes they're left even more tortured than when they began.

2. Sympathetic villains.  Noir heroes and noir villains are opposite sides of the same coin.  Noir villains are the physical embodiments of the worst aspects of noir heroes.  Everything they do, the hero can understand, even empathize with, because deep down he's thought of doing the same thing himself.

3. Intense locales.  Noir settings play as much a role in the story as the characters do -in fact, they are often characters in their own rights.  Dark, ominous, they aid the villain and force the hero to rely on his wits to solve the mystery and stay alive.

4. Femme fatales.  If the noir villain is the opposite side of the hero, the femme fatale is the hero.  In an interview discussing his new noir series, Daniel Handler (aka Lemony Snicket), put it best: "They're both making their own moral path through a world that is sinister and secretive. ...(they) are unapologetic about making their way in a world that seems to have no place for them."

5. Uncomfortable endings.  Don't watch a film noir if you're looking for a warm, fuzzy, Happily-Ever-After.  True noir rarely ends well.  Sometimes the good guys don't come out on top, and even if they defeat the villains, it is usually a hollow victory.

A lot of these elements have showed up in my writing.  Now that I've lifted them from my self-conscious, I expect they will even more in the future.

Not familiar with film noir?  Here are a few of my favorites to get you started:
Laura
Gilda
The Maltese Falcon
The Lady From Shanghai
The Big Sleep

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Thursday's Children Blog Hop: Body Art

 “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” -Rumi

I've been fascinated by scars since I was a kid.

Every scar is different.  Some add a dash of character.  Others horribly disfigure.  But all require the bearer to reevaluate a piece of their identity.

Scars are the body's way of healing itself.  It's almost miraculous, really.  Even if the object that caused the initial wound is still lodged inside, the body will weave a web of scar tissue around it.  The object becomes part of the body it injured.

When I was in high school, I had a friend who had been badly burned as a child.  She carried scars over 60% of her body.

She was one of the most beautiful people I'd ever known.

She bore her scars with the confidence only acquired by survivors of terrible things.  She was smart.  She was funny.  She was a force.

I've always wondered about the journey it takes to get to that point.

As writers, most of us start with scarred characters -if not physically, then emotionally.  Their internal struggle often makes up the meat of what we write.  At least, it does for me. 

It's not often in our society we get to meet tough -truly tough- people.  Most of the scarred people I've talked to are strong, kind, wise beyond their years.  They've integrated their scars into their personal view of themselves, and they are never the same.

If anything, they're stronger.     

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Thursday's Children Blog Hop: Ode To The Asshole

"I'm not a tough guy.  I'm just delivering the truth and the only truth and if you can't deal with it, too bad." -Kevin O'Leary

In a previous post, I talked about what constitutes a "tough" woman (if you missed "Ode To The Bitch", you can find it here).  I wanted to talk about women because oftentimes, tough women are a mystery.  But that post got me thinking.

What about men?

Tough guys have been reduced to caricatures in our society.  The street thug.  The gangbanger.  The dumb goon.  "Toughness" in men is associated with being dangerous, mean, even abusive.

I have a different idea of what it means to be tough.

I've known a lot of tough men.  To the person, they blow the stereotypes out of the water. 

Here's what they've taught me about what it really means to be a tough guy.

Tough guys don't advertise.  If you have to tell someone you're a tough guy -by how you talk, walk, or dress- odds are you're not as tough as you think you are.  The toughest guys I've ever met look just like everyone else... until someone crosses that uncrossable line.

Then watch out.

Tough guys crack jokes, not just skulls.  All the tough guys I've met are rib-shatteringly funny.  I don't know why this is.  Maybe it's a way to diffuse a bad situation before it develops- I honestly have no idea.

It's not exactly a requirement, but if you come across a guy with a wicked sense of humor, odds are, he can hold his own when it's called for.

Tough guys look out for those weaker than them.  This includes women, children, old people, even other men.  Anyone who takes advantage of or tries to intimidate others isn't a tough guy; he's a bully.

Tough guys take care of themselves.  I'm not just talking about in a fight.  They can sew a button, do their own laundry, throw together an edible meal.  True tough guys don't rely on other people to look after them.  They look after themselves.

Tough guys don't start fights- they finish them.  You won't find a tough guy picking fights.  Tough guys know the damage they can do, and in most situations, would prefer to just walk away.

But don't think that means they won't fight.  Hurt someone they care about or throw the first punch, and they'll make sure you never make the same mistake twice.

Tough guys need tough women.  Relationships succeed when both parties are equal.  The only person equal to a tough guy is a tough woman.  She sees through the bluster and the bullshit, and knows a tough guy will treat her the way she deserves.

The opposite is also true.  Tough guys look at a woman other people might dismiss as a "bitch", and see someone who will be able to keep up.  Plus, they love a challenge, and nothing is more challenging than winning a tough woman's heart.

They may not draw attention to themselves, but there are still tough guys out there, if you know where to look.  They are infinitely more interesting -and infinitely tougher- than anything Hollywood could come up with.

And they're the men I choose to base my heroes on.

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Thursday's Children Blog Hop: I Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest

 

“Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people.” -Carl Jung

There's a reason I choose to write about tough, damaged people: it's a subject I am intimately familiar with.

When I was fifteen, I was diagnosed with depression, among other things.  I was sent to a lock-down residential treatment center in the middle of a Utah cow pasture, where I lived for a year.  I met a lot of tough, damaged people, some of whom are probably still fighting their demons today. 

I won't detail the whole long, arduous journey back.  Not because I don't want to, but because I can't.  I'm still not really sure what happened.  It just suddenly hit me one day that the only person who was going to change my life was me.  So I did, and I've never looked back.

Still, it's a funny thing, a place like that.  You feel like you're never going to get out when you're there, but then one day you're suddenly sitting in a coffee shop, thinking back on the whole experience, marveling that it's over.  You spend a lot of time wondering if it actually is.

Institutionalization is a powerful thing.

You're not quite "normal" for a while.  It took me a full six months to be able to pee without asking permission.  And even once you get back to "normal", you're never quite the same.

You learn things that change you.  You can't bullshit a bullshitter.  Art forged from despair is the most powerful voodoo there is.  The best lie is the one that fools the liar.  No one can sabotage you better than you can sabotage yourself.  And sometimes in life, you have to find a place to stand.

But perhaps the most useful lesson I learned was how to read people.  Once you know the language of pain, you can recognize it anywhere, no matter what guise it takes.  This is a skill I've learned to temper in my daily interactions, but it's something I use constantly in my writing.

Everyone has a little of the darkness in them.  I explore mine more or less regularly.  I've learned to channel it now, but I remember when I couldn't, and it's made me a more empathetic writer.  When my characters are dealing with their own darkness, I know exactly where they live.

I also know they're going to come out of it.  After all, I did.

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Thursday's Children Blog Hop: A Turn For The Tough

Source: Laura on Pinterest

"Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will." -Mahatma Gandhi

Since releasing All That Glitters into the wild, I've been doing a lot of thinking.

I know: uh-oh.

When I first got started on my writing journey, I knew I -Laura Oliva- was not just going to be a person anymore.  I was going to become a brand.  I also had more than just a general idea what I wanted that brand to be.   

Tender love stories, tough people.  

If you've heard that before, awesome.  That means I've been doing my job.

But lately I've had the nagging feeling my brand was getting somewhat diluted, at least on Writing In The Night.  Previously, I've centered my posts around various aspects of writing and business.  They've been great, it's been fun, but it hasn't really tied into my "brand identity".

The Thursday's Children blog hop has always been the exception.  The posts I write for my fellow hoppers are closer to my vision than anything else on my blog.  That's not to say they're contrived- far from it.  I've always believed the best brands derive their potency from a solid nugget of truth.  As it turns out, what inspires me fits right in with my professional "image".


That's why I've decided to make the rest of my blog more like what I do for TC.

What does "tough" look like?  I happen to believe "toughness" is a valuable quality.  It's a quality I've tried to cultivate personally, and it's a quality I admire in others.  It's a trait I seek out in plotlines, in dialogue, in setting.  It's the reason I choose to write the stories I do. 

But it's becoming increasingly rare in our modern, pampered world.  We've lost our mojo, guys, and it's tragic.  People don't know how to be tough anymore.  Maybe they've forgotten.  Or maybe they are, but don't realize it.  Either way, it's time we reminded ourselves just what we're made of.  

It's a tall order, I know, but I have a few ideas. 

Now when you come to Writing In The Night (and I hope you will), look for posts that explore what it means to be "tough".  I'll explore tough places.  Profile tough jobs.  Share ideas to get you out and exploring.  I'm planning more guest posts (if you have an idea and want to write one, hit me up!).

I hope you're excited about this.  I know I am!

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