I’ve got a book review half written. But guess what. I haven’t worked on my manuscript for over a week, and that takes precedent over the website.
You’ll get over it, I’m sure.
It feels weird to post something that is essentially saying I’m not posting anything, but I can’t have people thinking I forgot.
Back to the manuscript!
Short version: still revising Savage Autumn. I feel kinda like Mr. Mutant-Potato Head up there.
Long version….
Either I talk about my writing too much, or I don’t have much of a life otherwise (probably both), but the first words out of my friends’ mouths (after the generic hellos how are yous are out of the way) are: “How’s the writing going?”
I know I get all animated when I talk about writing. My writing, or anybody else’s, or the publishing world in general. It’s fascinating to me. And I’m not always good about pretending the same level of interest in anything else. There is probably a personality disorder out there to describe this.
Anyway. Long intro. Moving on. What’s going on with my manuscript?
For awhile there it was in mortal peril. I joined a critique group that had one member hating on my manuscript. Her points were fantastic and helpful, actually, but the delivery could have used some work. She’s not in the group anymore, but I needed about a week to nurse my ego and think about the characters and manuscript. Her comments, and the feedback from other group members, has inspired some rewrites and revisions.
Two other current critique partners have swapped manuscripts with me, and their comments have also been crucial. The whole experience reinforces that whole “writing is not a solitary effort” mumbo jumbo that you read at the beginning of acknowledgments pages (I read those. I really do).
Many of these writer friends have read more than one version of the same scene. All of them have been spectacular in putting up with my indecisiveness, my questions, and my sometimes bitchy sensitivity.
Because Savage Autumn is nowhere near publication, and I read acknowledgments pages all the time, here is an toast to my critique partners and writing group friends:
Thank you to Seven, Jo, Pam, Seth, Robin, Helen, Mark, Jeri, Kary, Pat, Margaret, Cheryl, Theresa, and Colleen. And another thank you to my friends and family who have read the manuscript in its parts or entirety – whether you’ve given me feedback or not. Finally, thank you to the friends and family who haven’t read the manuscript but continually ask me how it’s going.
Total, abrupt subject change….
Update on next-door dogs: Yappy #3 lingers. Barks. Lingers.
Barks.
If I had any sort of ability with these pesky computer-type things, you’d be listening to the Jaws theme music right now. Or maybe the shrieking music from Psycho.
People are coming.
To my house.
I invited them, of course. If I hadn’t, there wouldn’t be a post today at all because I’d be busy barricading the doors and phoning the police instead of trimming the jungle outside and collecting piles of recycling and freecycling.
And since I invited these people, I should probably make something of an effort to make my house presentable. And if not that, at least I can attempt a look that isn’t offensive. As in, you know, clean a little. Or maybe you don’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know how dirty this place was until I started cleaning it. (With my mom’s help of course. Otherwise, why bother at all because there wouldn’t be enough time to make a dent – a dent! – in the mess.)
We’re pig people. Disgusting pig people, living in filth.
We’ve been in this house for one year and eight months (and three days…easy to keep track because we moved on New Year’s Day). In all that time, I have never wiped down the outside of the microwave door. Blech. But you know, it’s not a high priority when one is simultaneously trying to keep a little (demanding) person happy, write a novel, and maintain some facade of sanity.
I could gross you out with further examples of my housekeeping negligence. But I won’t. I could also write out my rationalizations/justifications/whining-creations of why I don’t go to the effort to keep my house pristine and shining and golden.
But people are coming over, so I have to get my booty back upstairs to clean (with my mom’s help) so I can pretend I’m a great housekeeper/mother/everything-together kind of girl to a bunch of friends and family who know me better than that anyway.
P.S. There’s a Yappy #3 next door. I hope it’s just visiting.
In this post, literary agent Nathan Bransford urges (begs, actually) authors not to ask whether or not we like a book, but to answer this question: did the author accomplish what she or he set out to do with her or his book?
So. Did Cindy Sample succeed in creating a gripping, humorous, and romantic mystery? The short answer: yes. I laughed, I didn’t want to put the book down, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself while reading it (even without an air conditioner. More on that later).
The long answer: there were two small problems. And I’m being extremely nitpicky here. My first issue was with the details, and this is a personal preference. In a few places, Sample provided details that I didn’t care to know. Remember I’m nitpicking here, so my example is this: the color of the daughter’s backpack. It really made me pause and ask myself: Is this relevant? Answer: Not really. But this happened maybe five or six times in the whole book, and some readers feast on those kinds of details, anyway. Nitpicking. Personal preference.
The second issue was I found it hard to believe the hottie detective (who I really liked, by the way), would put his career in jeopardy to pursue a romance with a murder suspect (i.e. the main character). However, Joe Morelli constantly does the same thing with Stephanie Plum, and Janet Evanovich’s readers don’t complain. And really, so much else is moving the plot along that I didn’t have time to worry about this until after I read the book.
More on what I liked: the main character. Laurel McKay is funny and real. I could identify with her and loved her voice, her sense of humor, and the hilarious antics she gets herself into. Sample is dead on when she describes Laurel as Stephanie Plum as a soccer mom. There’s a great scene involving a clown suit and that’s all I’ll say here.
The best thing about the book: I literally couldn’t stop reading. Even when our car’s air conditioner disintegrated in eastern Nevada at 3 p.m. on our way to Colorado and I was so bitchy and uncomfortable I would have tossed any entertainment aside in favor of napping – I read on. Great, gripping reads stand the test of a disintegrated AC.
I’m looking forward to the next book, Dying for a Dance, because I want to see more of the minor characters too: the poker-playing daughter (without her green backpack), the best friend, and some others. Oh, and especially Detective Hottie. I mean, Detective Hunter.
So, did Sample accomplish what she set out to do with Dying for a Date? Most definitely. And hey, guess what: I liked it, too.
Feel free to check out my interview with Cindy, if you haven’t already.
Update: Cindy alerted me to a total review faux-pas in how I hinted something about the ending. If you read an earlier version of this review, I apologize! And apologies to Cindy as well.
This is a very quick post to let my Studio Audience (that’s you) know that the Ever-Suffering Mother (that’s me) and her Entourage (i.e. Husband, Z, and the in-laws) will be on vacation for the next week and a half. I thought of compiling a best-of series of posts to go up while I’m away, but it seems egotistical. And I’m lazy.
I also thought of writing a whole bunch of posts ahead of time and having them go up while I’m gone. But again.
Lazy.
So, miss me lots, and I will be missing you, and probably I’ll be going batty without my email and website for so long. Insanity only adds to my creative drive, though, so there’ll be plenty of good stuff when I get back.
Now, it’s back to the packing I’ve been so good about putting off.
Beth Hull 