Writing in a Vortex

Hire. An. Editor.

2013-04-27T09:23:00.000-05:00

May I just take this opportunity to say, if you are planning to self-publish:

Hire. An. Editor.

It doesn't have to be me, though if you check out the client testimonial tab at the top of this blog, you'll see my mounting collection of stellar reviews. All make me feel like I've just sipped hot cider on a snowy day.

I beg of you, hire someone.

Remember my side gig as a paid ebook reviewer? As of this post, I've reviewed twenty-seven books, all self-published. Guess how many of them had errors. Ga-head. Guess.

Yep. All twenty-seven. And that's forgiving the formatting errors.

I'm reading these novels for free and the errors tick me off. Imagine the consumers who parted with their favorite Starbucks frap for a day or sacrificed their weekly washing quarters to make the purchase.

Some of the editing needs were Herculean. I barely coughed out two stars on my reviews. Shame on them. Just because Nana's bridge club thinks your book is delightful doesn't mean it's ready. Have some respect for your readers' time and money. Put the manuscript down and step away from the self-publishing manuals.

Some of the editing needs were a transposed word or a tiny continuity issue. Little errors are speedbumps to the reader's full immersion in the story. It doesn't happen in traditional publishing, and if you want to make money in this industry, it shouldn't happen with your self-published book.

Chuck Sambuchino has great advice for finding the perfect editor and some FAQs on the topic over at the Writer Unboxed blog. I always offer test edit pages, free of charge, to potential clients. Two of my clients purchased first chapter edits from multiple editors (one of them ten!) before ultimately selecting me as their editor. This gives me a chance to showcase my skills and gives the client the confidence that I'm the best fit for his/her project.

I'm starting a YA fantasy ghostwriting project next week that will carry me well into autumn. I would love to hear from you if you are interested in editing or ghostwriting. Drop me a line anytime at la-mitchell@la-mitchell.com. I'm booked until November, so be sure to plan ahead. Even if you're not looking to hire, I'm happy to answer questions and point you in the right direction. Meanwhile, I have two paranormal romance ghost projects set for release in the next few weeks. Be sure you're signed up for my newsletter to get the latest scoop.

Necessity Is the Mother of Re-Invention

2013-03-30T18:39:00.000-05:00

So many things about my writing life are different today than six years ago when I started this blog. I was one of the first in my peer group to launch a blog dedicated to new content multiple times each week (and stick with it). I had the luxury of focusing on my own writing on my road to that first publication credit. And, let's face it, people read blogs back then. Now? Not so much.

I am so blessed to have a crazy-thriving freelance business that has gone from that first should I or shouldn't I? to a rapidly-growing clientele that books me two months in advance. When they select me as their ghostwriter or editor, I make a promise to them that they'll receive 110% of my mental agility, my creativity and my focus. It's an immersive endeavor each and every time-as it should be.

Many of my writer friends have cut back on blogging, using it only as a way to disseminate information when they have something significant to pass along. This works when there is a dedicated go-to, catch-all for RSS feeds. But the upcoming demise of Google Reader in July is just one more death blow to the blogosphere. Sure, there are others set to take its place, but Feedly (the most touted of the replacements) isn't supported by Internet Explorer. Last I checked, IE accounted for 60-70% of my traffic. Most people will refuse to let an online reader bully them into swapping a browser they cuddle like Linus's blanket. Without a mainstay that has a convenient interface and doesn't require blog followers to jump through hoops, I fear the blogger-reader relationship will grow even more distant.

I suspect this theory is more related to a professional identity crisis for me. Do I want my identity as a writer to evolve into a freelance business exclusively, thus necessitating a reboot of my online presence? Do I want to hoard my blog and online momentum (such that it is) for my writing and my career? Can I juggle two separate baskets when all I really, really want to do is stay off the internet and write?

This year is my crossroads year. The software I used to create my website will soon no longer be supported by my host. Necessity will become the mother of my online reboot. I just need to figure out what that reboot is.

I have two fiction projects in the final stages of pre-release. I'm so proud of both. They are the best writing I have done to date. Remember, if you want to be able to find my ghost projects, subscribe to my newsletter. With client permission, I'll be sure to post all the blurbs and buy links in there once they're released.

And loyal Vortexers? Have no fear. You are parked safe at Feedly for me. I value the connection we have made over all these blogging years most of all. Be well.

My Pocketbook Will Go Ooooonnnn and Oooonnnn

2013-02-08T18:39:00.000-06:00

This is how cowpokes in Texas get your money.

You feature an exhibit in some high-falutin' museum near the Stock Show and Rodeo and offer up some real cheap tickets, like. Then make those fancy-pants educated-types pay extra to get through a roped-off area to park their glossy cars and pay again to have the privilege to walk twenty yards to get into the lobby of that high-falutin' museum that's normally free to approach. By the time they accomplished what they came down to the wrong-side of town to accomplish, they're out more cash than a rustler at a cat house.

Enjoy your exhibit, suckers.

All that to say: Oh. My. God. I would have sunk all my nanna's fake jewels in that Atlantic to have the opportunity to see the Titanic Artifact exhibit. It's that good.

Vortex faithful know how much of a buff I am about the Titanic, but even if I wasn't, it would have been educational and emotional. As my luck typically goes, I was given the identity of a woman in third class: Mrs. Claus Peter Hanson listed as Jennie L. Howard from Racine, Wisconsin. This is akin to being given a window seat on the Hindenburg. The entire one-hundred year journey though the exhibit--and I do mean journey, from conception and design of the ship to recovery efforts led by non-profit organizations to the crass consumerism of the gift shop afterward (Who wouldn't want a coffee-mug reminder that you just vicariously died aboard the Titanic?) is mesmerizing. I went alone. It was an artist's date of the highest caliber.

Even if the cowboy outside the museum was stroking his moustache in the ticket booth as I left.

Chicken Fried Romance with UNsweet Tea

2013-02-04T07:10:00.000-06:00

Nathan Bransford remarked last week on how his Google Reader slims with each passing week. We've all known for awhile that blogging has peaked. Times change. I'm mourning the Barnes and Noble announcement that they are closing stores and going the way of Borders. I'm sad that the downsized Books-a-Million I used to visit sells more pop-culture gift-y items than books. I'm positively apoplectic when I think about my children not passing the day in a bookstore as I used to. I am to blame. My last visit to the downsized Books-a-Million, I bought a Big Bang Theory pen that says, "Bazinga," when pushed. I spent only enough time in there to squeeze between errands. The last fifteen books I read were on my Nook. And, yes, your Google Reader is slim because of me. Times change.

But I'm still here, and you are, too, if you're reading this. So let us be pleasant travelers. It's so short a ride.

Those two lines are from a poem someone gave me a month ago. The author unknown at the bottom makes me pine for a name. Someone to thank.

My new ghostwriting project is a departure in many ways. My character has a southern identity, which one might not think a challenge, having lived more than half of my life in a southern latitude. For me, it is. I tend to walk the streets of the South with a grammar pen in one hand and a glass of unsweetened tea in the other because, apparently, unsweet tea exists only in government conspiracy theories south of the Mason-Dixon line. The new project is dark and light, mysterious and universal, sweet and unsweet. It involves a train, which I know seems antiquated, but I am in the South and cross over railroad tracks nearly every day that I'm not holed up in my cocoon, writing. Maybe if I write through the romanticism of a train, I'll stop thinking about how I should use one in a story. Which brings me back to the poem as inspiration for my small-town, romantic Southern tale.

Life is like a journey,

taken on a train

with a pair of travelers

at each windowpane.

I may sit beside you

all the journey through,

or I may sit elsewhere,

never knowing you.

But, if fate should mark me

to sit by your side,

let's be pleasant travelers.

It's so short a ride.

~Unknown

I have one more post in my system before I spin that safe, story world cocoon again. Considering it fattening up your Google Reader. It's what good Southern girls do.

Ten Thousand Shades of Romance

2013-01-18T16:38:00.001-06:00

I'm baking chocolate-peanut butter chip cookies right now and contemplating my next freelance career move. Do I pursue an invitation to write a "sure-to-be-Hollywood-blockbuster," including an all-expenses paid trip to the Caribbean to meet with the client? Do I trust in those repeat clients who have proven themselves awesome beyond belief and thoroughly non-delusional? Or do I say "Pshaw! Who writes those Benjamin Moore paint color names? I want a gig like that!"

Don't laugh. I've always wanted to be the one who gets paid to come up with names for paint colors or nail polish shades. Someone does it, right? Why can't it be me?

They're not marketing to the right audience. When was the last time you witnessed a man standing at the paint sample cards for an hour? For longer than it took to belch up his last chili cheese dog? The same people picking out these shades are the same ones buying romance and beyond, which is my polite term for Fifty Shades. What woman wouldn't want to paint her office Cabana Boy Six Pack or Warrior's Kiss or Latte with McDreamy or Chest Hair at Dawn or A Sexy Brit's "Hello"? Seriously, I could go on all day.

On a not-entirely unrelated topic, these paint samples are great writing tools. I keep a stack of them in my drawer just in case my brain is selecting stale descriptors of color--but only when writing in a woman's point of view. My heroes can't differentiate sea-foam green from their own moldy bread, and I like them that way.

If you weren't busy being fabulous at your day job, what dream-job would you have?

Because It's What Miss Manners Would Do

2013-01-06T13:55:00.000-06:00

I'm putting off the task of writing holiday thank you notes. While I am an extremely grateful and humble gift receiver, it is a necessary evil. There is the time involved in the handwritten task, which you'd think would appeal to a writer but doesn't. How to express that a gift is spectacular when I know it was the same re-gifted basket of women's bath lotions that has circulated the greater Fort Worth metro-plex for the past few years? I'd rather scroll through the latest crop of Walmartians in my email inbox. Then there's the expense of supporting the Postal Service for gift-givers over the age of sixty who can no more find their internet browser than their bifocals.

I thought I'd try something different this year: a public note of thanks.

To the microfiber hair towel gift-giver:
Thank you for helping me to get in touch with my inner turban-girl. Never mind that it fails to fulfill the promise of lightning-speed wet-hair wicking. I am a suburban goddess in my pink hair wrappie and bathrobe.

To the Betty Crocker Liquid Dispensing Scrubber gift-giver:
Wow. Just wow. Combining the laborious task of dish soap dispensing and scrubbing into one swift action has freed me to complete that great American novel with all the extra time. How much fun can one girl have? Hair turban and dish washing.

To the seventeen million notepad gift-givers:
Would that I could have so many story ideas that these scribbler pads burst at the thinly-glued seams, mostly they will just end up with things like toilet paper and coffee creamer scrolled across them.

To the Nora Roberts gift-pack gift-giver:
Thank you. Sincerely. I'll put them in my stack behind my next twenty under deadline for a book review. Though to be fair, Nora will still, most likely, be the reigning queen of them all.

To the dark chocolate cordial cherries gift-giver:
Although a sweet of last, desperate resort when the Reese's and Special Darks have vanished, there is no better sensory input for a writer than to feel one of these burst on the tongue.

To the family mine adopted:
Thank you. At a time of extreme sadness, there was no greater gift than to focus on making someone else's holiday special.

And to my Vortex readers:
Thank you for hanging around for six years. I can't imagine what this journey would be without you all. I only wish I could send you my final Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer lollipop-mostly to get it out of my kitchen-but because I adore you, too.

I'm starting a short, but intensive YA fantasy ghostwriting/edit project tomorrow, so I'll see you on the backside.

The Year of Intention

2012-12-30T09:04:00.000-06:00

First, I offer apologies for the driest posting spell in the blog's history. December cannot end too soon. It was a month for the passing of loved ones, too many tasks and not enough time and hard lessons in the freelance business. I caught up on my Google Reader last night. Everyone, it seems, is looking backward. What did 2012 mean to them? Did they meet their goals? It's an obvious time for reflection, and I love reading about the journey of others. Me? I'm looking forward.

2013 will be the year of the intentional freelancer for me. I stumbled into self-employment by tripping through the backdoor during February of last year-starting with a why not? and ending with a why? With a full twelve months dedicated to ghostwriting and editing, I will know if this is my path.

I worry that I'm selling away my creative fire, that I'm giving others what I should be reserving for myself. I worry that monetizing it will turn writing from a passion to a job. I worry that in chasing the pleasures of others, I will no longer please myself.

I'm constantly amazed at the amount of freelance work out there. Even in this economy, there is no shortage of people willing to pay for writing talent. We can attribute that to the ebook revolution. I have as much work as I care to have. 2013 should be a fun ride.

I wish all my Vortex readers a happy and productive 2013.

My Table of Plenty

2012-11-24T05:24:00.000-06:00

I began a new ghostwriting assignment this week. It's a bit like holding someone's hand as you lead them behind the curtain of fiction writing. Until now, it has been an obscure place for some. Magic behind the velvet barrier. Pay no attention to the chick behind the curtain. She's only orchestrating everything and playing God.

This assignment is a short story with the promise of more. I adore short stories but don't always give myself permission to write them. It's a necessary exercise for my long-winded, tangled prose. I remember economy and the beauty of simple things.

Thanksgiving this year was, blessedly, not at my house. This did not prevent a banquet at my table. The early stages of fiction planning necessitate, for me, diving back into my old favorite craft books and files. They are the pillars to which I return each time to provide the foundation of my stories. I know them by heart. I can spout the wisdom contained within from memory. Still, I return to them as a safety blanket to remind me what's important lest I forget between projects. This banquet of knowledge still fills my table, not as grizzled leftovers, but the promise of the literary meal to come.

I am blessed to be able to wake each day and spend time doing what I love. I am blessed there are a handful of people whose lives I have touched with my writing, if only for a diversionary few moments. Perhaps they'll remember, most likely not. But for those simple moments, author to reader and reader to author, there are few things so supremely transcendent. It is a rare relationship few share so intimately. I realized only recently it has everything to do with why I'm able to ghostwrite while some authors cannot.

My brother calls me a wallflower. I suppose I am. Extraordinary in my ordinariness. While my name on the NY Times list would be nice, for financial security-not fame, it isn't what motivates me. It is in the imagining of one person, one ideal reader, holding my words in his hand and being transfixed, that I find my motivation. The name on the cover could be Rosy Longbottom. I don't care. The reader and I know the secret: the magic isn't in the name. It isn't in the Oz-like scribe at the dials screaming "I wrote this! Look what I did! Aren't I awesome?" It's what's behind the curtain that counts.

Remember to join my mailing list if you want to be one of those readers. It is through my newsletter that I share, always with my client's permission, what's behind the curtain.

May your blessings be many and your burdens be light.

The Hashtag of Discontent

2012-11-09T14:41:00.000-06:00

When the visual of my last post hit me as I logged in, it made me a bit queasy. No, silly, not Dean Butler. Manly could never do that. All the Twitter visuals. Have I become one of those people?

I've had a Twitter account for about two years. Tweet count as of this morning? Two hundred and ninety-four. There are no hard and fast statistics on this, but largely 80% of those are the result of the Vortex feed. I have tried. Tried to mine what could be fascinating in my moment-to-moment life to amuse the staggering 190 people following me because I followed them. Tried to elevate my awareness of the media such that it becomes engrained in my daily to-do list. Tried to fill those moments of waiting by whipping out my iphone and scrolling through people trying to fascinate me. Tried to raise it on my priority list of visibility and marketing. I have tried.

I'm tired of trying.

Apparently, I'm not the only one.

Forgive me for sounding like a ninety year old in a thirty-something body. What does all this nervous chasing of some nebulous social following get us? I can't attribute this to my recent theory about how somehow we've collectively skipped the track. That in Colorado, we are now teaching our kids that it's okay to smoke pot because mommy grows it in the kitchen window. That I have neighbors I barely know by sight let alone name or culture or history enough to respect them past a wave of the hand. That I am the only house on the street who displays an American flag-even on traditional flag-hanging holidays. That we again voted into office someone who can't be bothered to put his hand over his heart as a sign of respect to country and those who died so he can have that privilege. But I digress. This isn't about politics. I can't attribute my recent social media attitude to those things because I've been thinking about it for some time now. It's about chasing the wrong things in life.

Professionally, I have only to look to my favorite authors to have an epiphany. None of them have Facebook accounts. None of them have Twitter accounts. Guess how they're spending their days? Writing. Hopefully, hugging their children. Maybe taking a walk in the Autumn breeze. And writing.

Perhaps it's because I'm hard-wired to be introverted. Perhaps because Twitter just seems like a big, crowded room filled with only a handful of people I'd ever really talk to in real life. Perhaps because there's a guy in one corner screaming to buy his book fourteen times a day and a woman in the other talking about the Greek yogurt she had for lunch whom I only follow because she edits books in New York.

I don't wish this to come across negative. Rather, a call to action of a different sort. Authors, how many books have you sold as a direct result of Twitter marketing? How many of you could have written your next book over the past six months with those hours? How many of you are exhausted trying to keep up with social media because we're told we should by someone who seems to know some grand publishing secret we don't?

I challenge you to be more aware this week of how you're spending your time. Take a walk. Nourish your body so that your mind is ready to be creative. Read a book to fill the well or get more in touch with authors in your niche. Spend time with your loved ones, not the Greek yogurt lady in the corner, because tomorrow is no guarantee. Put your smart phone with the Twitter feed down at mealtime because your children want to tell you about the butterfly they saw at recess. Social media does have it's place, but only if we put it there.

And only if it brings me Dean Butler.

#Manly...If You're Out There

2012-10-29T11:04:00.000-05:00

Helpful Twitter promotional tidbits for my self-published and traditonally-published Vortex tweeps:

@kindlenews
@freeebookdeal
@IndieKindle
@WLCPromotions
@DigitalBkToday
@kindleebooks
@Kindlestuff
@KindleEbooksUK
@KindleBookKing
@KindleFreeBook
@free
@free_kindle
@FreeReadFeed
@freebookdude
@4FreeKindleBook
@FreeKindleStuff
@KindleUpdates
@ebook
@Bookyrnextread
@Kindlestuff
@KindleBookKing
@Booksontheknob
@Kindle_promo
@IndAuthorSucess
@CheapKindleDly
@KindleDaily

Some useful hashtags:

#FreeKindleBook #freekindle #freebook #free #kindlepromo #freeebooks #IndieKindle #IndiePub #ebooks

Cut and paste into your existing list. Don't have a Twitter reference sheet? What in the name of Dean Butler are you waiting for? I'm sure even Dean has a reference sheet. #LittleHouse, #Manny, and my personal favorite, #Manly

If the D.B. reference escapes you, try these:

It's All Fun and Games Until Dean Butler Loses a Shirt

J.R. Is No Dean Butler

A Mental Pilaf Made From Quinoa, Denim and Bite-Sized Chunks of Dean Butler

Dean Butler Might Need an Acceptance Speech

I still haven't heard from Mr. Butler. A girl can go all dreamy, can't she?

Come, New Author. I Have Some Tablets For You.

2012-10-25T11:02:00.000-05:00

I've been freelance editing and ghostwriting long enough to have reached some epiphanies. They may not be earth-shattering to some, but more than a handful of people out there have plopped out a book and are stumbling over themselves to upload it for sale. I'm more than a bit conservative, super-protective of my brand, and hyper-aware of the importance of quality writing before going "live" in a cyber-environment that often seems like an annoying in-law: quick to judge and never seems to go away. Being a book reviewer has only enhanced these commandments I believe everyone who has typed the end punctuation on the final page of that first book should memorize.

I. Thou Shalt Know Your Market

Vomiting out a long series of subsections found in a Barnes and Noble store is akin to tossing crumpled manuscript pages at the brick and mortar and praying it will stick. Pick one. If you're good by any other standard than your mother and the creepy guy at the 7-11 who loves everything about you, pick two. Don't write what you haven't read since fifth grade.

II. Thou Shalt Know The Industry

We're not talking the kind of insider knowledge that would get the Romance Writers of America yearly convention buzzing about when the hottest, long-haired male editor arrived (and we romancies know who THAT is, don't we?) Gems like that take years of immersion. Please know what an editor does. We will not rewrite your entire book for you unless you pay us, handsomely, for the title Book Doctor because you have a bleeder and your opening sentence has flat lined. For this much hemorrhaging, we could write our own books.

III. Thou Shalt Chill

Traditional New York publishing notwithstanding, writing and publishing a book is still glacial. Laborious. Exhausting. The process is a marathon, not a sprint. Take a short cut or rush the process and you'll end up in the dirt beside the trail with mud-caked knees because you forgot to tie your laces. Piss out a novel in one month and expect it to turn 50 Shades of successful? Yeah, that's gonna happen.

IV. Thou Shalt Get Your Book Professionally Edited

Both content and line edited. Then think about doing it again. Nothing steams me more than swiping to the next page in my Nook and finding errors that a fourth grader could have found. It's disrespectful to your reader's time and pocketbook and the faith they placed in you to deliver a flawless story. Shame on you if you overlook this commandment.

V. Thou Shalt Recognize E.L. James As The Exception

Debate the quality (and we have here) of Ms. James's newly-minted empire, but repeat after me: I. Will. Not. Get. Rich. Is it okay to dream? Sure. But writing is not the path to fame. Most famous writers would probably prefer not to be famous outside of their royalty checks. We are overwhelmingly introverts and write because we have to and we love to, not because it will land us on the cover of USA Today or on a Hollywood set overseeing the film version of our book.

What are some other commandments writers should know before self-publishing or submitting to publishing houses or agents?

Soft Kitty, Distracted Kitty

2012-10-17T12:07:00.000-05:00

Remember this shirt?

I'm wearing it now. Except it's pink. Hot pink. And my arms are less hairy. Seriously, why would a guy pick this shirt out of all the Big Bang Theory shirts out there? Completely emasculating, unless you look like this...

Despite his Zack-like expression, I say, "hoo."

Before we commence more time-foolery, let's catch up on Vortex business. Since my top-secret romance novel hit virtual stores, my newsletter subscriptions have doubled. I was so excited about this development, I drew two names to give away free copies. Trouble is, neither responded to my notification email. I fear the email may have entered the black hole of their spam folders. If you are on the newsletter list, you were automatically entered in the contest. Please check for the winning announcement in your spam folders. Free books await! I'll send out another attempt by Friday if I haven't heard back.

My first book review went live on Monday. I'm knee-deep in a Rebecca-type throwback to the Gothic romance, my fourth book set to review. My suspicions about the depth and breadth of self-published novels have, thus far, proven to be correct. I've read some that made me want to flail myself with a frozen Eggo waffle to stay awake and some that have brought me to my knees, salivating for more, wondering why, for-the-love-of-Suzanne-Collins, wasn't this book picked up for mass distribution and film rights. I have more amazing prospects percolating on the freelance stove, and I'm beginning to worry about my momentum shift.

The money, absent for so long in my literary endeavors, is addicting. Never was this more clear than driving around yesterday, minding traffic (because I'm wicked-rule-follower like that) and Black Lab's This Night played on my Ipod from my novel play list. It hit me like a Stephen King tome to the gut. I was sucker-punched back to the long-ago (well, a few months ago) place where I had left my work-in-progress edits, I couldn't fight the intense sadness in letting my goals stray. I've never been great at keeping multiple pots boiling. I tend to immerse myself a thousand percent in the project at hand, to the detriment of eating and stretching important muscles and all but involuntary body functions. I would love to know how other freelancers do it. I'm highly-organized, but when accountable to others, I am sometimes no longer accountable to myself.

Luckily, I had been to a Body Combat fitness class that very morning. I did one of those Charlie's Angels kicks (not what they're really called) to my mental derriere and remembered my bank account until the sensation passed.

What do you do to keep your outside projects balanced with your personal goals?

No Asshattery Here

2012-10-03T13:36:00.000-05:00

I've worn many writing-related hats since starting out on this fiction road almost thirteen years ago. The romance writer hat? A softie-knitted pink jobber, of course. Then there's the militant hat of self (and hired) editor, the veiled pillbox of ghostwriter, the jester's hat of blogger, the Sherpa of nah-nah-nah-nah, I'm-not-listening-to-the-"market" time travel author and the twin crowns of Golden Heart princess and rejection queen. This photo was creepy and royalty-free, so I snagged it. Let's call it my psychological suspense hat.

Today, I add another hat to the collection: book reviewer.

What qualifies me as such? Well, I read. Quite a bit, in fact, and extremely quickly (nine hundred words per minute, a talent I catalogue right beside my ability to turn Reese's peanut butter cups into a meal--no questions asked.) I have a pulse, and I know how to use it. Oh, and I wear all those other hats in my closet. Makes for a pretty well-rounded reviewer. At least, I hope.

What drew me to this project was the carte blanche of honesty. I always hate reading reviews obviously written by the author's mother's quilting bee. Or someone who didn't bother to offer anything past what I could glean from a blurb. And then, there's the importance of it all when placed right up against this climate of self-publishing. In a world where an author's mother's quilting bee is the last stop before Amazon and B&N, God help us all to sift through the sodden dreg at the bottom of the literary cup. The cream does rise to the top. I'm just helping that cream along a bit in my own way.

And lest you think this venture is altruistic, I assure you, it most certainly is not. I will be getting paid. Not in the John Locke sense of paid reviewer--I assure you, there is no asshattery in this closet--but by the review site seeking honest feedback for their subscribers and visitors.

I will be keeping anon, by the way. Unless you subscribe to my newsletter. There are a bounty of delicious secrets in those missives, aren't there? Guess you'll just have to join. A huge thanks to so many Vortex followers for getting the word out about my ghost-novel. I might need to come up with a clever street-team name to match my love for you all.

With a tip of the hat, I'm out...

Bacon Number? 1...Maybe 2

2012-09-29T17:54:00.000-05:00

Trailers of the upcoming movie Stoker keep landing in my inbox. Could be my Google alert for all things a-certain-British-hottie. I really should remove that particular alert; it's so when-I-wrote-the-book-that-released-this-week. I just can't seem to leave him behind. This movie feels like it's a number one on my personal Bacon number: psychological suspense, Nicole Kidman (half a bacon strip away from the tastiest Aussie on the planet), and one more fresh excuse to revisit the inspiration for a past hero. So he plays a creepy homicidal maniac uncle. We can forgive a few things, can't we? The movie is rated R because the Brit's hotness might burn your retinas. Beware.

You may have guessed I would have gone to see Looper by now. To that, I would say, "Nay, my ghostwriting has kept me busy." I'm hoping to sneak out by myself for a nooner this week. I hear rumors of an awesome Bruce Willis line (while speaking to his younger self over a diner table): "I don't want to talk about time travel. If we do, we'll be here all day making diagrams with straws." Amen, David Addison.

And here I go again, breaking my newly-minted photo rule. For a booksigning? Best. Treats. Ever. This video seemed like a good place to start.

As it turns out, my ghostwritten novel is not as exclusive as previously thought. If you have a Kindle or Nook, you can join the fun. How will you know the path to titilation unless you follow me on Twitter or sign up for my newsletter? Psst! In addition to the icing aroma in the Vortex today, there is the distinct air of a contest. Just saying.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Bazinga! It's Laundry Day

2012-09-17T10:59:00.000-05:00

Today's post feels like a laundry list, but who better to provide colorful, soapy little pods of information than The Vortex, right? First, the bleach-y whites...

I could very well be violating my new policy of attaching photos not mine, but this is a perfect Monday chuckle. Remember when we talked about the awesomeness that was Looper? I give you the perfect example of what happens when a movie poster is strategically placed in a public restroom:

courtesy of HappyPlace

Forgot your coins for the wash? No problem. Check out this handy chart from Editorial Freelancers Association to find out what your services might be worth to the non-writing types. Need an hourly rate calculator? I used freelanceswitch to calculate my optimum ghostwriting rates-SO helpful, no matter which industry you're trying to pick up a little extra ka-ching.

And for the dark load...bioluminescence on a beach in the Maldives. If you look at only one photograph on the internet today, make it this one. Seriously, how many times can our retinas withstand a Kardashian-burn? This is nature's inspiration at its finest.

Also in the dark load, a rare opportunity to submit sans-agent to HarperCollins. Vortex author peeps wanting to go the traditional publishing house route have an open invitation to send in their epic fantasy, sci-fi, urban fantasy, horror, dystopia or supernatural submissions between October 1 and 14. Last Thursday's Guardian article has the 4-1-1. Good luck!

Certainly not least, please hand-wash this tee with care. It's my fave.

Bazinga!

More BBT shirts here. Best. Crazy. Catalog. Ever.

I'm super-excited to celebrate the release of my contemporary romantic comedy (with the hot Brit--remember him?) to the ibookstore this week! It's an interactive experience like nothing you've ever read before. If you don't have an Apple device on which to enjoy it, find someone who does, or-heck-buy one. This week. I'll wait. Make sure you're following me on Twitter or subscribed to my newsletter. This week. I'll wait. Since the project is ghostwritten, tweets and email are the only way you'll find links to buy and be eligible for contests and giveaways by yours truly. I won't pay for a stellar review like John Locke, but I will sing you "Soft Kitty" when you're sick. Flu season is just around the corner, people.

Have a squeaky clean Monday, everyone!

Chimps Found in My Unnatural Bubble

2012-09-12T14:21:00.002-05:00

First, a bit of Vortex housekeeping. I moved my email newsletter to Mailchimp because yahoogroups is so turn-of-this-century, and because I love primates. If you subscribed previously in yahoogroups, there's no need to take action. If you haven't, for the love of Dean Butler, what are you waiting for? Seriously, I don't bomb your inbox but once every, say, millenia, but I do have some amazing announcements, freebees and giveaways coming up that you'll want to know about. Subscribe now or later via the box on the blog's right column.

I just finished an online violence and weaponry class for writers taught by Rory Miller, who is so bad ass in his creditials that I'd have to kill you if I elaborated. I've written scenes here and there that required high-octane, moment by moment violence, but my latest ghostwriting project required more. Like war. Ongoing. The deep psychological place soldiers must go. For a suburban girl whose only exposure to violence is what comes in a red Netflix envelope, it was a must-take class.

The most memorable lesson he gave was one on the unnatural state of our existence. For the first time in human history, violence is essentially foreign to us. We don't raise weapons to meet our basic needs. Mass casualties are things that largely happen somewhere else. We live in a bubble of treaties and modern philosophies and shared ethics. As writers, one of the hardest things to do is get inside the head of our characters. But for a writer raised in this bubble, getting inside the head of historical characters is the greatest challenge of all. As Miller put it: "The most evil things in history made sense to someone. As an author, if you can't see that, your antagonists will be flat. As a human, if you can't see it, you can't effectively fight it."

Miller's book, Violence: A Writer's Guide, covers many of the same topics as we touched on in class and is a fantastic reference if your project requires a deep understanding about the complexities of violence.

Guyliner on Atlanteans? Nah.

2012-08-27T11:58:00.003-05:00

One thing I love about ghostwriting is that I become a tourist in someone else's world. On the desk beside me is a stack of research books I wouldn't have picked up in a million years: theories of Atlantis, Norse mythology, a dictionary of made-up languages and a coffee table book called Drives of a Lifetime with some wicked-inspiring photography for an alternate world found right here in our world. With six different colors of post-it notes whipping out like foreign flags on a stiff breeze, it's an invitation to explore.

Back to research, but first this Vortex tidbit...

The term guyliner has migrated from pop culture vernacular to official entry in the Oxford Dictionary. I know, right? Exciting doesn't begin to cover it. Maybe they read the Vortex's official stance on the issue. Check out thirty-four other new word entries and have a great Monday.

Ya'll Join Me For A Dallas Dissection

2012-08-21T10:43:00.000-05:00

Stereotypes of the southern U.S. in pop culture. Discuss.

Why are reality shows (and I use the term reality loosely) like Honey Boo Boo and The Week the Women Left set in the South? Because stereotypes are based in reality. And those stereotypes make for WTH?-television that brings ratings.

I haven't lived in Texas my entire life. In fact, I have the unique perspective of being a nomad: pacific northwest, midwest, deeeep south. Those are just the places I set up residence for a respectable amount of time. I've heard stereotypes from the outside and lived them from the inside. I suppose that gives me a bit of cred when it comes to today's post about the reincarnation of the 80s television show, Dallas.

First a story. Everyone grab your binkies and warm milk and meet me on the swirly vortex rug.

When I went to Munich as an exchange student in the 90s, my host family spoke very little English. I learned quickly that academia had taught me high, proper German, not the low country dialect of Bavaria. I compare it to a non-native English student being placed in a deep Cajun household where every other word is hoo-eee and lawd sakes. You can't possibly guess the common ground of conversation we discovered. Dallas. Not the historical site of JFK's assassination, nor the fact that it's the ninth largest city in the United States--not even the Dallas Cowboys, but Dallas the television show. Upon finding this connection, my host father laughed boisterously, scurried to the front of his VW convertible and drew imaginary bull horns on the hood with his hands. After I assured him that all Texans did not ride horses and have cars with bull horns strapped to the hood, I realized how powerful stereotypes are.

Maybe that's why Dallas will always be a little more special to me than it should. Because the show had just started its translated syndication in Germany, gathering around for that hour each week became our common ground. Maybe that's why my host family wanted a French girl. No self-respecting French girl would put her family in the clink for oil rights.

Which brings me full circle back to the stereotypes still portrayed in the newly resurrected Dallas. Sure, the horns are gone, replaced now by sweet Italian sports cars. I can tell you first-hand from driving on both the Dallas North Tollway and the autobahn that there is little difference. Of the dozen or more cities that comprise the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex, Dallas is most certainly where the money is.

Dallas is also where the hubris is. The stink about moving the home of the Dallas Cowboys out of the Dallas city limits to Arlington, a suburb between Dallas and Ft. Worth, was one of excessive pride. Nevermind that the seven million people spread throughout the surrounding cities contribute financially to the success of the team via ticket and merchandise sales. The Ewing family really capitalizes on the pride-goeth-before-the-fall premise.

I can also say, without hesitation, that out of all the places I have lived and visited that there is a reason Mary Kay headquarters is in Dallas. Women take care of themselves here. Women wear makeup here, even to make the trek to the mailbox. So when the Ewing women are dressed to the nines with lined lips and manicured nails, you can rest assured they smell rich, too. All authentic.

The spectacular plethora of good looking men here in jeans and cowboys boots? No stereotype, I assure you. Entire Harlequin lines of romance novels have been devoted to this natural wonder of beauty.

What about the series strikes me as inauthentic? Not one "ya'll" has slipped into the dialogue. Stereotype? Sure. During my lifespan, there has been a huge influx of transplants into this city. Some pick up this slang, some don't. But I don't buy into a family who has had a Texas ranch in their family for a century who doesn't let the Y-word slip occasionally. I blame that on the writers. Hollywood types, I'm sure. The thing about the Y-word is that it is no measure of intelligence. Think of it as efficiency and clarity. When addressing a group of individuals, "ya'll" covers more and better than the awkward "you guys" or "you all." Even J.R. would know a thing or two about efficiency.

The last thing you need to know about Texas that Dallas got wrong? Sure, Texans pack a lot of heat, but there's no place I'd rather be stuck with a flat tire on a dark highway. You see, people make eye contact here. They stop and move heaven and the flat, prairie grazing grounds to help strangers. All that backstabbing makes for great script, but you won't find much of that here. We have the death penalty and aren't afraid to use it. There is a code of conduct inherent here. Love your mama. Be nice to your neighbor. Hang the flag out, not just when its expected. Respect authority and your elders. Family above all.

At least Ms. Ellie would be proud they got that right.

What other Texan stereotypes have I forgotten?

J.R. Is No Dean Butler

2012-08-06T02:00:00.000-05:00

I swept the dust bunnies out from the Vortex corners and did something I had been meaning to do for awhile now: remove photographs that weren't mine or protected under the fair use rule. Mercifully, I hadn't relied too heavily on them for the past six years. I did, however, make the conscious decision to keep Dean Butler's photograph up. I'm thinking at this stage in his career, he'd shout, "Holy Half-pint!" that someone remembered him. The benefit to housekeeping is two-fold: it's the right thing to do and gives me stats that are content-based instead of image-based. My apologies in advance, but this means you will not only see more of my corn-pone, home-grown photography, but I won't be driving to Southfork Ranch to stamp an original image on my next post regarding the reincarnation of the DALLAS television show. I haven't been to Southfork since I was eight, and I wouldn't know where to begin looking for that picture.

For now, though, I'm celebrating my new ghostwriting project. Sure, that means things will slow a bit at The Vortex, but we've been there/done that before. Consider it time travel with less vomiting. And oh, the places I'll go.

Happy Monday, everyone!

What's In Your Chapter One Suitcase?

2012-08-01T16:02:00.000-05:00

Anyone familiar with early drafts of my writing can tell you that beginnings are my biggest struggle. Not because the beginning doesn't come. It does. Boy, does it come. In a vomit of description and character and dialogue and tonal inflections and figurative language, it comes. I want the reader to be right there with me in all the places I have discovered and all those nuances left to discover, often all at once. Sometimes I forget the reader and I are not already friends, that we haven't spoken at least three dozen times about the grand "what ifs" of fiction. Sometimes I even forget the reader is looking for one good excuse to abandon the story.

Author Benjamin Percy compares readers at the beginning of our stories to coma patients. Have a look. I shall picture a reader burdened with a suitcase labeled short term memory each time I revise a story's opening. Since we're all about London this week, I say, "Brilliant."

Behind Fence Number One

2012-07-18T10:06:00.001-05:00

There is a team of very tired, very hot (as in Texas summer hot, not Channing Tatum hot) men replacing one section of my fence today. Not even two frosty Gatorade bottles from my fridge can allay my guilt at sitting in air conditioning watching these guys labor.

What fascinates me most about this project is what it revealed about my neighbor. I've long held the opinion that we would freak if we knew half of what goes on behind our neighbors' doors. Ten years of living on this street has uncovered everything from snotty Pottery Barn obsessions and cross collections that would put the Vatican to shame to divorces, extramarital affairs, drug use, emotional and physical abuse, life and death, all hidden behind daisies in Terra cotta pots and lacquered front doors. Behind my neighbor's brass kick plate, Roman door chimes and manicured lawn, I was certain lay more opulence, more orderliness than Martha Stewart's jail cell.

Boy was I wrong.

Yesterday, the fence came down. My neighbor's backyard was a biome unto itself. Grass high enough to brush an NBA player's fanny. Relics of children long gone. A tangled nest where a garden once stood. Why would someone who mows and trims and edges and pots daisies bother with the front and not the back? Rules, I suppose. But it's more than that.

Everyone has a pocket of chaos in their life: a junk drawer, the backseat of a car, that closet at the end of the hall. Something they don't want anyone to see. I once wrote a character obsessed with orderliness. The one exception was her purse. At first, quirky, non-purse items would fall out to reveal character. But as the story progressed, the overstuffed bag became a metaphor for all the things in her life she couldn't compartmentalize. As her trust in the hero evolved, the degree to which she shared her bag's contents deepened until dark secrets tumbled out like used tissues.

I suppose my neighbor's chaos is no more than evidence of a busy man who must have two jobs to support his family. A father who doesn't want to forget the sound of children's laughter saturating the yard on a hot summer night. A gardener who gave in to the natural world's relentless ambush.

The writer in me wishes he was hiding something in the tall blades. The neighbor in me does not.

Where are you hiding your chaos?

This Little Piggy Went Erotic

2012-07-02T12:28:00.001-05:00

At the risk of being super-girly and super-off-topic to start today's post, I digress from including a photo of my toes. But what writerly girl wouldn't love Sally Hanson's Salon Effects stickers in the "love letter" theme? It's a little bit of Hemmingway on my piggies for the summer. Don't bother reading the comments about how difficult they are to apply. It isn't like writing a literary masterpiece in a secondary language. It's more like writing Fifty Shades of Grey while eating a twinkie and watching Love in the Wild and hoping Ben stays longer just to hear his accent.

And, no. I'm still not over the whole Brit thing. I'm thinking my interest in the Olympics will be amped this year.

Speaking of Fifty Shades of Grey, the claws are out in writing circles. Some believe the quality of the writing is shameful and should never have been published. Some adore the books and find hope that an obscure little bit of fan fiction was able to find super-stardom (and money). My take on all this is that no one has a right to give an opinion until he/she is well-informed. First-person knowledge of the book in question. Here's a link to the free-sample opening courtesy of Random House Australia and Scribd. Should we judge the rest of the book by its opening? Hell yeah. That's the way the book industry rolls. Now you can have a well-informed opinion. You're welcome.

Did you notice the new pages of the blog? Snazzy, huh? I hope to add posts specific to ghostwriting soon. Until then, I wish you happy toes, accents like hot butter and the first few shades of grey.

On Which Side of the Interactive Divide Do You Fall?

2012-06-20T16:30:00.002-05:00

In one of those synergistic moments with the world, Nathan Bransford posted on interactive books yesterday. Imagine that. Me, ahead of the game instead of behind it. I'm so grateful to be part of technology's newest foray into the fiction experience. I loved reading through the comments, too. It seems to be a good cross-section of opinions, albeit a little heavy on the let-books-be-books side of the debate.

I've been putting off organizing my writing space. This is my way of delaying the inevitable: making that decision about which project to go with. Two novels need editing, one begs to be completed. That, along with another ghostwriting venture has my brain percolating with indecision.

I'm gorging on the last few movies in my hero-inspired list from said interactive novel just completed. It seems I'm reluctant to leave this particular Brit behind. Right now, I'm watching an indie historical flick where he has, perhaps, two script sheets of dialogue when combined. Two hours just for a few nuggets of heart-melting brilliance? Hell to the yeah. It occurred to me two days ago that I need to focus on new hero inspiration for a new project. Unfortunately, this epiphany hit while at the water park. Ask me if I found inspiration among the camouflage swim trunks and keg stomachs. If my next hero has an unfortunate farmer's tan, you'll know why.

What do you think about interactive ebooks? Would you enjoy reading a novel via tablet or smart phone if it offered a new aspect to the reading experience you couldn't get with a Kindle or Nook? How much interactive content is too much?

Semi-Neurotic Liberation

2012-06-13T15:34:00.000-05:00

I waited to write this post because I wanted the fullness of the ghostwriting experience, from conception with client to full-length novel publication. Publication is nearly upon us; and with it, I'm sure, the semi-neurotic mood swings all writers go through when putting words out there for public consumption. I'm prepared for them. Been there, done that. What I wasn't prepared for in this process was how liberating it was.

I no longer had to worry about marketability of concept. I'm not a marketer. I no longer had to worry about titles and pen names and cover art and the thousand and one other decisions that go into a fully-formed project. I no longer had to anticipate a media blitz, reviews and social media-ing myself until I was hugging my knees in the corner of the closet, rocking back and forth, a feeble "tweet, tweet," whispering from my lips. I'm not a publicist or a software expert or a saleswoman. I am a writer. I wrote.

And therein lies true liberation.

I often think I was born in the wrong age. A hundred years ago, when the gatekeepers to the publishing world were the only path, writers were free to do what they did best. Create. Edit. Ponder. Write some more. The current publishing climate is for control freaks and workaholics and jackanabes that subsist on every review morsel, be it nourishing or not. I know, because I am one of them. Or was. I can feel my diet shifting back to a healthy dose of what this gig is all about. Creating. Editing. Pondering. Writing some more.

And loving it.

If you're interested in my latest project, be sure to follow me on Twitter. I'll be providing a link the day it hits virtual shelves.

Going Rambo on Time Travel

2012-05-23T08:49:00.000-05:00

So now Sylvester Stallone is a time traveler? I can imagine, were it true, he would have loftier ambitions than Pope Gregory IX at the Vatican. Snooze, right? I picture him in more of a butt-kicking revolutionary soldier. Here's Jack Black, Brad Pitt and a few others celebrity doppelgangers if you're up for comparing.

Now that the Vortex is re-calibrated for time travel again, I present my theory that has only recently solidified: time travel and television don't mix.

Sure, there are a few obscure series who have found a niche audience, but for the purposes of my argument, I'm talking major networks, major audience, major prime-time exposure. And sure, shows like the Twilight Zone and Star Trek tackled time travel successfully, but in the context of single, self-contained episodes.

First, lets tackle the audience. We have the attention span of a gnat. We find men who can withstand extensive groin-kicking entertaining.We have hundreds of channels at our fingertips that splinter our viewing experience to channel-surfing sound bytes.

Then, there's the networks. Executives at pitch meetings hear a fantastic high-concept for a series: Awake, Alcatraz, Journeyman, Terra Nova, Life on Mars to name a few. Perhaps they are people like me who love time travel and all its complex dynamics and inherent conflict. They think if they cast hotties from the UK into lead roles, it will drive American audiences to their couches each week.They forget their audience is comprised of gnats who would rather see fake tans and bad sex than anything remotely stimulating to the intellect. But mostly, they forget that if the premise of their show is based on time travel, it can't be wrapped up in a pretty bow at the end of the hour. And therein lies the problem.

Television is inherently fragmented. Anyone not on board from the beginning will not step onto a moving, swirling vortex of time travel confusion and the series is headed for cancellation before it ever starts.

The late 1980s series Quantum Leap worked because, for the most part, each episode was self-contained. There was a larger mythology, but it wasn't necessary to understand the bigger picture to enjoy Sam and Al's time leaps. It also aired at a time of fewer choices, thus, a more concentrated, devoted audience.

Another exception was LOST. However, the time travel element was brought in long after it hooked audiences based on the initial scenario of plane crash survivors when audiences were so far committed into the WTF-ery that they would think: polar bears? On a tropical island? Sure, why the hell not!

This all makes me want to write J.J. Abrams a letter. Tell him I adore him for loving time travel the way that I do then advise him to stick to movies. Self-contained vessels for a more discerning audience.

What is your theory on why time travel shows can't succeed on network television?