Sunday Poetry: Once I Pass'd Through A Populous City

"Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes." -Joseph Roux

Once I Pass'd Through A Populous City 
by Walt Whitman

Once I pass'd through a populous city imprinting my brain for future
use with its shows, architecture, customs, traditions,
Yet now of all that city I remember only a woman I casually met
 there who detain'd me for love of me,
 Day by day and night by night we were together--all else has long
been forgotten by me,
I remember I say only that woman who passionately clung to me,
Again we wander, we love, we separate again,
Again she holds me by the hand, I must not go,
I see her close beside me with silent lips sad and tremulous.

Beautiful Strangers: On Writing Diversity (Pt. 1)

Originally, the plan was to make this one post. As I sit down to write, however, it occurs to me a single post would barely scratch the surface of this vast, under-discussed topic.

Hence the "Part 1" in the title.  Here, we'll get the ball rolling and identify what I see as a major problem in literature today: the marked lack of diversity. The next post (or two) will offer some suggestions and pointers on what we, as writers, can do about it. 

Thanks for reading! I'm looking forward to the discussion...

"He who is different from me does not impoverish me - he enriches me... For no man seeks to hear his own echo, or to find his reflection in the glass."

-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Diversity, race, orientation, prejudice: all these are sensitive subjects for writers and non-writers alike. With that in mind, I feel I should start off with a few disclaimers:

Disclaimer #1:

I am not, nor do I claim to be, an expert on the subject of diversity in literature (or in general, for that matter). Way smarter people than I can and have tackled the philosophical, literary, and political aspects of diversity. 

Rather, the purpose of this series is to examine what diversity means for me as a writer, to encourage other writers to venture outside their comfort zones, and to offer some solid suggestions on how and where to start.

Disclaimer #2:

I will not attempt to comment on diversity in countries other than my own. I love you, citizens of the world, but let's face it, I neither know nor understand your particular cultural climate, at least not well enough to offer an opinion on it. 

For that reason, any anecdotes I use or observations I make will be drawn purely from my own experiences in the continental United States. Hopefully you will still find them useful, no matter where you live.

Disclaimer #3:

Some of what I say here may come across as politically incorrect. It's not my intention to offend anyone, and I sincerely hope I don't. 

That said, I believe overly-P.C. language has muddied the topic and left everyone confused. This subject is too important to sabotage with feel-good platitudes. I'm going for the jugular here. If that's a problem for you, I humbly suggest you utilize the nearest exit.

Still with me? Awesome! Now let's get real.

Confessions first: writing diversity has always scared the shit out of me. The reason for this (ready to get non-P.C.?) is that I'm white.

*crickets chirping*

As a conscientious modern white woman, I have trouble saying stuff like that. Hell, I even have trouble referring to myself as "white". It connotes painful images of race riots and people running around in bed sheets, things no one wants to be associated with.

Before you get the wrong idea, I'm not going to start whining about "reverse-racism", or anything like that (for an excellent article that sums up my views on that particular subject, click here). That's not my point, and it's not the point of this post.

My point is, I don't think I'm the only writer who has struggled with this, and rather than risk offending people, many of us have simply opted out of writing diversity altogether.

A quick scan of Amazon Kindle's categories for Fiction tells a depressing story. Of the major genres (Mystery/Thriller/Suspense, Science Fiction/Fantasy, and Romance), only Romance has sub-categories for non-white, non-hetero titles. On one hand, this isn't particularly surprising; the Romance genre has more sub-categories and sub-sub-categories than an IRS tax form.

Where it gets depressing is when you start looking at the numbers. I'll stick to Romance, both because it's the genre I write in, and because it's the only genre with any actual data. Here are a few numbers to consider (current as of Oct. 17, 2014). Please note, in the interest of simplicity, they have been rounded off: 

# of titles in the Romance Genre: 212,000

# of titles in the African-American sub-genre: 5,000

# of titles in the Multicultural/Interracial sub-genre: 4,300

The LGBTQ categories don't do much better, though the popularity of M/M romance has skyrocketed over the last few years: 

# of titles in M/M and Gay sub-genres*: 12,000

# of titles in the Lesbian sub-genre: 3,000

* On Amazon, M/M Romance and Gay Romance are categorized under the blanket heading "Gay Romance", despite the fact that there are significant differences between the two. For more information, check out Yaoi Research's article, On Defining M/M Romance.

If these numbers have gotten you thinking, I'm glad. They got me thinking, too. But even these don't tell the whole story. 

What about books not intended as African-American/ Multicultural/ Interracial fiction? Not all heroes/heroines will be --or need to be-- Beautiful Strangers (term coined -as far as I know- by SF author Nisi Shawl).

To me, the biggest problem isn't necessarily the dearth of culturally diverse sub-genre books. Rather, it is the insidious absence of any non-white, non-hetero main, minor, secondary, tertiary, or quaternary characters at all, period.

Which brings me back to my initial confession. 

We're all afraid. We're afraid of rubbing someone the wrong way. We're afraid of "getting it wrong". We're afraid that for all our research, care, and best intentions, we're still going to end up with this guy:

I get it. Believe me.

The problem isn't being afraid. The problem is being controlled by our fear. In our desperation not to offend, we've inadvertently created a literary landscape that is glaringly one-dimensional. It's time to own that. And it's time to change it.

If that scares you, awesome. It means you're seriously considering leaving your comfort zone. That's the first step, and you should give yourself a pat on the back for taking it.

I'm going to end this segment with a bit of good news: 

WE'RE WRITERS, PEOPLE! 

If anyone has the ability, the brains, and the compassion to take this issue on, it's us. We see more, hear more, feel more, and intuit more than your average shmuck-on-the-street. It's what makes us so good at what we do. 

It's why we do what we do in the first place.

So who's with me?

###

Part 2: What Are Stereotypes, Really? 

(AKA, Know Thy Enemy)

Sunday Poetry: Self Pity

"Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes." -Joseph Roux

Self Pity, by D.H. Lawrence

I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.

Best recited by the Master Chief (aka Viggo Mortenson) in G.I. Jane:

Research Trip! Fort Mason

Those of you who know me know I value my day trips.

Writing is a solitary business. Most of my time is spent at a desk, swigging cold coffee and tossing back Ibuprofen to combat lower back pain. What can I say? It ain't always sexy, folks.

Which is why I seize any excuse I can to venture out into, you know, The Real World.

I am fortunate enough to live near the city that has become my Muse. San Francisco is one hell of a town. Every time I go there (which I do, as often as time and gas prices permit), I discover something new, something wonderful, something that would be perfect in a book.

One of my recent trips took me to Fort Mason. This old Army installation is located on the waterfront at the edge of The Marina district.

Today, the old officers' quarters have been transformed into rent-able living spaces and a youth hostel. As you can see (below), there is also a lovely community garden (this is San Francisco, remember?)

(Below) Part of the city skyline from the recreation field at Fort Mason.

(Below) And more of the city skyline. This is a view out over The Marina and Cow Hollow districts. And of course, the Golden Gate out in the distance.

(Below) Another gratuitous Golden Gate shot, over the rooftops of Lower Fort Mason.

(Below) And another, from a slightly different position, and with the masts from the marina in the middle.

But the coolest part of the trip? Check this out (below): the abandoned entrance to the old San Francisco Belt Railway! I read about this online, and it was the main reason I wanted to check out Fort Mason. Well, I found it, and yes, it's every bit as awesome as I thought it would be!

Now, I'm what you might charitably call a "geek," especially when it comes to history. I've also traveled a fair bit. Most other cities I've visited are purely modern creations. History is bulldozed, paved over, shoved aside. While in many cases this makes perfect economic sense, it is, nonetheless, sad.

San Francisco is one of those magical places that hasn't tried to hide or cover up its colorful past. Rather than pave over history, the modern city of San Francisco is literally built around it.

You see it in obvious things, such as the still-functioning street cars and the obviously-old buildings. But you can also see it in more subtle touches, such as the long-obsolete etchings in the sidewalks on Market Street that mark where telegraph lines used to run.

With so many layers to peel back, I doubt I'll be running out of inspiration -or excuses to visit- anytime soon.

Sunday Poetry: The Highwayman, Part Three

"Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes." -Joseph Roux

http://lorilynn15.tumblr.com/post/4571494917

The Highwayman, by Alfred Noyes

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,  

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  

A highwayman comes riding—

         Riding—riding—

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.  

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there  

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Sunday Poetry: The Highwayman, Part Two

"Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes." -Joseph Roux

"The Highwayman's Footsteps", Tristan Elwell

The Highwayman, by Alfred Noyes

PART TWO

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;  

And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,  

When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,  

A red-coat troop came marching—

         Marching—marching—

King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.  

But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!  

There was death at every window;

         And hell at one dark window;

For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.

They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!

“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—

Look for me by moonlight;

         Watch for me by moonlight;

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!  

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,

         Cold, on the stroke of midnight,

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.  

Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.  

She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;  

For the road lay bare in the moonlight;

         Blank and bare in the moonlight;

And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;  

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,

The highwayman came riding—

         Riding—riding—

The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!  

Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.

Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,  

Then her finger moved in the moonlight,

         Her musket shattered the moonlight,

Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood  

Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!  

Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear  

How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,

         The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.

Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;

When they shot him down on the highway,

         Down like a dog on the highway,

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

Bad Reviews Suck. Except When They Don't.

“From my close observation of writers... they fall into two groups: 1) those who bleed copiously and visibly at any bad review, and 2) those who bleed copiously and secretly at any bad review. ” -Isaac Asimov

I can't think of many authors who actually like bad reviews.

Understandable, right? I mean, no one likes to hear that the book they worked so hard on, their literary baby, didn't resonate once they released it into the world. Or worse, that its very existence outright offended someone.

I'm coming to the keyboard having received my very first bad review this week. And I'm not talking about one of those "nice try, better luck next time" reviews. The reviewer hated everything about the book, from front cover to back.

But I'm not here to vent. Or cry. Or bitch.  Because guess what?

There's nothing wrong with that.

If anything, I'm glad they wrote that review. Because while it may have stung, it also forced me to do something I've never really had to do as an author: I had to do a little soul-searching.

They were very specific about the things they didn't like. And nothing they said was wrong. Most of what they listed were things I had done with great intent. A couple weren't, and thanks to them, I have some new ideas on what to work on (and hopefully improve) in my next book.

But what about the things I knew about? The things I had done intentionally, that they didn't like? That's where the soul-searching came in.

As authors, it's important to be able to take criticism. Many of us can't- at least, not well. But it's equally important to know where and when to stand your ground. Not everyone is going to like the books we write. Does that mean we should try to write to suit every audience?

Absolutely not.

Sometimes it takes a pinch in the soft place for us to decide to stand our ground. Stand by our characters, our style, our story. To write with passion means to risk alienating some people, some of the time.

So I appreciate that bad review. I'm grateful to the reviewer for giving my book a chance. I hope the next thing they read will be something they enjoy.

But if you'll excuse me, I have another book to write.

Sunday Poetry: The Highwayman, Part One

"Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes." -Joseph Roux

http://www.pinterest.com/pin/76842737363220999/

The Highwayman, by Alfred Noyes

PART ONE

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.  

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.  

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  

And the highwayman came riding—

         Riding—riding—

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,  

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.

They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.  

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,

         His pistol butts a-twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.

He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.  

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there  

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.  

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,  

But he loved the landlord’s daughter,

         The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,  

Then look for me by moonlight,

         Watch for me by moonlight,

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,

But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;  

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,

         (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)

Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

Getting Wet: Recipe #5

Tough times call for tough drinks.

When life gives you lemons...

That's right. You make cocktails.

Or rather, you make candied lemon peel to be used in cocktails.

A delicacy this delicious can only be enjoyed one way. You guessed it: with alcohol. If you have the candied lemon peel, you need just a few other ingredients (and if you don't have the candied lemon peel, what are you waiting for? It's easy).

Laura's Lemon-Gin Fizz

In a shaker, combine...

1 jigger Gin (any, but I prefer Hendricks)
1 tsp Candied lemon peel (with syrup)
3 jiggers Tonic water
1 dash Blood orange bitters
ice

Shake vigorously until cold.

Strain into your snootiest glass.

Sip or slug, depending on how long a week it's been.

Research Trip! Warm Water Cove, San Francisco

"Ogling ruins is a way of meditating on our own inevitable deaths... A humbling reminder that, yes, it all does return to dust..." 

-David Byrne, JOURNAL 3.26.06

There's a lot to be said for city planning.

It started with the ancient Romans, the first civilization in history to create cities on a grid, with straight streets and geometric neighborhoods. The lack of such planning was one of the hallmarks of the Dark Ages, and its reemergence signified the return of order and peace in the Western world.

It is also highly overrated.

Need proof?

I give you Warm Water Cove. 

Located in the Dogpatch neighborhood of San Francisco's Potrero Hill district, this "park" was once a favorite haunt of punks, junkies, vagrants, and other anarchist types. Vibrant graffiti blazed on the surrounding walls. People gathered along its jagged shoreline to zing golf balls into the Bay, or meditate on the extensive collection of tires half-buried in the sludge below. 

It was a place devoid of planning. Untouched by city officials. Unmarred by civility. Graced with its own harsh culture and terrible beauty.

Until society decided to take it back.

(above: The Toxic Golf Course)

Armed with a sense of civic duty, volunteers marched into the park and painted over the Graffiti Gallery. Native plants were painstakingly transplanted into the rock-hard ground. Bums were kicked out, trash removed, used hypodermic needles picked out of the chaparral.

Some called it an improvement.

(above: remains of the Muni Graveyard)

And it almost worked.

Warm Water Cove is an industrial wilderness. It always will be. And like all such places, it has its own unique ecosystem. Life shouldn't be able to exist here at all. The water is dark and oily, the soil dead and devoid of nutrients. 

But life is tenacious. The so-called "native" plants are slowly being muscled out by the ugly, rangy weeds that always held pride-of-place. Broken glass shimmers from the carefully carved paths that snake around the park. The Graffiti Gallery, though still a shadow of its former glory, is being reclaimed inch-by-inch. 

(above: Graffiti Gallery, 2.0)

I am pleased to report the attempted gentrification of Warm Water Cove has failed, at least for now. There was one thing the city planners didn't account for: the sheer audacity of the wild soul. But all around it, condos are springing up, and yuppie culture is taking root. Civilization encroaches.

Is this a good thing?

(above: Tire Beach)

The human mind needs chaos, maybe even more than it needs order. We need places safeguarded from the whitewashing effect of civilization. Places where we can retreat. Take our wildness out from under our jackets, admire it for a little while. Warm Water Cove used to be such a place. There aren't many left.

Strange though it sounds, I hope it stays dirty and cold and raucous and rank. From what I've seen, odds are good it just might.

Getting Wet: Recipe #4

Tough times call for tough drinks.

http://cocktailtimes.com/whiskey/top_primehouse_sazerac.jpg

Wow, it's been a while since we've shared a drink, hasn't it? All I can say is, cut me a break. I've been writing.

That said, the Sazerac is just too good to keep to myself. I admit, my personal recipe is a tad different from the classic, but it's still pretty damn good on a cold autumn night.

In any case, let he who has never improvised a cocktail cast the first stone.

Laura's Sassy Sazerac

splash some absinthe into an old-fashioned glass

swirl to coat, then dispose of the leftover absinthe (either down the sink or down your gullet)

to a shaker with ice, add 1-2 jiggers good whiskey (I usually use Bulleit bourbon, but a purist would use rye)

shake until cold, then strain into the old-fashioned glass

add 1-2 dashes blood orange bitters (or regular bitters)

stir in 1tsp granulated sugar (I like extra-fine, but regular is fine too); mix well

shave in a long strip of fresh lemon peel (minus the white pith- just use the yellow zest part)

Drink like a boss.

When Did "Romance" Become A Dirty Word?

http://500px.com/photo/6936441?from=popular

"I had a romance novel inside me, but I paid three sailors to beat it out of me with steel pipes." 

-Patton Oswalt

What does the literary community have against romance novels?

This is a question I've been asking myself more and more lately. When was the last time you heard anyone professionally affiliated with the book world seriously discuss or review a romance novel? I mean, a romance novel that wasn't 50 Shades Of Grey?

Anyone? Anyone?

Every time I hear a professional reviewer, critic, or commentator deign to mention romance, it is with a smirk, a snort, or a disparaging remark. At best, romances are dismissed out of hand. At worst, they are called "fluff".

When did "romance" become synonymous with literary dross? Have people forgotten the numerous classics that are also -gasp- romance novels? Here are a few to refresh our collective memories:

-Pride And Prejudice

-Sense And Sensibility

-Wuthering Heights

-Jane Eyre

-Lady Chatterly's Lover

-Anna Karenina

-Romeo And Juliet

-Much Ado About Nothing

-The Taming Of The Shrew

I grant, there are plenty of romance novels out there that meet the definition of "fluff". But I don't understand why people treat that as a bad thing. Many of Shakespeare's romantic plays were "fluff". Does Shakespeare count as "literary dross"?

If so, this is news to me.

There are also plenty of other romance novels that use love stories to delve into deep human and political issues. Why are these not taken seriously? What better way to understand these issues than through the one thing we all have in common?

Seriously, is this just me?

Decisions, Decisions: When To Go With Your Gut, And When To Stick To The Plan

"I love it when a plan comes together!" -Hannibal

I like plans.

Meal plans, chore plans, wardrobe plans, travel plans. When it comes to my writing, I'm a plotter. I rarely start anything without having a plan first. Plans are delightful. Plans work for me.

Except when they don't.

It all started when I was almost finished with my most recent book. The plan was, it would be the first book in a trilogy. I'd even started planning the next two books, but hadn't gotten very far (read: I knew the primary, secondary, tertiary, and quaternary characters, the titles, and the plots).

But then I had this idea.

You know the Greek myth where the goddess Athena springs, fully formed, from the head of Zeus? It was like that, only instead of a Greek goddess (I'm pretty sure Sherrilyn Kenyon has the rights to those), this was a story.

Okay, seven stories.

It was a tough call. I was already invested in the trilogy, and what I had in mind for the new series was a massive project. My brain rebelled against shucking an entire notebook's worth of work to start over on something else. I had to stick to the plan.

That's when it struck me. Wait a minute. I'm an indie. Whose plan do I have to stick to, exactly?

Planning is great. It's the only reason I'm able to crank out books at the pace I do. But sometimes, your plans hamstring you.

Sometimes, you have to go with your gut instead.

Curious about my new project? For a sneak preview of the first book, check out its Pinterest board.

Getting Wet: Recipe #3

Tough times call for tough drinks.

Winston's Gin Martini

To a shaker with ice, add 1-2 jiggers of gin (my favorites are Hendricks or Tanqueray 10).

Look at a bottle of dry vermouth.

Shake gin for 10-15 seconds, until good and cold.

Pour into a martini glass. Garnish with olive or lemon twist, if desired.

Enjoy.

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: 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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Getting Wet: Recipe #2

Tough people deserve tough drinks.

http://tinyurl.com/npbllrw

The Green Faerie

The writer's drink from way back. Preferred by the likes of Oscar Wilde and Van Gogh. Now simplified for your enjoyment.

But do yourself a favor: do it right or don't do it at all...

Step 1: Pour an absinthe dose (1/2-1 oz.)

Step 2: Place the absinthe spoon and a sugar cube (or a half) on the glass

Step 3: Pour iced water very slowly on the sugar till the desired dilution (3-5 parts water for 1 part absinthe)

Step 4: Slightly stir with the spoon. Your drink is ready!

(Thanks to The Absinthe Spoon for laying out the steps)

Excuses, Excuses...

"When asked, 'how do you write', I invariably answer, 'one word at a time.'" -Stephen King

So! Bet you've been wondering where I am!

No? Whatever.

I've made some promises regarding this blog. Promises about what I'll post. When I'll post. And I haven't kept any of them the last couple weeks.

So for anyone who keeps coming back and checking to see if I've written anything new, you are so unbelievable awesome and I love you! I'm sorry I've been scarce. It's not you, baby, it's me.

I wouldn't be such a flake if there wasn't a good reason. You see, I've set some pretty ambitious goals for my new book. I'm pushing like hell to finish the first draft by the end of this month- next month at the latest.

It's a stupid amount of work.

The laundry's piled to the ceiling, the bathroom is growing its own ecosystem, and all the takeout is starting to taste the same. But damn it, I set a goal. And apparently, if it's something I'm passionate about, I take those rather seriously.

So there it is.

I'll be scarce a while longer. Remember: stupid amount of work. I try to pop in on The Twitter regularly, so if you want to say hi, by all means, look me up (@writermama). I respond to all @'s, even the snarky ones.

Now if you'll excuse me, time to get back to work.

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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Getting Wet, Recipe #1: Whiskey, Neat

Tough people deserve tough drinks.

Whiskey, Neat

Because the best way to drink good whiskey is un-mucked-up by anything else.

Procure a glass (not to be confused with a "cup").

Pick your poison:

bourbon= oaky and smoky

rye= smooth and slow

scotch= salty, peaty, nutty, even mildly sweet (depending on where in Scotland it was made)

Or whatever else you prefer.

Pour whiskey.  Eyeball it or use the finger method (pour to 1 finger for a quick taste, 2 fingers to relax, 3 fingers or more if it's been a really bad day)

Savor.