Book Review: Delirium

Delirium by Lauren Oliver
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

It's been a while since I've felt so passionately about a book's ending.

WITHER's ending annoyed me. DELIRIUM's ending infuriated me.

It was an ending that made me feel like the 400+ pages that came before it were all pointless. Here we are, in a society where love is considered a dangerous disease, and, of course, the MC, Lena, falls in love. Though at first she is just another sheep following the government's edicts, she falls in love and begins to realize just how horrible and wrong the government is. She risks discovery, death and ostracism to be with Alex. And when her disease is finally discovered, there is almost a whole chapter devoted to how she would rather die than be cured . . .and therefore be without Alex.

Ah, melodrama, right?

But I'm okay with that. In fact, I love melodrama, sappiness and doomed romance. But then there was the ending. An ending where Lena not only abandons her love, she doesn't even LOOK BACK. Alex tells her to run and there is no arguing, no second guessing, no great exclamations of "I won't leave you," she just runs. And that soured the whole book for me, and, in fact, made me feel like the whole message--that love is worth everything--was completely undermined.

I've given this ending a lot of thought, mind you, and I didn't miss the whole "love is sacrifice" theme going on. But Lena did not sacrifice. She ran. She saved her own skin and let her love die. The coldest act in a love story possible. Seriously, WTF? Babble to me about how it works all you like, but I will never believe it was love that made Lena run. It was self-preservation. I don't care what my significant other told me to do, I would not leave him to be gunned down, captured, tortured and/or cured. I just wouldn't. THAT is the sacrifice. Sacrificing your own safety/well-being/life to be with the one you love. Sacrifice is NOT running because your boyfriend tells you to.

In the end, I simply believed that the only love that existed was the one Alex had for Lena. And she didn't deserve it.

There, now that I've gotten the ending out of the way (grr), there was another thing about this book that REALLY bothered me.

The pets.

In a world where love, affection and caring is frowned upon, why do they have pets? I can see livestock or guard dogs, but there is one neighbor who has a dog that seems to serve no purpose other than being the dog (who we get to watch die in such a heart-breaking way--thanks for that, Ms. Oliver). It makes no sense. Why do people have pets? Because they want to have something to CARE for and LOVE. I see this as a major flaw in the story. Such a flaw, in fact, that I spent a great deal of time frustrated about it and even more time appalled that this poor animal (yes, it's fiction, but sue me) served no other purpose than as a plot device so the main character can ruminate on how WRONG everything is becoming. Grr.

Okay, I will have to admit that I didn't hate the whole book (just the ending). In fact, I really enjoyed most of the book. Lauren Oliver is an amazing wordsmith. She brings a rare, fresh beauty to her writing and her descriptions seriously make me curl my toes in pleasure. Her first novel, BEFORE I FALL, is one of my all-time favorite books, and while I can't say that I will ever think of DELIRIUM with anything less than aggravation, it didn't completely spoil my love for the author. Instead, I look at my impression of the book as just that: MY impression. Some readers might love the ending. They might think it is the best thing in the world. I just can't say the same. Which is why I gave a potentially 5 star book only a 3 star rating.

P.S. If there is a sequel, I will read it in hopes that Lena redeems herself.


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Writing, Drawing and Running

What do writing, drawing and running all have in common?

Once you step away from one of them for a while, it's almost like you have to start all over again.

Due to my hectic schedule, my writing has been sporadic at best. And drawing? Well, I haven't so much as doodled in a long time. But since I am currently in the lovely throes of winter break, I've found myself bombarded with the urge to create--both words and pictures.

Too bad everything I've produced is less than stellar.

My sentences are flat, my dialogue is lackluster, and my drawings look like misshapen cartoon characters. A five year old could do better. While it is very frustrating, it made me realize that writing and drawing, while requiring a certain amount of talent, require even more practice. Without practice, talent cannot grow. In some ways, it is like learning how to run.

In January 2011, I couldn't run a mile. Now, due to hard work, dedication and, yes, practice, I am running 5Ks and training to run a 10K. I have grown as a runner because I kept at it. I might have always had a "talent" for running (okay, more of an "ability") but if I'd stopped midway through the year, I couldn't very well be running 5Ks right now, could I?

I think the same idea--dedication, hard work and practice--applies to creative arts as well. Without constantly working at it, you can't improve. At best, your talent stagnates. At worst, it reverts (as with my drawing skills).

Now, I'm not saying it's not okay to take a short break from writing, drawing or even running at times, but it's best to keep in mind that letting something go too long can only harm your goals, whatever they might be. Trust me, I'm speaking from experience here. ;)

Book Review: Entwined

Entwined by Heather Dixon
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

ENTWINED by Heather Dixon was like Beauty and the Beast meets Harry Potter meets Pride and Prejudice--romantic, magical and quirky.

As far as plots go, this was one of the most well-written I have read in YA literature in a long time. All the events entwined (pardon the pun) in the most beautiful, elegant and exceptional way. While I might have seen some of the "twists" coming, they came in such a way that didn't make me roll my eyes or feel like the author was treating me like someone with minimal intelligence. (Instead, I just felt very self-satisfied and smug.)

Another thing I found interesting and refreshing about this story was the way it was written: it has a Victorian feel to it. More so, I thought, than that of a fairy tale, though there were of course those elements. The writing was very polite and proper, which made the moments that weren't that much more sparkling. The descriptions were vivid and a few phrases even had me chuckling at their cleverness (the rug at the end had me laughing out loud).

The more I think about this book, the more I admire it--the humor, the imagery, the characters. It feels so FRESH in a YA world of regurgitated ideas and plot devices. I will definitely keep this author on my "to watch" list.

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Book Review: Wither

Wither by Lauren DeStefano
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This book opens with the quotation from T.S. Eliot "This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper." I felt that same quote could apply to the ending of this book. I won't reiterate a summary . . .that's easy enough to find either through goodreads.com or Amazon, so I'm going to discuss how I thought this book fell short of its potential.

All throughout Rhine's story, there are hints of dark and horrible things happening within the mansion where she is imprisoned--the unwilling bride of a rich, sheltered boy, and sister-wife to two other girls. There is Housemaster Vaughn, the House Governor Linden's father, who is obsessed with finding a cure for the virus that takes male children at 25 and female children at 20. It is hinted that he dissects and experiments on corpses of those who've succumbed to the illness, including his son's first wife, Rose. There are even hints that he is a sadistic, cruel and evil man who would stop at nothing to ensure that his son is happy, which includes making sure his wives stay compliant. When they don't, he kills them or their babies.

But that's never actually proven.

And, really, as far as villains go, Vaughn didn't scare me. Not even a little. The wives and servants were terrified of him, but I was never given a significant reason. Sure, Jenna dies prematurely. Maybe he did something to her because she was troublesome, but that's still not proven. When he discovers that Rhine has feelings for the servant Gabriel, he removes him to the basement . . .but doesn't actually do anything horrible to him. I went along with it, however, because I was so sure there was going to be a culmination of Vaughn's atrocities, where all his evil-doings were revealed and Rhine faced him in the ultimate showdown, which, upon victory, would grant her her freedom.

Pffbt. Vaughn's horrible crimes are never proven, and Rhine never faces him. Instead, she and Gabriel escape into the snowy Florida night with the help of a nameless attendant. No pursuit follows. No life-or-death scenarios. It's such a simple escape, that it makes me wonder why it was such a big deal to escape.

I get that this is a trilogy and that the possibility for a showdown with Vaughn still exists, but it annoys me when such a promising book doesn't deliver.

Granted, I liked the book. I'll even pick up the next in the trilogy just to find out what happens. But if the second book doesn't show more depth, I'll probably stop there.

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The Coolest Thing About Becoming a Secondary Education Teacher

The coolest thing about becoming a secondary education teacher: I get to read YA novels and call it "research."

I kid you not.

At a recent meeting for prospective MAT (that's Masters of Arts in Teaching) students, we were ENCOURAGED to read young adult literature because, and I quote "it's a gateway into the mind of an adolescent." I'm sure you YA writers are squeeing with excitement at this. To think, that TEACHERS are reading about love triangles and were-creatures and sparkly vampires to better understand their students.

Honestly, it makes me giddy that this was one of the suggestions to the new recruits, even if I thought, "Well, duh. All high school teachers should read YA so they know what their students are into." But then it made me realize that I never ONCE saw any of my teachers with a YA book. It's a shame, really. We might have had more to talk about. But then, back in my day (yeah, I'm ancient), I didn't really understand what YA literature was. It was just stuff I read for fun, while the teachers prattled on about how awesome Of Mice and Men and The Last of the Mohicans were.

And, call me crazy, but I seriously hope that I will be able to introduce some YA novels into the required reading and, you know, actually DISCUSS them on an intellectual level. Ah, daydreams.

Now, back to my current YA novel.

Last Day

Tuesday was my last day at the junior high where I've been volunteering.

A part of me is a little sad about this. After all, it was an interesting, informative and even enjoyable experience. It certainly taught me a lot about what to expect from teenagers in a classroom-type setting.

Another part of me is just SO glad it is over with.

Because I learned that I'm not a fan of junior high kids. They're drama-drama-drama. I hated junior high when I was IN junior high, and going back, even in a position of authority, is no different. There is still the backstabbing, the cliques, the mean girls (yes, they exist in high school, too, but not to the same extent), and the hurricane of hormones. OMG, the hormones. Girls and boys are starting to "like" each other, but it's that immature "I like her so I'm going to pull her hair" kind of like. Ugg. It can be amusing to watch, but also irritating because it constantly interferes with the lessons. Also, my chihuahua has a longer attention span than most of these kids. Jeez.

But it's over now. Now, it's all about writing a paper and turning in hours logged and then one more tutoring session with Upward Bound students (high schoolers, thank God) and I'm done for the semester. Yay!

But I think I will miss it. Even the eighth graders.

Cavemen Were Not Depressed

I don't think Cavemen had to deal with all the mental illnesses that we deal with today.

Why?

They were too busy trying to find food and, you know, being chased by saber-toothed tigers. Doesn't give much time to wallow or explore feelings. All of their energy was put into SURVIVING. And, if by some chance, one of the cavemen stopped to cry or whatever, he would have been picked off and eaten.

Just sayin'.

Do I look depressed to you?

This post was inspired by this article.

I Wanna Be More Like Her

Can I tell you a secret?

This is who I want to be . . .right now. Not when I "grow up" (seriously, 25 is too old for that), but right now.

In case you don't know (what are you, a cave man?) this is P!NK. In case you don't own a radio, she's a singer. An AWESOME singer. I first discovered her music when I was 15 with the CD Missundaztood. The song "Don't Let Me Get Me" did not describe me, but it resonated. And almost every song since has had that same resonation. Her lyrics speak to me in a primal way, awakening that dormat badass girl sleeping within.

That's why I love P!NK. She makes me feel like a sexy, powerful woman. With attitude, with sass. The kind of woman that doesn't take anyone else's bullshit.

The kind of woman I really, really want to be.

I think if I were more like P!NK, I wouldn't care as much about what people thought of me, and I sure as hell wouldn't be so sensitive. I wouldn't let people disrespect me, bully me, or talk to me like I was something on the bottom of their shoe.

I certainly wouldn't let them get away with hurting me.

So, this New Year's one of my resolutions is going to be "Be more like P!NK." But I'm going to go ahead and start right now.

In Cold Blood: Awesome Book. "Meh" Movie.

I recently read In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. 


Let's just start off that I am one of those people who struggle with reading non-fiction. In fact, I usually avoid it altogether, but if more non-fiction was written like this, I think I might branch out.


In Cold Blood in a non-fiction novel. It reads like fiction, which is great for people who don't normally read non-fiction.


For those of you (like me) who have never heard of In Cold Blood, let me give you a brief summary, courtesy of Goodreads.com:


On November 15, 1959, in the small town of Holcomb, Kansas, four members of the Clutter family were savagely murdered by blasts from a shotgun held a few inches from their faces. There was no apparent motive for the crime, and there were almost no clues. 
As Truman Capote reconstructs the murder and the investigation that led to the capture, trial, and execution of the killers, he generates both mesmerizing suspense and astonishing empathy. In Cold Blood is a work that transcends its moment, yielding poignant insights into the nature of American violence.


The interesting thing about this work is that Capote garners empathy not just for the murder victims, but for the murderers. We gain intimate knowledge of the killers--who they are, what they feel, etc. It's a bit eerie, a bit unnerving, to feel sorry for cold-blooded killers, but it's impossible not to. And that is not because Capote portrays them in a sympathetic light. No, everything in the story is a black-and-white, these-are-the-facts depiction. 


But that same in-depth research into the characters that made them so empathetic, so "human" in the written work, is a bit glossed over in the movie. Sure, we get glimpses of it, but it's not there in the degree that gives you chills in the novel. Of course, a movie is a movie and a book is a book, but if I hadn't read the book, I'm not sure I would have finished the movie. It was a bit boring, honestly. And that magic quality that enraptured and yet unsettled the reader in the book--the big thing that makes the story, in my opinion--was not present in the movie. Without that, it was just another tale about two psychos who murdered a family.


I am planning to watch the biographical movie "Capote" which illustrates Capote's research into the crime. I've heard it's really great--and I'm hoping that this movie will possess the qualities in the book that the movie "In Cold Blood" lacked.

I love PURPLE.

Prose, that is.


I love purple prose. Call it a weakness, an indulgence, a slide into writer-insanity, but I seriously love purple prose.

According to Wikipedia: Purple prose is a term of literary criticism used to describe passages, or sometimes entire literary works, written in prose so extravagant, ornate, or flowery as to break the flow and draw attention to itself. Purple prose is sensually evocative beyond the requirements of its context. It also refers to writing that employs certain rhetorical effects such as exaggerated sentiment or pathos in an attempt to manipulate a reader's response.


Honestly, most of my first drafts are so full of purple prose that it would make most writers cringe. Despite the above paragraph, I don't do this to "draw attention" to my writing. Instead, I do it because it's what comes naturally to me. I naturally write in that flowery, ornate way. To stifle that, or to try to correct myself, was seriously a pain in the neck and made first draft processes extremely long. Now, I embrace my purple prose and just write.


Funny, the more I learn about writing, the more I embrace the philosophy that in order to "be" a writer, you need to "just write." Ignore all the advice out there (good, great, and bad) and just write. 


When you get those words on paper then—and only then—do you take that advice (hopefully just the good and great kind) and apply it to your story. I've found that this is not only the best way to keep the vein of your story about, well, the story, but it will also help you stay true to your own voice.

The Pointless Journey of Self-Discovery

About once a week I have an epiphany. An "ah-ha!" moment where I discover some aspect of myself that was previously hidden from me. You'd think at that rate, I should have a pretty good grasp on who I am. And that would probably be true, if I would quit changing.

See, as we become more aware of certain traits in ourselves (and sometimes even traits in others), we adapt to embrace or reject that trait. (I think that might be the royal we.) For example, I've known for a long time that I'm a perfectionist. I could either embrace that aspect of myself or I could reject it. What did I decide? Um. Still working on that.

No, this isn't my arm. I'm not that hairy.

But I have decided that I'm going to quit trying to "find" myself, because once I do, I inevitably flit away again. Maybe that means I'm wishy-washy, but I prefer to call myself malleable.

I'm the type of person (most of the time) who will try anything once (the exception being something stupid or dangerous or both). Because of this, I find and gain interests at a rapid pace. I pretty much like everything, actually. I like politics, science, mathematics, English, poetry, foreign languages, crafts, mechanics (though I pretend ignorance so my husband doesn't actually make me change my own oil), dancing, music (ALL KINDS), crocheting, typing, puzzles, writing, gardening, fishing (surprise, surprise), exercising, running, shadow-boxing, painting, baking, cooking, drawing, etc. I could go on and on. In fact, most of the time I feel a bit overwhelmed by all my interests and will find myself torn over which ones to pursue. (You ever heard that song by Terri Clark, "I Wanna Do it All"? That's totally me. But at the same time that I have all these diverse interests, I'm hesitant to share them with people for fear of coming across as less than knowledgeable/talented/experienced. Why? Must be the perfectionism kicking in.

But I'm slowly becoming okay with my wishy-washiness, my scatter-brained eagerness to discover and learn and try more and more things. Now, if that perfectionist side of me would only get with the program and let me crow about my interests without fear that someone will come along and call my efforts pathetic.

What are your interests? Any that you've recently acquired?

Tired of Being Superwoman

I'll admit, I'm not a huge fan of the holidays. The commercialism, the politically-correctedness (is that a word?) of it, just makes me nauseous. I seriously want to go hermit and hide October through November.

Granted, there are things that I DO like about the holidays: Christmas carols, pumpkin pie, family gatherings, old movies, cold nights and hot chocolate, snuggling with your spouse. But anymore those things tend to take the back seat to the constant rush of the season. It's all about shopping lists and late-night baking frenzies and long trips to see people you're not even sure if you like.

Sigh.

Piling all this seasonal pressure on my already over-full schedule is just a disaster waiting to happen. I feel it today, especially. The day before Thanksgiving, and instead of ruminating on all the joys of Thanksgiving and all the things that I'm thankful for, I'm worried about cooking and schedules and resenting the fact that we have to go to my in-laws when all I really want to do is spend all day noshing at my parents' house (and I love my in-laws, I really do . . .but, well, they're not family-family). It's been all about compromise for me. And you know the thing about compromise: it never makes you happy.

So, I'm not all that happy. I'm stressed, is what I am. Fracturing, truthfully. About to blow my top. Every spare moment of my time has been dedicated to racking up the volunteer hours I need for the class I'm taking, and while I enjoy volunteering it's a far cry from the relaxing "me time" I need to keep my sanity.

Honestly, if it weren't for running, I would probably have gone crazy a week or so ago. But running keeps me sane. If it didn't take so much of my energy, I would probably be happy as a clown right now. But, well, running can be HARD (especially when you push yourself to go faster, further and harder each time, like me) and it makes me tired. And everyone knows (or soon will) that a tired Brandi equals a I-want-to-rip-your-eyes-out Brandi. Never good.

In order to keep this from happening (and destroy the "oh, she's such a sweet person" impression that my in-laws have of me) I'm going to take tonight off. Just me, the hubby (who'd better cooperate and be nice to me), the furry babies and some trashy movie that makes me laugh. Maybe some hot chocolate, too.

That will certainly give me a few things to be thankful for (like having the state-of-mind not to attack people for no reason).

Happy Thanksgiving!

Revamping

So, it's been a while.

I keep popping on here to write thoughtful and interesting tidbits on writing and reading, and then I stop. Either discouraged or bored by my own ramblings, and fade quietly back into the blogosphere. I still read blogs. Quite a bit, actually, but I rarely, if ever, comment on them. It probably makes my online friends feel like I don't care (or that I've died), but I do (and I'm still alive). I just felt like I was stagnating, regurgitating the same old things (cursings and musings) over and over. I felt unoriginal. I didn't feel like a very inspiring or even interesting person, let alone a writer.

Therefore, I stopped doing the whole blogging thing because, well, I couldn't handle the pressure of constantly coming up with a new, sparkling idea. Instead, I threw myself into a personal blog (which is private) and basically blogged about anything and everything that popped into my head. But since it wasn't writing related, I thought that it wouldn't be a good fit for this blog.

And then I had an epiphany. Why does this blog have to be just about writing and reading? Why can't it be about ME? I mean, I'm not anyone special or particularly exciting, but I'm sure a few of you might find my quirks interesting. And, believe it or not, I can be humorous and witty and even knowledgeable on some occasions.

So here I am. Back. To revamp Cursings and Musings and retake it for my own. This blog is going to reflect me from now on, and I'm an ever-changing, organic person. Are you ready for it?

Really Bad Poetry

I've recently posted some of my poetry on Deviantart.com. (Yes, there goes my dream of actually getting paid to write drivel.) I claim to be a poet, but I never said that I was a good one.

Enjoy.

For the Hell of It

Lately, I've found myself writing for just the hell of it. Or, to put it more nicely: Just writing to write, to have fun, create, explore, etc.

It's been a long time since I've done that.

It's been a long time since I've written something that was just for my own pleasure. A long time since I've wrote something without worrying how my critique partners would react to such-and-such.

It's nice.

It's freeing.

It makes me wonder why I ever stopped.

Oh, I've been writing. I've been revising, too. But a lot of the time I've felt stifled or constrained. I've always had to abide by rules and suggestions and the worry if the story I was writing was publishable or not.

It's wonderful to not care sometimes.

And maybe MY story is complete crap. Maybe it is unpublishable junk rife with cliches and filler words and too many adjectives. BUT IT IS SO LOVELY. It makes my heart sing. It reminds me that THIS--the process of just putting raw words on paper--is why I write. THIS is what I've been struggling these past months to regain. To write just to write. To write just because. To write, write, write and no longer CARE that so-and-so editor/agent/critique partner might not like it.

You should try it sometime.

Because . . .

Sometimes we need that reminder that we're not alone in this. That we need to keep trying.

A truly inspiring tale about rejection.

Monday Madness: One More Time!

You know how to tell when a writer is lying?

When they say, "Oh, yes, I'm on my final revision."

Or maybe it's just me.

I SWEAR that it's not just the perfectionist in me changing my mind halfway through said revision. Sometimes, it's not until you fix the little things, that you see that something bigger might need a polish. Or a rewrite. Love the rewrite. Embrace it. Buy it flowers.

I seriously did think that DRAGON QUEEN was almost ready; that I had finally reached the "final revision stage". And then in the process of changing one thing, I toppled the dominoes and got myself into a huge MESS of rewrites.

I'm at the dizzy, passionate phase of revising right now (as in, it's actually been gratifying and fun and exciting to see how much stronger my story is getting), but I know soon that I will tire out and be whimpering for mercy. But for now, it's great. Flowers everywhere!

For those of you who are rolling your eyes and muttering, "She's never going to be done with this story!" let me assure you that I'm doing the revisions correctly this time. I am not making significant plot or character changes, I am just amplifying what was already there, but was perhaps glossed over in an attempt to get the story out the first time (or second time, or third time) through. Relationships and characters are being fleshed out. Foreshadowing is being utilized. It's, really, just awesome how much these "little" things are making such a big difference.

And MAYBE after this, I will honestly be able to say that I'm on my final revision. And that makes me all tingly inside.

Monday Madness: Ode to Movies

I tend to like my movies like I like my novels: full of fluff and good feeling. I gobble up romantic comedies and Disney movies like dark chocolate and have gotten to the point where I don't even try to hide it anymore. But thanks to Netflix and Red Box (and weather that has you spontaneously bursting into flames when you dare to venture outside) I've been catching up on some "less fluffy" movies. Much to my amazement, I'm actually enjoying them.

Here is a list of movies that I've watched that I didn't think I would like, but actually did:

Winter's Bone — This movie made me so uncomfortable. First, it was made in my backyard (not literally), and the familiar setting, along with the rough and scary characters (who could be related to me) really set me on edge. This movie haunted me. Freaked me out. And while I resented being reminded of the people that I come from (yes, I have relatives a lot like the people in this movie), it was definitely worth watching.

Million Dollar Baby — I kept putting off watching this one because someone had told me the gist of it once, and that it wasn't a happy movie. They were right; it's not a happy movie. But it's not really a sad or depressing movie either. There's a lot of hope in this film. And I know that I'm not a movie critic by any means, but I thought this was an excellent movie because of just how emotive it was. Again, some of Maggie's family reminded me of people I know, and so it might have hit closer to home for me than someone else, but if you do not feel some little ping in your heart at the end of this movie,  then you are dead inside. Seriously.

Love & Other Drugs — I didn't want to watch this movie because I thought it was about DOING drugs. And not the prescription kind. My husband finally convinced me to watch it, and it rocked my world (and not just because of the many, many, many sex scenes). It was such a gritty take on love—no romantic comedy here. I cried and laughed many times during this movie, and it led to a serious discussion about what love is between me and my husband. (Good news: We think we have it figured out. Our version, anyway.)

The Prestige — A whole different can of worms here, but I found myself engrossed in this movie. This movie is a prime example of love-to-hate characters. Throughout the movie, I did not like either one of the main characters. Neither Angier or Borden were "good". What they were, instead, were very mortal. Prone to mistakes and jealousy and stupidity and vanity. And the end . . .man, the end. So twisted. I loved it.

Next on the list: The Black Swan and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.

But first, Suckerpunch. :)

Liking these movies was a good reminder to me that there are great things outside our comfort zone, if we just give them a chance. Now that I've branched out my movies, I think the next step is my literature (and not just because I'm being forced to, like in school.)

What about you? See any movies you thought you wouldn't like, but ended up loving? What about books?

Monday Madness: Toning Your Core

I really like to exercise and I find it funny that a lot of exercise vernacular can be applied to editing a manuscript. I find it so amusing, in fact, that I thought about paralleling my exercise routine with my current editing process. However, if that were the case, I would have been toning my core for, like, three months straight.

That's right, I'm in the process of trying to get a sexier middle (in my manuscript rather than my actual abs). Thanks to some very helpful critiques, I realized that two of my middle chapters included a lot of summary rather than action (i.e. flab instead of muscle). So I went to work.

First there was the light stretching. I tried tweaking a word there, a sentence here.

Then the warmup: replacing telling with showing.

The actual exercise: scrapping entire paragraphs and scenes for others.

Then the cool down: fine tuning the scene.

Finally, the last stretching: tweaking of words and sentences.

By the time it was over with, I was mentally exhausted, but at least now I have a stronger core.

Drawing vs. Writing

It's been a horrid week and while I'll try not to bore you with the details, let's just say that it involved me threatening to kick a relative's rear end to next Tuesday and the newest addition to my furry family, Papi, a white chihuahua, being hit and killed by a car. So, yes. Awfulness abounds.

Some people might harvest this turmoil and use it to write something really dark and angry. Something that leaves tear stains on their keyboard. Not me. Despite my tendency to have a dark vibe in a lot of my writings, I'm usually NOT in that sort of mood when I write them. I'm usually in a pretty good mood, or at least a neutral mood. Writing in a bad mood leads to, well, a lot of unintelligible, melodramatic scribbling. Instead, I draw.

Drawing is therapeutic for me. My mind goes blank. The only thing that exists is the paper and whatever medium I'm working in (lately, it's been cheap ball point pen). My mind narrows in on the line, the expression, the shading. Nothing else matters.  And yet, it still becomes an outlet for my emotion. After I complete a drawing, I feel like some of the festering has gone away. I feel emptied. Scraped clean. Sometimes this feeling will last the rest of the day. Other times, it's only a moment. If it's the latter, I'll usually start working on another drawing.

I've been drawing a lot this week. It's probably a good thing. It's certainly allowed me to contribute once again to my Deviant Art page (which remained un-updated for, like, 6 months). I don't really draw to impress people and I'm certainly not the most talented artist out there, but I still like to share my works with others because every now and then, someone else will be like "I totally understand what this means" and it will make me feel not so alone.

This drawing is one that I finished this week. It's called "Sorrow" and I drew it the day Papi died, but before it actually happened. A premonition? I'm not sure.

Silencing the Superfluous Voices in My Head

But keeping the good ones.

Clicking on some of my previous blogs, I realized that I used to be helpful. I used to be "in the know" about writing and publishing and querying and all that inky stuff. So why did I stop?

Simple: Too many voices in my head.

I'm a people-pleaser. I also am an idea-monger. Those two traits do not help with writing. And I found myself, more often than not, struggling with conflicting advice rather than just trusting my gut.

I'll admit, I've also been going through enormous bouts of self-doubt again and moments of "why am I doing this again?" but I've really tried to keep them private. I got tired of having pity parties, for one, and then I just felt like a wimp. In fact, I went through moments where I thought, "Maybe I'm not ready for this whole writing career pursual." So, I took a step back.

It bothers me (quite a bit actually) that I'm no longer providing insightful, helpful information to the readers of my blog, but I'd rather be silent than sound like a phony. I have no authority in the matter, really. I'm just like (the majority of) you. A scribbler struggling to be a writer. But even as I read blog after blog (and still read a lot of blogs, mind), it took me a long while to realize that the most important thing to being a writer was something I was sacrificing so I could fit the mold of what everyone else wanted: my voice. I was so concerned about perfecting my technique, that I came to struggle with what is honestly the most important thing when it comes to writing: voice. Style. What makes your story different from the hundreds that came before it.

The sad thing is, before I had all these "expert" voices clamoring in my head for attention, I had a pretty good grasp on my voice. It's flowery and sometimes dark, sprinkled with humor and elaborate descriptions. It can be serious or light-hearted. It's almost always romantic. And of all the things that I know about writing (having a bachelor's degree in creative writing, I should know a little bit) it's that it doesn't really matter if your spelling is atrocious, your colons should be semi-colons, and you occasionally use one too many adverbs as long as you have an established and engaging VOICE.

Take my story The Dragon Queen for example. When I started it, I got a lot of flack for my main character, Jade, being "cliche". I worried and fretted about this for so long, that I couldn't even revise the story. I kept getting dragged down into the worry that she wasn't good enough. But then I realized there are reasons for cliches: because they're good. Yes, you see a lot of rebellious princesses, and, sure, if that's all there was to Jade, I could see it being a real issue. But it isn't. Why? Because of Jade's voice. Through her voice (or mine, whichever) the reader eventually reaches the conclusion that just because Jade is cast as a stereotypical, rebellious princess, doesn't mean that's all there is to her. And soon those same readers who had issues with her being a stereotype, ended up reneging their words soon after.

So, while I've learned to trust myself a bit more, I'm still refraining from dipping into the writer world of shoulds and shouldn'ts. Now, I'm trusting in my own abilities and the advice of a few helpful critters, and I'm a stronger writer because of it.

A Quarter of a Century

It's official. I am now a quarter of a century old.

Woohoo! Right?

Pffbt. I don't feel like 25. Most of the time, I still feel like I'm 19, struggling with "finding myself" and grasping at dreams. And that's okay. Especially if it means that I keep getting carded for things like buying knife sets (I am not joking).

I honestly thought that by 25 I would be set. I would be married (check), be paying on my own home (nope), have a kid or two (do dogs count?) and be well-established in my career (haha). Funny how life isn't predictable and doesn't follow a schedule. While there have been some things I've managed to keep to the plan (getting married AFTER college, having kids AFTER landing a career (so far at least)), mostly I've been all over the place.

First of all, whoever thought I would be going back to school to be a teacher? Not me. But here I am. Taking classes. Trying not to think about the enormous debts I'm going to accrue or how completely exhausted I am going to be. And once I get my schooling out of the way and start teaching, the husband is going to go to school for . . . something. He hasn't decided yet.

My husband is a little like me in that he wants to do EVERYTHING. He wants to learn about EVERYTHING. We're like kindergartners, changing our minds every three seconds about what we want to be when we grow up. But I've finally buckled down and decided to be a teacher. No worries, I'm still writing. In fact, I've been writing and revising like crazy. I just haven't been talking about it much. Not sure why.

So, the new goal is to be a secondary English teacher and writer. That's what I'm going to be when I grow up. Or get older I guess. I've heard it's all downhill from 25. (Lol.)

One thing is for certain: I AM slowly becoming my mother. I used to loathe gardening, taking care of animals (I liked animals, just didn't like cleaning up their poop), and Martha Stewart-esque household chores. Now, I have a garden that I spend a LOT of my time in (and enjoy it, which is the weird thing). I want to have livestock so badly, but can't. Grr. And this past weekend I made pickles. Yep, I canned. All by myself. (And they are delicious!)

I'm looking forward to the next 25 years. We'll see how the plans go for them.

Monday Madness: A Little Sugar with My Vinegar

I can be a pretty ruthless critter. Yes, me. It's like my Darkside. I find much pleasure in taking someone's story and ripping it to shreds.

Most of the time I remember to be nice about it. (At least, I think I am. I've yet to receive any death threats.)

But I HAVE scared a few people off. Some people can't handle the steady dose of vinegar I pour over their manuscripts, and they usually run for cover when I come critting. But here's a little sugar for my vinegar: I'm mean to you so I can be mean to me.

For example, I can't dissect your character's motivations without first making sure mine are pretty dang clear. I can't complain about your lifeless dialogue if mine is so dead it's starting to smell. Also, when I'm critting, I find mistakes in my writing by looking at yours. If your MC's whining drives me crazy, there's a good chance my MC's whining will drive someone else crazy. So, snip, snip.

Critting makes me excited to be a writer. I like to contribute, to make a difference, and to help my fellow writers dish out the best stories they possibly can. If it means I have to be a little sour rather than sweet, well, okay then. And give it right back to me.

And I love my critters. Those who can stand me usually give as good as they get. Maybe this makes me wacky, but I honestly get MORE motivation after receiving a critique. Even if it's ripping my story to shreds. Even if it's telling me I suck. As long as they point out how I can fix it, then I'm game.

What about you? Do you prefer sugar or vinegar with your critique?

Book Review: No Mercy

No Mercy by Sherrilyn Kenyon was one of those spur of the moment buys. I'd read a book or two by Sherrilyn Kenyon a while back, vaguely remembered liking them, the blurb sounded interesting, and I needed something to keep me from going crazy on our weekend camping trip.


According to the blurb:

Live fast, fight hard and, if you have to die, then take as many of your enemies with you as you can. That is the Amazon credo and it was one Samia lived and died by. Now in contemporary New Orleans, the immortal Amazon warrior is about to learn that there’s a worse evil coming to slaughter mankind than she’s ever faced before. 

Shapeshifter Dev Peltier has stood guard at the front of Sanctuary for almost two hundred years and in that time, he’s seen it all. Or so he thought. Now their enemies have discovered a new source of power--one that makes a mockery of anything faced to date. 

The war is on and Dev and Sam are guarding ground zero. But in order to win, they will have to break the most cardinal of all rules and pray it doesn’t unravel the universe as we know it.

Let's start off with the fact that I liked this book. I liked the characters (who were funny and spunky) and the context was definitely interesting. I'm a pretty hard sell when it comes to paranormal romances anymore, but I still found myself enjoying Kenyon's mix of Greek mythology and modern-day paranormals. Demons, Daimons, Dark-Hunters, Were-Hunters, and more! I enjoyed the book, even if I snickered a little bit on just how boy crazy the writing seemed (if you want descriptions of rock-hard, drool-worthy bodies, then Kenyon is a good bet for you), but since it was a romance, I let it go. 

However, I had my nitpicks: EVERYONE is beautiful. I seriously hate that. And they weren't even beautiful in their own unique way. They were just lovely and lust-inducing. Yes, I get that they're "not human" but does every stinking nonhuman have to be drop-dead gorgeous? (The only exception were minor-minor characters.) And the ending. I would have been more than happy if Ms. Kenyon did without the epilogue. The epilogue took a sweet, emotional ending and turned it into disgustingly-sweet-OMG-seriously?-overkill. Yes, I wanted Sam and Dev to have their happy ending, but I'm also of the mindset that it's OKAY for that ending to be imperfect. 

(WARNING: I am going to totally ruin the book for anyone who hasn't read it.) 

So, Dev and Sam couldn't have babies because she's technically dead, and she was still in danger of having Artemis come kick her ass, but that was cool with me. And then Nick delivers Sam's soul (no clue as to how he gets that from Artemis . . .must have to do with him sleeping with her) and what's-his-face (S-something; he only appears in the book twice, so it's easy to forget) comes in with some BS excuse that he hates the Fates so he's going to make it where Sam can get pregnant just to piss them off. Baby-making ability does not equal happily-ever-after-perfect romance. Or maybe it does. But it seriously made me want to rip those pages out. Do I have anything against the desire for a lovey-dovey couple to procreate? Not at all. But I DO have a grudge against dues ex machina. And that's what brought this book from a four star to a three star review.

Book Review: Blackveil

So, I'm behind. Sue me.

Actually don't. It would be a waste of your time. The only thing you'd win would be my car, and you don't want it. Seriously.

I did actually read a book a while back. Not sure how far back. Maybe a month ago? I've been BUSY. (I've also been wondering if a text book counts towards Goodreads reading challenge, since that's the only thing I've had time to read.) But anyway, a while back I read Blackveil by Kristen Britain.

First off, let me say that Kristen Britain is one of my "I will buy anything she writes" kind of authors. (Anne Bishop is the other one.) So I pre-ordered Blackveil and did a little happy dance when it arrived. Then it sat on my coffee table for, like, two months.

This is probably due to the fact that Blackveil is HUGE. It's over 600 pages. That's a big commitment. But I finally buckled down and read it. According to the book's blurb:

Once a simple student, Karigan G'ladheon finds herself in a world of deadly danger and complex magic, compelled by forces she cannot understand when she becomes a legendary Green Rider -- one of the magical messengers of the king. Forced by magic to accept a dangerous fate she would never have chosen, headstrong Karigan has become completely devoted to the king and her fellow Riders.

But now, an insurrection led by dark magicians threatens to break the boundaries of ancient, evil Blackveil Forest -- releasing powerful dark magics that have been shut away for a millennium.

This is the fourth book in the series (did I mention that?) and I had high hopes that it would be the final one (especially since it was so big). But there is a reason it is so big: it's three to four different stories meshed into one book. This book is not wholly about Karigan. In fact, I felt that she was overlooked for a lot of the book. Alton D'Yer, Lord Amberhill, Grandmother, Queen Estora and Captain Mapstone seemed to have far more adventures and significance in this story than Karigan does...until about the last fourth of the book. Then it mainly focuses on Karigan's adventures in Blackveil (which were fascinating and well-done, but felt a little too late). This book read more like a few different books mashed into one. I would have actually preferred to read several different books, each one focusing on one character, than the head-hopping that took place in this story.

And OF COURSE there is a cliff hanger. Which always makes me grind my teeth (especially since Ms. Britain takes a long time to write her books (like 2 or 3 years)).

Now, all of that sounds like I didn't like the book. I did. Blackveil was fascinating and I could see how Ms. Britain thought the head-hopping was necessary so that we could understand the significance of what was going on, I just hated that it sacrificed a meaningful connection with any one character.

Ms. Britain is an excellent storyteller, in my opinion. Her worlds are rich and magical and her characters are well-developed. (And only she could make hummingbirds FREAK YOU OUT.) I just think this book would have been stronger if it had been divided into two or three books so that each character could have more time in the spotlight.

Recommended: Yes, especially for fantasy buffs and lovers of epic quests.
Rating: Four out of five stars.

Monday Madness: Water-Friendly Writing Tools

Most of my best story ideas come when I'm wet.

Okay, that sounded wrong.

Ahem. Rephrase: I get a lot of great story ideas when I'm doing mindless things like washing dishes or taking a shower. The variable that these mindless activities have in common is water. Water and writing do not go together. Soggy paper is not easy to write on. Ink runs. Computers fry. And taking the time to dry off wastes precious inspiration.

Which leaves me to believe that someone (i.e. someone who knows things about science and technology and inventions and stuff (not me)) should create a writer-friendly waterproof tool for recording ideas while otherwise soaked.

Think of the possibilities!

Mid-water gun fight, you discover the EXACT move you needed for your MC to sniper Bad Guy. Waterproof writer tool to the rescue! ('Cause you know your six-year-old cousin isn't going to stop squirting you just because you have a piece of paper in your hand.)

Your nightly shower serenade results in the perfect scene in chapter two, part three of your spy novel. And your husband stole your towel again. No worries! Just grab your waterproof iPad and type out a few sentences.

Inspiration strikes for overcoming obstacle No. 713 in WIP, but you're covered in water and flea shampoo and in the middle of giving your dog a bath. Waterproof writing tool to the rescue!

Seriously, someone needs to get working on this.

(Oh, there ARE bath paints and crayons, but they are WASHABLE, so what's the point?)

That Cobwebby Feeling

My brain feels like it's full of cobwebs every time I sit down to write or edit lately. I hate that feeling, and I think I might have come down with a serious case of writer's block.

But here's the weird thing: I WANT to write. I have all these AWESOME ideas that keep popping into my head, practically begging me to write them, but I just . . .can't. Every time I sit down at the keyboard, I go blank. I thought maybe it was the keyboard's fault so I tried doing it the old fashioned way with a pen and paper. It sort of helped and then . . .meh.

I've been continually searching for a way to undo this cobwebby feeling, but haven't come across it yet. If you have any suggestions, feel free to share.

On a different note, I am looking for a couple people to read and review Masked Pleasures. All four stories. Including mine, "The Seer's Mask." If you're interested, please e-mail me and I will send you a free (FREE) reviewer's copy. The only stipulation is that you have to review it in a public way, preferably on Goodreads but a blog would work too. Also, just an FYI, but these are erotic stories (which means s.e.x.), so if you're--ahem--conservative, these might not be your thing.

E-mail me at bguthrie17ATyahooDOTcom.

Monday Madness: Nope, It Still Hurts

I can honestly say these past couple weeks have been a huge stress fest. I've had family problems and financial problems and educational problems and then . . .

A rejection letter.

I should be used to these by now, right? But nope, it still hurts. It still makes that tiny voice I usually ignore scream, "YOU SUCK. HAHAHAHA! You thought you could write. Well (rude gesture), sucker!"

And I'm beginning to worry that voice is never going to go away. No matter how many (whimper) rejections I get, no matter how much I should be used to it, there's still a part of me that's crushed. One more of my little candles goes out. And those things are buggers to light (especially if you're afraid of matches, like me).

I have a little bottle of hand sanitizer hanging on my purse that has my astrological sign (Cancer) with a few words that describe that sign: Loving, Emotional, Dependable, Protective. Of course, Bath and Body Works totally scammed the $1.50 out of me just because those words resonated (I never use hand sanitizer; give me soap and water any day). And each time I see it, I think, "Yep, I'm totally like that." And I don't think that's going to change.

So what does hand sanitizer have to do with rejections? Let's refer to word number two: Emotional. I FEEL EVERYTHING. Sometimes too much. Replace that word with "Sensitive" and you've got me also. I take the most impersonal of things personally. And even though I don't blame the editor for not liking my story, I cannot help but be devastated.

Okay, let's add another word to that hand sanitizer bottle: Perfectionist.

I am an achiever, so when I don't achieve, it cuts deep. It frustrates me. Depresses me. Ticks me off. (Look, there's the emotional side again.) So then I have to go to the story, gut it, string it up, and whip it until it wails what's wrong. And then I leave it to bleed while I work on another story.

But here's the revelation: I'm always going to be like this. The rejections will always hurt, and I'm always going to go on some sort of perfectionist, emotional rampage trying to figure out what I did wrong. BUT I want it to hurt. I want to feel. You know why?

Because it means I care.

I care deeply for every story I write. It's never going to be about writing for money or for publication or even for an editor's pleasure; it's always going to be writing for the sake of satisfying a thirst to tell a story, to create, to share. And that's all that matters.

Book Review: Fall for Anything

Courtney Summers skyrocketed to the top of my favorite authors' list with Cracked Up To Be and Some Girls Are. Her nitty-gritty, realistic approach toward a teenage girl's life is engrossing and captivating. So I was pretty sure Fall for Anything was going to knock my socks off.

Sadly, no socks went flying. Though it might have rolled them down a bit.

According to the book's blurb:

When Eddie Reeves’s father commits suicide her life is consumed by the nagging question of why? Why when he was a legendary photographer and a brilliant teacher? Why when he seemed to find inspiration in everything he saw? And, most important, why when he had a daughter who loved him more than anyone else in the world? When she meets Culler Evans, a former student of her father’s and a photographer himself, an instant and dangerous attraction begins. Culler seems to know more about her father than she does and could possibly hold the key to the mystery surrounding his death. But Eddie’s vulnerability has weakened her and Culler Evans is getting too close. Her need for the truth keeps her hanging on...but are some questions better left unanswered?


Seriously, it sounds great. But I think I psyched myself up for it a little too much. And when it was all said and done, I kept thinking "If I had written this book, this is what I would have done..." which is pretty dang snobby of me.

But, like Eddie, I wanted answers. And I wanted drama. Culler Evans has such potential to be a creeptastic creep, but it seems like Summers shies away from that at the very end. It's hard to elaborate without giving away the entire plot, but I fully expected Culler to be A) the answer to Eddie's questions or B) be the thing that finally breaks her. But he ended up doing neither. I wanted fireworks and  all I got was fizzle. And, of course, (SPOILER) there is never really an answer why her father killed himself. Which, granted, is the way things can be in real life, but, call me crazy, if we spend an entire novel chasing for the answer, I expect to get one at the end. Even if it's not a pretty one. I want some sort of satisfaction. This story felt circular. It ends right where it started, without any significant changes to the main character or her motivations. It was frustrating.

And yet, I still liked it. It's very frustrating, circular, soul-crushing emptiness is just so RIGHT for the subject matter. Suicide is not easily explained or excused, and Summers was true to that idea to the end, leaving the reader just as confused and lost as Eddie. Just for that, I have to recommend this read.

(But I think I should stop reading books dealing with suicide, as they always tick me off.)

Rating: 4 stars (out of five)

Book Review: Dragonsong, Dragonsinger, Dragondrums

Being a spec-fiction writer, I thought that it was pretty awful of me not to have read anything by Anne McCaffrey, so I searched for her name at my local library, picked a title and reserved it. The first title I reserved was Dragonsong. The blurb sold me. An outcast girl with fire lizard (dragon-like) friends? Yes, please! And I liked it. It was a pleasant little story set in an interesting world. And I liked it enough that I decided to finish the series and reserved the other two books, Dragonsinger and Dragondrums.

But the further I got into Dragonsinger, I started getting the inkling that something wasn't right. That there was something MISSING. And it wasn't until I forced myself to finish Dragondrums Sunday that I realized what it was:

There was no "all is lost" moment. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized how incredibly easy the characters had it. Just when you started thinking that MAYBE things were starting to go downhill, something happened to make their life invariably better. In real life, I would be more than happy. But in a book, it makes me bitter. Disappointed. And it leaves me with the feeling that nothing happened. Which isn't true; loads happened. Menolly goes from a Sea Holder's outcast daughter--punished for singing and writing music--to arguably the most talented Harper ever. Not to mention she has nine fire lizards that love her . . .and very powerful friends.

And then we move on from her to Piemur, her mischievous friend, and his misadventures. (Why, I want to know, do we not stick with the same character for the duration of the trilogy?) Piemur eavesdrops on important conversations, steals a fire lizard egg, and ends up in the less-friendly South where he escapes Thread (some sort of devouring death-ray) three times. Despite all this, I still felt as if the bigger story was taking place somewhere off page, which frustrated me to no end. What's the point of overhearing important conversations, confronting Oldtimers (dragonriders from another time), and being transported to a mostly hostile territory if nothing comes of it? Eh?

So, to sum it up, I think Ms. McCaffrey is too nice to her characters. At least in this series. But I also got the impression that maybe this was the fluff reading of the bigger Pern stories. And that's what all the hinting at a bigger (unresolved) conflict was about. But, really, it's just disappointing that she couldn't take that conflict and make her characters a bigger part of it.

Recommended: For fluff reading.
Rating (out of five stars): 3.5

Monday Madness: Killing Your Love Child

I'm conducting a social experiment (secret: I like messing with people's minds sometimes) and it involves a status message on Facebook.

It says: Killing my love child.

Writers might smile and nod in understanding, but I'm pretty sure my family is going to pepper me with question marks and "WTH, I didn't know you had kids!" Or "Are your dogs okay?" Rest assured that no living, breathing person (or animal) was killed. Just some imaginary ones.

You see, I'm doing some housekeeping on DRAGON QUEEN. Mostly it involves getting rid of a lot of useless characters, who were there just to be there. They didn't have a purpose beyond making the MC look good, so, I took out the hatchet and started hacking away at them. Now I have gone from having about a bazillion secondary characters to only a million. I'm making progress. (I think I'll do the rest of them in with arsenic . . .they're starting to suspect me.)

I've been thinking about this massacre for a while, but it was only after I wrung a chapter through my critique group that I realized it was time to start sharpening the knives (er, pen) and finally do something about it. But killing a love child (or children, in this case) is pretty messy business. It required a lot of thinking and planning on my part. Who had to go? Who needed to stay? Which ones could be combined to make one character, instead of two or three? So, I got out my handy dandy notebook and made a list. Next to each character, I wrote their race (believe it or not, that's kind of important in this story--I'm talking fantasy here, too, so please don't pelt me with tomatoes), their personality traits, the reason for Jade wanting them to be her "advisors" and then I started knifing them in the ribs. (I'm really enjoying this murdering metaphor, if you couldn't tell.) I went from having eight advisors to five. Progress, yes? Then, of course, there were the dragons. Most of the dragons play important roles in the story and most of them have unique and well-developed personalities. The exception was the General, Gorn. He was just sort of there, hanging out, sharpening his claws, and bellowing orders. So, he got added to the hit list and I took his position, some of his traits, and slipped them into Tyar--who went from being a possible love interest (or at least lust interest) to being more of an older brother figure to Jade (to deal with some of the OMG everyone wants your MC issue), also it will make a certain scene that happens later in the book MUCH stronger, in my opinion.

Okay, I'm rambling here. But I just wanted to show you how I deal with my love child(ren). They're not as easy to do away with as you might think. Shrinking my character pool is actually taking some significant rewrites and cuts, but sometimes that's what you need to do to create a stronger (and less confusing) story.

But what about you? Any love children rotting in your basement?

Beta Reader vs. Critique Partner

I've recently dived into the field of beta reader. I looked at this as a thrilling opportunity to read some highly polished work by authors wanting that finish spit-shine before sending their novel into the hell of Queryland. Apparently I should have specified that.

You see, I was under the impression that a critique partner comes before the beta reader. Critique partners are for the nitty-gritty basics of the novel. They help with technique, show vs. telling, passive vs. active, character quirks, plot pitfalls, etc. They, basically, help you learn how to write. (This has been my experience anyway. And, truthfully, I have become a MUCH better writer thanks to my critique group.)

Granted, joining a critique group is tough, yet it's a necessary step to becoming a better writer. We're often too kind to ourselves, or just blind to our flaws, and nothing shines a spotlight on them like a bunch of other writers. Receiving critiques can be one of the most soul-crushing things you've ever experienced (yes, I've had a few of those less than complimentary critiques), but without someone to highlight your errors, how are you ever going to grow from them? AND there will be times (more often than not, I've found) that you will actually have someone LIKE what you've written, and offer you suggestions on how you can make your good story, great.

There is also the sneaky benefit of giving critiques. Not because you've finally found your chance to bash that writer who hated your MC, but because when you critique other people's work, it's easier to see what DOESN'T work in writing, and then you can apply it to yours.

So, to sum it all up: A critique group/partner should be your first step with your newly fledged novel. THEN comes the beta reader.

The beta reader looks at the BIG PICTURE of the novel. They focus on character motivation, plot arc, themes, motifs, pace. Betas should not have to stumble over "weak" writing. You should have a good grasp on writing technique and an even stronger grasp on your voice before you submit your work to a beta.

But this is just how I look at it. What's your take?

Where's My Dang Rainbow?

Have you heard about the flooding in Arkansas? Maybe? Well, I was in the thick of it.

I also live about a billion miles away from work (not even exaggerating) and we have to cross a moat (also known as a low-water bridge, but I like the sound of "moat") to get to our house. When the hubby drove me to work yesterday morning, the water in the moat was already high. High enough that I was leery about crossing it. But we made it. And like good little people, we went to work.

Then all hell breaks loose. The rain begins to POUR. The thunder growls. The lightning strikes. The streets outside were GUSHING water. And I was seriously FREAKING out. I work in a newsroom, and it's bad when reporters look happy. (Okay, not necessarily happy, but definitely excited.) The police scanner was going crazy with reports of roads closing and people needing to be rescued from their homes and vehicles. Hubby calls and says, "I'm coming to get you!" So I leave work an hour early.

Not early enough. My mother, who works out where we live, called to tell us to not even TRY to get home because she couldn't even leave work. The police had all the roads closed down. Even the back roads that we were pretty sure only drug dealers and redneck locals knew about were closed. Okay, not a problem. We'll just stay with my friend. Except we can't even get to her house because the Illinois River bridge on the main highway is UNDERWATER.

So we have to turn around. We end up getting a hotel room (there goes the money we'd been saving to get new tires) and spend the rest of the night flicking between watching the news and River Monsters Unhooked (yes, that was hubby's decision). Meanwhile, I'm fretting about our dogs and cat. The dogs were inside and we fed and watered them before we left, so we were pretty sure they would be okay. The cat, however, decided he wanted to be outside yesterday morning and wouldn't come when we called. So he got to brave the storm outside (we have a barn, which I'm sure is where he ended up staying). Nonetheless, I worried about my furry babies. To the point where hubby decided he would go check on them before he went to work because the waters had gone down and most of the roads had reopened.

My babies, thankfully, are fine. Even the cat, which hubby said was extremely happy to see him and wouldn't stop meowing until he'd gotten fed. Hubby decided to stay and repair what was left of our drive-way and move the boulders out of the moat with the tractor so we could actually get through.

Now the sun is out, but more rain is coming. Need I remind you, God, that you promised not to do in the world with floods again? Speaking of which, where's my dang rainbow?!

(Disclaimer: Some events have been dramatized, but, unfortunately, most of it wasn't.)

Selling My Services for a Good Cause

I mentioned a few days ago that I was running in the Susan G. Komen for the Cure 5K. I also mentioned that I would like to raise $100 to donate to the foundation, 75% of which goes directly to local breast cancer education and prevention services. However, I know that in this economy everyone is struggling, and it's difficult to give which is why I would like to offer you something in return for a donation.

Donate $5 and I will critique the first 50 pages of your MS.

Donate $10 and I will draw/paint your MC (or any other character) and mail it to you. (Of course, you'll have to provide a description and also specify what you are looking for (action, pose, standing, etc.) To see examples of my artistic skill, go to my Deviant Art page.

Donate $50 and I will mail you my autographed copy of Nicholas Spark's The Lucky One. (I only have one copy, so whoever donates $50 first will get it.)

I consider myself a more-than-adequate critter and a decent artist (working in watercolor, pencil and acrylic) and will spend a considerable amount of time on each (hence, you'll get your money's worth).

To donate, go to my Susan G. Komen Profile Page and click "Donate to Brandi!"

Once you've made your donation, email me at bguthrie17(at)yahoo(dot)com and let me know what name you donated under and what service you're requesting. (Yes, if you donate $15 you can get both the critique and the character drawing OR three critiques.)

Thank you ahead of time!

Monday Madness: A Writer's Weird Dreams

I have the blessing/curse of being a vivid dreamer, and last night I dreamed something so bizarre that I thought I would share it.

It started off with me and my sister (in real life, I don't have a sister) being left by our mother. Being the eldest (I am also the youngest in my family IRL) I was charged with the task of keeping my sister safe. There was some sort of natural disaster going on, an almost apocalyptic feel to it, and while the rain was pouring down and the lightning was shattering trees, my sister slipped out of my arms and disappeared.

The rest of the dream was the course of my life. I became fanatically obsessed with finding my sister, searching far out places and shopping centers with toys that came to life with the hope of finding her. I met odd characters along the way, some who promised to help me, others who tried to hinder me (mostly by killing me).

Towards the end of my dream, I finally found my sister. Except she was 32 and I was still only 16 or 17 (yeah, dreams don't make sense). AND she was Sandra Brown. Yes, Sandra Brown the writer. And when I hugged her and rejoiced that I finally found her, she just smiled at me and asked me what I was going to do next. Now that I'd found her--and she was doing just fine without me--my life's quest had been fulfilled. What did I have to live for now?

Nothing, I admitted. To which she gently suggested I end my life. In my dream, that sounded like a pretty good idea.

Does that freak you out as much as it does me?

Seriously, dreams are crazy, occasionally frightening, usually odd, and sometimes beautiful things. But I love the fact that I have ones that are so vivid because they are serious thought candy and can provide great inspiration for stories. So if you ever see a story about two sisters being separated in a post-apocalyptic world, you'll know where it came from.

5K Fever (And A Little About Writing)

I signed up for my second 5K today--the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. It will be April 30 in Rogers, so if you're in the neighborhood and want to watch my face turn flame red (no joke) then drop by. (Also, it's for a good cause.)

I'm trying to raise $100 before the race, so, if you're interested in making a contribution (yes, I'm a donation junkie) go here: bit.ly/i1EIRo


Despite having a race under my belt, I'm a little nervous. My husband has agreed to run with me, and I know that he (and everyone else I know) will leave me in the dust. That's okay, I guess, but I can't help but want to keep up. I've told myself that as long as I meet my time of 34:20 at the previous 5K, I'm good. Heck, it would be GREAT if I could shave a minute or two off of it. I'm going to train like crazy over the next two weeks. 


Okay, now for the writing stuff.


There was a discussion about how the more you learn about craft, the less you're able to ignore "bad" writing in books. Authors that you normally devoured lost their appeal. Errors leapt from the pages, the characters were flat, the plot static. And then you find that the book you loved two, three or five years ago isn't as spectacular as you remembered. 


What do I say to this?


Woohoo!


Maybe it's because I'm an overzealous editor, but I think it proves to a writer just how far they've come when they can find flaws in their past favorites. Sure, it can be annoying and it sort of takes the joy out of reading at times, but here's where I want you to know a little secret: you'll find better books and better authors and once again you'll be that blissfully happy reader. You will just be a special kind of reader: a finnicky one.


As I used to say when I was more arrogant (man, I miss being arrogant): I only read books by authors who can write at least as well as I can. Despite the snootiness of that comment, it's true. If a book is below your own skill (or at least your knowledge of skill), then it's very difficult to make yourself read it. So, you see, you're not becoming a worse reader, you're becoming a better writer!


Write on!

For My Own Amusement

And hopefully yours too.



As a romance writer, I can't help but sniff out some sexual tension between these two rogues. Do they know each other? Have they met before? If they did meet under less hostile circumstances, what would they do?

Ah, crap, now I want to go write another story.

Monday Madness: Best Title Ever (and 5K Results)

Eternal Rider by Larissa Ione

A romance novel with this sort of title  deserves five stars just for ingenuity. Hehe. What's he riding, I wonder?

And on a completely unrelated note (no riding involved), let me just share that I finished the Hogeye 5K in 34:20. My fastest time ever! I am seriously so proud of myself.

I finished 16th in my age group and 160th overall. (There were 200+ racers.) What's funny is that I'm apparently a mean-looking runner. Some coworkers were cheering me on and they said that I gave them a death glare. OMG! Did not mean to and totally don't know where that came from. I think it was more like I was concentrating so hard on just making it to the finish line that I didn't realize what expression I had on my face.

But 34:20! Squee!