Which Came First: The Writer or The Angst

Writers seem to be emotional people. We worry. We fret the details. We grieve and get down. We spin up on cloud nine. We have more empathy than most. Writers seem to have their hearts on their sleeves. Don't get me wrong, we're a tough lot also. Thick skin comes with being a writer after any length of time.

But it often gets me wondering a certain chicken or the egg scenario: Are we writers because we feel more or Do we feel more because we write? There is a slight difference. Does the fact that we have that large share of empathy turn us into writers and somehow make us fit into that profession? Are we just an emotional bunch and writing lets us express that and get it out of our system?

Or does writing so many difficult situations and hitting our main characters with so many emotional problems cause writers to suffer the corresponding emotions.

I almost never cry for myself. Rejections sting, and of course, make me get down on life, but it's not until I see someone else suffering that my emotions really come out. I sympathize and find it too easy to imagine myself in their situation. That's when my heart really grieves. It's even true for fictional people. I still can't re-read Grudging without shedding tears at certain scenes because the characters' heartbreak becomes mine. With deadly stakes and scenes of loss, just writing the series often puts the real me in a funk of dark thoughts. I laugh less during the months I write. I suffer along with the characters.

But I'm also the kind of person who cries at a heartwarming movie, or even a stinking commercial for goodness sake. Tears also come when I get angry and try to form that into words--basically whenever I feel very strongly about something. I wish it wasn't so, but it's part of what makes me. On the other hand, small things like seeing my favorite cosplay character or getting a book in the mail send me into happy dances. I've always been emotional.

I guess the answer doesn't really matter. Whether the writing makes the emotion or it was there all along, the important part is putting that angst into our writing. Being able to move other people with words is a true talent. We, as writers, make other people feel by sharing our own emotion on topics large and small. That can move the world.

Are you emotional? Do you feel a character's plight too much? Does it hurt when they die? Do you cry at movies and can watching the nightly news make you too depressed for words? Then you're probably a writer--rejoice!   

Meeting Fear and Overcoming

Fear. It can stop us in our tracks. We were talking about it over on the Writer Diaries this week. How to move face the fear.

I've known some writers that let pressures keep them from moving forward. Whether that is the inside pressure of trying to make everything absolutely perfect so that they never finish editing, or the fear of rejection that keeps someone from querying. Sometimes fear can bring dreams to a halt. And that's just a shame.

Time to go into the personal and say I know a little something about sheer fear. When I first started writing, like many people, I was anxious about sharing my work with others. I worried someone could steal  my words or that they would find it terrible. They did in fact find it terrible in those days and justifiably so. But that is not where my fear came from. Nor is it the terror I meet every morning when my alarm goes off.

It started about six years ago. My beautiful daughter went off to her first day of high school. It seemed to go fine. The next morning she woke with a panic attack and an absolute refusal to go to school. Her whole body shut down. She couldn't talk. She couldn't tell us what was wrong or what was scaring her. She curled into a ball and cried. We were mystified. Nothing started it. No bullies. There was no reason behind it. She was just filled with overwhelming anxiety and it center on school. 

So began weeks of visits to doctors and discussions with school officials. Various medications and therapy sessions. Nothing worked. Hubs and I were very concerned that we couldn't let Daughter give into this anxiety. That she go to school as much as possible. The school and her doctors agreed. The medicine wasn't working.  Though her brain understood there was nothing to fear about school, her body was flooded with panic and it couldn't be shut off. The only way for her to move forward was to face it.

But she couldn't face it. And so the battle for our daughter began. It was up to her family to help her through this and that meant forcing her to go to school. Every morning we begged, reasoned, and downright fought her to get her out the door. Often she had to be carried by Hubs into the building kicking and fighting with help from guidance counselors and attendance officers. Other days she threw up from the anxiety. Most days she spent ninety percent of her time in the nurse's office, physically sick. Many times I had to leave work or send her grandmother to pick her up early.

Then my father helped out. She responded best to her grandfather's relentless insistence. Dad come over early every morning and gradually she began walking into the building on her own--somewhat better but still not good.  Hubs was able to go to work on time, which was important as he is our main source of income. Still she argued and begged not to go, crying in a way that tore our hearts. It was hard. Impossibly hard, but it was about to get harder for me.

My father spends his winters in Arizona. Months had passed and it was time for him to go. He was reluctant and delayed a few weeks, but it was unfair to keep him. I had to take over the struggle so Hubs no longer missed work. With daughter somewhat better, it all fell on me to not only get her to school, but also her younger brother, and still make it to my own work on time.

The toughest days of my life thus far began. I woke every morning terrified I'd let Daughter down and not be strong enough to get her into the school. I was destroyed by our family being in such turmoil and it was hard to be so cruel and insistent. She had good days and bad days. Sometimes she'd step right out of the car. Sometimes I'd have to coax and coax and call the counselors for help. We argued. We yelled. We hugged. We reassured. She still struggled. 

I feared my shoulders weren't strong enough. As spring grew closer, the routine gave her some comfort. Whatever panic switch had been turned on in her body dulled. She stayed in class longer. Spent less time with the nurse. Her grades went from Fs to Cs. But the fear over months of never knowing each morning whether she'd have a good day or a bad day stayed.   

Daughter gradually got better. She held on hard to her boyfriend's support. He lived close to school and I started dropping her there so she could walk in with him. It helped. She took interest in friends and life again. She got through high school, though with difficulty (such as she couldn't face taking her SAT test.) On the positive side, she even went to Japan with her language group. Six years later, she has managed to start at community college so she can live at home, and she has a job. We're so proud of her. But...

Every morning when my alarm goes off at six am, the terror is in my gut. For me, the fear remains. Every day I face it again, even though there is no longer any need. The cause is gone, but physical dread remains. SIX YEARS LATER. It vanishes once I get up and moving, but no amount of reasoning does away with it completely. It greets me each day. The fear that I won't get her to school. That I'll fail. 

With God's help and love, Daughter beat it and won. I beat it and won. With more time, it will end entirely. But for now I understand sheer fear. I couldn't be happier that we faced it down. Maybe that's why I have little hesitation with my writing career and where my willingness to try new things comes from. Doubts remain but moving forward is a breeze compared to that year.

Everyone has their own brand of fear to face. You can do it, too. Don't let it stop your dreams. 

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! I look forward to seeing you all for Sun versus Snow in January!

  

Fan Conventions from an Author's Viewpoint!

Not everyone has the money or lives close enough to conventions to attend them. Or has the guts to put themselves out there. Here to help those of us get a taste of the crazy awesomeness of conventions, I've got a report from author Terri Bruce. 

I love fan conventions; I think they’re the best thing since sliced bread. They’re a chance for me to let my geek flag fly unabashedly, to meet other people who love the same things I do, and to be blown away by people’s creativity and passion. The costumes, the songs, the camaraderie—it’s always amazing.

Now, to be clear, today I’m talking about fan conventions—things like World Fantasy Con (science fiction and fantasy), Bouchercon (crime/mystery), and Authors After Dark (romance)—not writer/author conferences (like Grub Street, New York Pitch Conference, or SCBWI). Conventions are a slightly different kettle of fish because they are by fans, for fans. These aren’t opportunities for authors to hone their craft or pitch agents; instead, it’s an opportunity to get in front of fans of your genre, which can either go really well or really poorly. Results can vary widely in terms of book sales, attendance at readings, interaction with fans, and the general overall enjoyability of any given con, so it’s best to approach cons with humility, a sense of humor and adventure, and an ability to roll with the punches. Remember, there’s no filter between you and fans at a con.

Authorly Things You Can Do At Fan Conventions

1. Sell your books

Pro: Exposure! Readers! Money! Sit behind a table full of your books and feel authorly!

Con: Sitting at a table, watching people pick up your book, read the back cover blurb, shake their head with confusion or derision, put the book back, and then walk away.

At Parafest, actor Mark Sheppard (::swoon::) stopped to chat with the author at the table beside mine, so you never know who might stop by your table. Of course, you may also have to endure criticism of your book straight to your face, so if you’re the kind of person who obsesses over 1-star reviews of your book on Amazon, you might want to skip this facet of cons.

2. Hold a reading (either individually or as part of a group)

Pro: Exposure! Readers! Get to feel authorly!

Con: The cricket chirp of an empty room if no one shows up.

A fellow Broad Universe member was reading from her newly released book when she looked up and saw George R.R. Martin in the back of the room, listening. How she had the presence of mind to finish, I’ll never know. If you’re going to do a reading, make sure you’ve practiced reading out loud beforehand—reading too fast will make your story incomprehensible and reading too slow will make your story boring, and you’ll have blown the whole point of the reading: to pique the interest of readers (and George R. R. Martin).

3. Be on a panel

Pro: Exposure! Opportunity to be witty and brilliant! Networking! Engaging with author heroes as a peer! Engaging in interesting discussion(s) on thought provoking topic(s)!

Con: OMG, what did I just say? Did that really come out of my mouth? Oh God, it’s already on Twitter. Mayday! Mayday! Eject! Eject! (AKA theStephen Leathers’ effect)

Or, conversely:

Why am I just sitting here like a dummy? Say something, you idiot! That’s your heroine on the other end of the stage. Impress her! Impress her, damn it! Come on, brain! Help me out here. This is an easy question; we know the answer to this. What.Is.My.Name?

I have to be honest, I’ve never been brave enough to be on a panel because this one is fraught with peril—I’ve heard too many stories of female authors ignored or dismissed by male panel moderators and/or fans and I’ve seen too many authors put on the hot seat by over-zealous fans (“Tolkien was a hack?! Die heretic, die!!!”). However, from a fan perspective, I can tell you I’ve added a lot of authors’ works to my TBR pile because I was impressed with their contribution to a panel I attended, so if you have the cojones to enter the fray, it can be worth it.

4. Meet/Interact with Fans

Pro: There is no greater high than someone telling you they read your book and liked it or, even better, asking you to sign a copy of your book.

Con: this or this

I was manning the Broad Universe table at a convention this past year and a young woman came up to us, looking to get her copy of a fellow Broad’s book signed by the author. With tears in her eyes she said, “Oh my God, it’s such a sad book! So good, but so sad.” I almost burst into tears myself and it wasn’t even my book. It was incredibly powerful and moving to see firsthand how much the book had impacted her.

I’m still not comfortable asking cosplayers if I can take their picture, but I’m getting braver. Realizing how shy I am about approaching strangers has made me realize that many of them are probably as shy as I am, so when I’m wearing my author hat at a con I do my best to be as approachable as possible. If you happen to see me, be sure to say hi—you’ll totally make my day. :-)

5. Meet authors, actors, illustrators, and other creative professionals and engage with them as a peer

Pro: Networking! Ability to be on first-name basis with people you admire! Ability to be admitted to the cool kids’ table!

Con: this or this or any one of a thousand similar incidents. :-( Just because someone is an industry insider or famous, doesn’t mean they aren’t a douche-bag.

Since becoming an author I’ve had interaction with people at conventions I never thought I’d be able to interact with. I’m a high-introvert, so I tend to be reserved when meeting other people. Being an author, however, is like a magic pass card: it gives me an excuse to talk to people at a convention. There’s something about sitting behind a table in the vendor room or at a panel that gives you an instant sense of camaraderie with other people in the same boat.

And there you have it—a round-up of some of the great perks of attending conventions as an author. How about you—what’s been your experience attending fan conventions?

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Biography:

Terri Bruce has been making up adventure stories for as long as she can remember and won her first writing award when she was twelve. Like Anne Shirley, she prefers to make people cry rather than laugh, but is happy if she can do either. She produces fantasy and adventure stories from a haunted house in New England where she lives with her husband and three cats. Visit her on the web at www.terribruce.net.

Connect with Terri:

Website/Blog: http://www.terribruce.net

Goodreads Profile: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6450132.Terri_Bruce

Facebook Profile: http://www.facebook.com/#!/profile.php?id=100003716022408

Facebook Fan Page: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Terri-Bruce-Fan-Page/325830544139030

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/@_TerriBruce

Amazon Author Page: www.amazon.com/author/terribruce

HEREAFTER (Afterlife #1)

Coming January 31, 2014

Thirty-six year old Irene Dunphy didn't plan on dying any time soon, but that’s exactly what happens when she makes the mistake of getting behind the wheel after a night of bar-hopping with friends. She finds herself stranded on earth as a ghost, where food has no taste, the alcohol doesn’t get you drunk, and the sex…well, let’s just say, “don’t bother.” To make matters worse, the only person who can see her—courtesy of a book he found in his school library—is a fourteen year old boy-genius obsessed with the afterlife.

This sounds suspiciously like hell to Irene, so she prepares to strike out for the Great Beyond. The only problem is that, while this side has exorcism, ghost repellents, and soul devouring demons, the other side has three-headed hell hounds, final judgment, and eternal torment. If only there was a third option…

THEREAFTER (Afterlife #2)

Coming May 1, 2014

When recently-deceased Irene Dunphy decided to “follow the light,” she thought she’d end up in Heaven or Hell and her journey would be over.

Boy, was she wrong.

She soon finds that “the other side” isn’t a final destination but a kind of purgatory where billions of spirits are stuck, with no way to move forward or back. Even worse, deranged phantoms known as “Hungry Ghosts” stalk the dead, intent on destroying them. The only way out is for Irene to forget her life on earth—including the boy who risked everything to help her cross over—which she’s not about to do.

As Irene desperately searches for an alternative, help unexpectedly comes in the unlikeliest of forms: a twelfth-century Spanish knight and a nineteenth-century American cowboy. Even more surprising, one offers a chance for redemption; the other, love. Unfortunately, she won’t be able to have either if she can’t find a way to escape the hellish limbo where they’re all trapped.

Nerves and the Agent Greeting Contest

Another sweet friend sent a picture of her copy of Kindar. It's getting a little easier to believe it's real now, and the pretty background suits the cover! I'd love to post more pictures if anyone else would like to share.

Now to business. I need to get some work done on Monday morning. (It's kinda hard to concentrate on writing when email notification of comments keep rolling in.) So the post for the Agent Greeting Contest will go live about noon on August 5th.

There's no need to rush. The contest will stay open until 5:00 pm EST on August 7th. Then I will randomly draw the winners.

As a reminder, there will be five winners of agent query critiques on the line. All the information about the contest is here and the agents are listed here. You do need to be a follower of this blog. And that is all. 

If there are any questions, leave a comment and I'll get right back to you.  

Nervous Nelly

Well, I didn't think I could get any more nervous. Then I saw this. A friend and CP sent me a picture of him holding my paperback. YIKERS! People are going to read it.

I didn't think I could get any more nervous.

A couple people have mentioned that the superstore book seller says Kindar is unavailable or on backorder. Please check out the Book Depository which also features FREE shipping.

Professional Writer?

When did you first consider yourself a professional writer? In the middle of filling out a questionnaire for an upcoming blog tour, that question brought me to a screeching halt. It was something unexpected, and I didn’t feel like it applied to me. A professional writer. Professional. Was I among that list? To me that list includes great fantasy writers like Sanderson, Tolkien, and Rowling. Was that me? Although Kindar’s Cure will soon be released as my debut novel, I didn’t really think so.

I looked up the word. –relating or belonging to a profession.  –engaged in an occupation as a paid job  –businesslike, conforming to the standards of skill, competence, or character  –very competent  –doing something habitually.

digitalart at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

For some reason, except for doing something habitually, I don’t feel like I fit those definitions. I haven’t been paid yet, so I can’t judge if I’ll feel professional when the first (small) royalty check lands in my lap. There are no reviews from readers on Amazon or Barnes and Nobles, so I can’t use them to judge if I have skill, competence or character. The fantasy and science fiction writers’ organization doesn’t accept authors who don’t receive advances, so I can’t join their professional group.

Possible modesty complex aside, none of those excuses are the real reason that I don’t feel like a professional. To me the term professional assumes something more than those definitions. It means you treat your skill like a business. You perform it for the gain you receive. It implies a sense of being jaded. But that has never been my idea of writing.

Most writers write because they must, or because they love to surprise readers, or for the thrill of getting a reader reaction to their words and sharing a story. Maybe deep down there is also the desire to be immortal. So feel like a professional—no. To me it’s the thrill of unfolding a story and having it take me to unplanned places. I hope that never becomes old. So no, I don’t think I’ll ever feel one hundred percent like a professional.

What are your thoughts? What does it take to be a professional writer? An agent? A publishing contract? What will tip the scales for you? 

Shank Those Rejections

Everyone in this writing game goes through rejection. Almost no one has their future handed to them on a golden platter. When the rejections start to pile up, it can be hard to hold up your head, let alone keep the faith. There are times I feel like shrinking into a tiny ball. But that tiny ball has a core of steel. That's where I go to remember why I write.  

Not for money or publishing contracts.
Not to please other people or to fit into the mainstream.

For me. I write to please myself. I suspect most other writers would say the same. That's not to say we won't take suggestions or make changes to our work. But the reason we write is to satisfy something inside ourselves.

Hang on to that when things are dark. There's a ray of sunshine escaping no matter how dense the clouds. 

The In Between Drift

Now that I have finished writing and editing Dodge the Sun, I’ve been thrown into a strange twilight zone of in between writing. It’s a dark land full of indecision and hesitation. The fact that I concentrate on a single project at a time instead of working on multiple ones makes the move harder. After spending an entire year inside one manuscript, living in the characters’ heads, it’s difficult to jump forward. There’s a strange reluctance to put aside these very real people you’ve created, and put all your energies into something new. I tend to drift and do no writing. It’s almost like a grieving process.

So I’ve given myself two months, and it’s time to get back into the swing. I miss creating. But do I go back and work on an unfinished project? Maybe try a short story to stop the drift until I’m ready for a full novel. Keep drifting by continuing to concentrate on querying while entering agent contests and not write at all? Start a sequel? Jumping into something large and totally new? It’s not an easy decision, especially with upcoming edits to Kindar which will interrupt anything I start.

I guess I’m trying to say that there will probably be a blog slowdown as I find my way. For now I’m trying to write a prequel short story to Kindar. It’s not really flowing yet. My word counts wouldn’t make me a NaNoWrite star. It is progress. A hundred words at a time is good enough for a start.

Does anyone else go through the twilight zone in between projects? How do you handle it and how long does it last for you?  

  

Terri Bruce's Post on Her Release Day and a Chance to Win a Free Ebook

Update: The winner of the ebook is Sherry Fundin. Please send me your email and Terri Bruce will get you that copy of Hereafter.

Free Copy of Hereafter:

To get your free electronic copy of Hereafter in the format of your choice, leave a comment on this post and be a follower of the blog. A random winner will be chosen on Labor Day. 

Release Day or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Anti-Climaxes

My odyssey to publishing was just that—an odyssey. There are so many twists and turns and it was an epic voyage of many years. So many times during the eight-month process of querying (for just THIS novel) for an agent/publisher for Hereafter I wanted to give up—and probably would have if I hadn’t had a wonderful support group of friends, family, and peers.

So, how did I feel on Release Day—the day in which all my years of hard work paid off, all my hopes and dreams finally came to fruition, my day of vindication, my day of triumph?

Um…yeah. Not so much with the vindication and triumph. More like ARGH, when I wasn’t bursting into random tears.

How can that be, you ask? Shouldn’t Wednesday, August 1^st go down in history as one of the happiest days of my life?

Well, the “argh” feelings came from the fact that my book wasn’t actually available on release day. I made a very rookie mistake, here—one I won’t make again—when I told everyone that August 1^st was my release day. See, August 1^st was the publisher’s release day—meaning it’s the day they “make it available” to the world by uploading the files to the various distributor catalogs. They send the print book files to the printer and upload the book information to the various distributor catalogs that retailers purchase books from (Baker and Taylor and Ingram’s). However, that is not the same as the book actually being released to the public. The various distributors, and then the retailers, have to process that uploaded information, update their catalogs, and make the information available on their retail pages. So on August 1^st, my book wasn’t actually anywhere for sale—it was wandering around the in the ether, a series of digital dots and dashes wading from one place to the next.

The fastest update is the Amazon Kindle store, since the publisher can upload the file directly to them, but it takes Amazon up to 48 hours to update its catalog and website. So the earliest the book I had been touting to family and friends (and tenuous acquaintances, my dentist, my hair dresser, my doctor, and random strangers on the street) for months as being available for purchase on August 1^st was available was Friday, August 3^rd (and that was only in Kindle version). So release day was spent answering quite a few text messages, instant messages, emails, and tweets that said, “I can’t find your book! Where is it?!” ARGH!

In fact, as of the writing of this blog post (written two weeks before it will actually be posted), my book is still not available anywhere else, and I have yet to hold a physical, hard copy of my book in my hands—which is the big moment every author dreams of and is usually marked as the one in which it finally hits you that this is real, that this is, indeed, happening.

As for the random tears? Well, to understand that, you need to understand a little bit of history. My mother was one of four children—she was the youngest and the only girl. Her eldest brother, my Uncle Nelson, was the first—and only—person to go to college (until my generation when almost all of us “kids” went on to post-secondary education), which was a very big deal. On my dad’s side of the family, my father and his two siblings were the first to go to college. There was a push for my sister and I to achieve academically, to also go onto college, but there was also a somewhat buried current of hostility to my always having my nose “stuck in a book.” There was a strange push-pull, as if being highly educated and literate was in some subtle way strange, alienating, and foreign. My Uncle Nelson, however, was a bibliophile of the highest order, and he supported my sister’s and my love of books—books as gifts, fascinating stories of the lives of great writers (he read memoirs and biographies like nobody’s business), wondrous insights into the writing of some of the greatest works of literature. He always had some new book he was reading, some new author he had discovered, some new used bookshop he had found.

My mother supported my book habit—though money was always tight, I don’t remember her ever denying my request for a book. I wrote stories growing up—copious, copious amounts of stories—that at first I wrote out long hand. My handwriting being God-awful, I wanted to learn to type. She let me “borrow” her electric typewriter the summer before 9^th grade for just that purpose. I taught myself to type and starting banging out stories faster than ever—serialized novels that I would pass out to friends at school. She didn’t get her typewriter back until I graduated high school and went off to college.

My grandmother—a solid, plain-spoken woman who had dropped out of school in the eighth grade and who was the person who tweaked me most about having my nose “stuck in a book”—was a fond, indulgent, protective woman who was proud of pretty much anything I did, though she always acted like it was no big deal despite looking “tinkled pink” whenever I showed off my latest accomplishment. She was my greatest cheerleader, my greatest supporter.

On release day, these are the three people I should have been sharing my accomplishment with. These are the people who would have been proudest, who would have been jumping up and down and screaming the loudest. Unfortunately, my Uncle Nelson passed away at the beginning of 2009, my mother passed away at the beginning of 2010, and my grandmother passed away at the end of 2010. The absence of their voices in my cheering section was deafening, and the healing—though not quite healed—wound of their passing was ripped open afresh. All the sense of loss I thought I had managed to pack away burst free once more, a crushing, overwhelming wave. On the way to work, I burst into tears— great, heaving sobs that blinded me so that I nearly ran off the road. All day, I was on tenterhooks, tense and over-wound—the congratulations of my coworkers almost physically painful because they threatened to set off the tears again. In a way, the “argh” of the day was my saving grace. The frustration of not having the book overwhelmed the sorrow, pushing it to the back of my mind.

Needless to say, by the end of the day I was wrung out, limp like a dishrag, emotionally drained. At 7:00 pm I was required to participate in a virtual “release day” party held by the publisher. By this point, I wasn’t really sure what I was celebrating—“release day” seemed to be just one more inching, anti-climatic step toward some vast, formless goal of “being a published author,” which was starting to seem more and more like an amorphous state of being, or possibly a state of mind, than an actual, concrete thing with a finite start and finish.

Then…several friends showed up at the virtual party, to cheer me on. In that moment, as I saw one after the other “walk through the door” of that chat room (thank you Paul, Teresa, Danielle, & E.F.), something happened. Despite the fact that my “greatest” supporters were no longer with me, I was not alone in the world. Not by a long shot. So many people—some of whom I don’t even know that well, “just” internet friends who I’ve never met in “real life”—had replaced the “old guard” of my cheering section, and were supporting me just as strongly, just as loudly, just as unflaggingly. Yes, there were some voices that “should” have been there that day, and yes, I was mad at the universe and the unfairness of it that they were missing this moment, but life offers no guarantees, and a part of me knew I needed to let go of what I had lost in order to better focus on what I currently have. In the end, most of what I felt on my release day had so very little to with my book or being published, and instead, was about who I am, where I’ve come from, and where I’m going—which made it one of the most important days of my life. Thank you—to everyone—who has helped me get to this point.

HEREAFTER
By Terri Bruce
Why let a little thing like dying get in the way of a good time?

Thirty-six-year-old Irene Dunphy didn't plan on dying any time soon, but that’s exactly what happens when she makes the mistake of getting behind the wheel after a night bar-hopping with friends. She finds herself stranded on earth as a ghost, where the food has no taste, the alcohol doesn’t get you drunk, and the sex...well, let’s just say “don’t bother.” To make matters worse, the only person who can see her—courtesy of a book he found in his school library—is a fourteen-year-old boy genius obsessed with the afterlife.

This sounds suspiciously like hell to Irene, so she prepares to strike out for the Great Beyond. The only problem is that, while this side has exorcism, ghost repellents, and soul devouring demons, the other side has three-headed hell hounds, final judgment, and eternal torment. If only there was a third option…


About the Author:

Terri Bruce has been making up adventure stories for as long as she can remember and won her first writing award when she was twelve. Like Anne Shirley, she prefers to make people cry rather than laugh, but is happy if she can do either. She produces fantasy and adventure stories from a haunted house in New England where she lives with her husband and three cats.

Contact Details
Email: tbruce@terribruce.net
Website/Blog: www.terribruce.net
Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/author/show/6450132.Terri_Bruce
Facebook: www.facebook.com/pages/Terri-Bruce-Fan-Page/325830544139030
Twitter: @_TerriBruce

Cool Hand Luke or the Three Stooges: Which are you under panic?

Mrs. Eggbert

A brand of panic hit our household the other morning. Among the shifting kaleidoscope of pets that comes with having children, my daughter stuck with birds. Gerbils and fish came and went along with tadpoles and butterflies. The dogs are mine. My husband prefers the dogs but stands on the sidelines on this one. Anna and her brother have their birds, cockatiels to be exact. We recently lost two friends of eight years due to age and diet problems. The dramatic teenage angst escalated until they bought a replacement. This replacement has a fancy name relating to a Japanese onamonapia, but I call him Eggbert. We have Eggbert and Mrs. Eggbert.

Eggbert

Eggbert is a sorry sight. He underwent extreme wing clipping at his pet store and the result is scraggly. Feathers are growing back or falling out. He has one particular feather atop his head which sticks straight into the air. A single long feather on top his head—I kid you not—he is a unicorn bird. When he tries to fly, he plummets. The other morning, something startled our new Eggbert. He bit the turf in a most undignified manner. We picked him up and set him back on the desk. My daughter likes the Eggbert couple to keep her company when she’s on the computer.

I was writing when I heard screams. “Mom! Mom! Come here NOW!”

Mr. Eggbert flapped his wings and blood went everywhere. Later, I found it on the carpet, two different set of walls, the computer screen, all over the desk, my daughter’s hair. God knows, I’m afraid to check the ceiling. Brand new Eggbert had broken a blood feather. In bird language this is a severe hemorrhage. Birds don’t clot, period, end of story. Unless you stop the bleeding, they die. A few grams of weight, there isn’t all that much to them.

Eggbert before feather horn

I ran for the flour, a known clotting ingredient (look it up). My daughter went into full panic mode a la three stooges. “Oh! Ah! What do we do! There’s blood on me!”

There’s one thing I’ve learned from nine years spent in a classroom. Don’t show panic. Don’t even think about it.

We dipped that Eggbert in flour until white clouds circled out heads. He had broken a wing feather. It was deep, tucked under other feathers and close to his body. Hard to locate. Birds do not like being dunked upside down to get at the inside of their wings. More flour flew. More bleeding. We switched to corn starch. Half a day later—what—it was only thirty minutes? Okay. Thirty minutes later, Eggbert was on the road to recovery. Daughter happy. Mother cleaning. All well.

Just remember, you never know what form or shape a crisis can take, nor how serious it could be. We can be tested at any time. In writing terms, consider how your main character would react. Books are full of crisis, large and small. Is your character ready for them? Will they be Cool Hand Luke or the Three Stooges?    

Confession of a Slacker

This week I wrote nothing despite being within two chapters of finishing my work in progress. Oh, I edited some chapters, and I critiqued other people’s writing for the fantasy and science fiction marathon. My work in progress has arrived at the big climax scene. It should have been a priority. Instead I made excuses.

It’s a holiday week. It’s too hot. (Three days of record high temperatures.) No exercise outside makes my head too foggy for good writing. The kids need my attention. All true, of course. Truth didn’t exactly make me feel any less guilty. So I decided I’ll start tomorrow. Unfortunately, that was Thursday and two more tomorrows have gone by. The guilt load increases.

I really want to get the manuscript finished. To be finished means editing and being able to send off to beta readers. It means getting closer to querying agents and getting those rejection letters. No matter how good you are the rejections will still outnumber the requests.

Perhaps I secretly don’t want to finish. Horrors!  Stalling out of fear?

Perhaps I don’t think the finished product will measure up to my vision. Crap. More fear stuff.

Perhaps I just gave myself permission to take a break, to slack a little. Maybe you can’t rush inspiration. Hmmm.  Let’s go with that.

 I’ll start tomorrow. 

Have Strong Thighs, will Travel

Anna' the bottom row, third from the right, with short hair.

My seventeen-year-old daughter is going to Japan in about a month. The trip has been planned for a while. She’s going with a group of other students and one highly fluent adult, who has made the trip many times. Our city has a sister city relationship with Shiojiri that has lasted for years. In fact, Anna will be part of the fortieth anniversary celebration. They will stay with host families for four days, tour the city, visit schools, and then the group will sightsee other parts of the country, including Hiroshima, Tokyo, and Kyoto. You can see the blog here. It will be updated with pictures as the trip progresses.

Hello, where's the train?

Though she and most of the other kids have studied the language for three years, I don’t believe anyone would count themselves confident with the idea of speaking only Japanese for sixteen days. I’d be brushing up on stock phrases like ‘where’s the bathroom, please’ and ‘which way to the train station’ and I’d still end up at a laundromat.

Then there is the culture shock. Japan has quite different customs from western countries. She’s been warned not to leave shoes visible in her luggage as it is offensive to let dirty shoes touch clothes or even be inside a house. Wait staff in restaurants do not accept tips. Their job is to serve and giving them extra implies they aren’t doing their jobs. Bathhouses are segregated by the sexes but they’re still not places for the modest. You soap down with a bucket and then move to different pools, included one that gives you mild electric shocks. Since the word for 4^th means death, there are no fourth floors on buildings. Apparently they skip that number. On the plus side, there is almost no crime. Homeless people are an embarrassment and quickly whisked away out of sight. Tax is included in the price of an item.

Since they live on small islands space is valuable. There isn’t room for herds of cattle. It’s hard to find a genuine beef hamburger, and they don’t drink dairy. Cheese has one variety, a hard orange block. Chocolate is not sweet and don’t ask for a fork. Bowls of soup are meant to be slurped. No free refills on pop. In other words, you’d better really enjoy seafood.  

Ouch!

Perhaps the biggest shock is the … um … bathrooms. Toilets, sinks, and showers all have separate rooms. The toilets themselves are different. I never knew there was a distinction, but we use Western toilets. To put it gently, you need a good sense of balance and strong leg muscles which explains why their elderly are so spry. Where they do have Western style, such as hotels, they are tricked out with all kinds of buttons and gizmos such as music and bidets. Watch what you push or you might get an unexpected shower.

All of this leads to how brave my daughter is. To go overseas with a group of people she barely knows to stay with people she doesn’t know at all and who might not speak any English. Well, that takes courage and a sense of adventure. I’m so proud of her.

Where's the instruction manual?

In writing, as in life, you need that ability to conquer fear. You must have the guts to fling your babies out there for the world to criticize. The confidence to send dozens of query letters and opening pages to complete strangers in the hopes of snagging an agent. The perseverance to keep trying when all you hear is ‘no’. It’s certainly not unique to say success comes not from the absence of fear, but from the desire to overcome that fear.