Subway/Train Conductor:
Look horrified while pulling imaginary brakes.

Random Politician:
Gaze sternly into camera.
Pound podium.
Spray spittle and vitriol.

President of the United States:
Fly around in helicopters.
Make grave speeches.
Walk in step with perky young aide.
Inspire.

Reporter:
Go undercover.
Research life-or-death stories spouse/editor/creepy anonymous voice on the phone told you not to touch.
Fall in love with source.

Newspaper Editor:
Yell.
Throw things.
Surreptitiously print exposé up-and-coming reporter wrote, printed, handed to you, then asked you not to run. Declare it their best work yet.

Movie Director:
Holler “Cut!” and, on occasion, “Action!”

Motel/Convenience Store Clerk:
Shrug in bored fashion when someone shoves a photo under your nose and asks, “Have you seen this person?”

Judge:
Adjust robes.
Frown at witnesses.
Shout “Order!” and “Overruled!” at random intervals.
Pound gavel.

Taxi Driver:
Cruise streets without picking anyone up.
Honk.
Make witty banter while chasing another car or racing toward the airport.
Glance at passengers in rear-view mirror. Make bug eyes when you see what they’re doing back there.

Goon:
Run awkwardly.
Kick kneecaps.
Get shot.

Mob Boss:
Eat spaghetti.
Scowl.
Casually order multiple murders.
Examine well-buffed fingernails.

Your turn. What careers have you learned about thanks to movies?

P.S. There’s a fantastic discussion going on in the comments right now! Be sure to read everybody’s brilliant ideas about what they’ve learned from movies, then add yours if you’re so inclined. (And I hope you ARE inclined, because I adore comments!)

Jackson Pollock No. 9 - It really does look like that long-ago painting, manila paper and all.

Prepared to gush over any bit of artwork, no matter how rudimentary, Mom and Dad watched me unfurl the paper and thrust it their way. Stunned, they stared at the masterpiece I’d so casually brought into the house. It was like something out of Jackson Pollock – The Kindergarten Years. Bright splashes of color dotted the paper, flirting and frolicking in an arrangement that dazzled the eye. Abstract and playful, it was the work of a confident painter, one much older than five.

The next day they quietly began saving for a fancy art school. I would be the first artiste in the family, and they wanted to make sure I had an opportunity to mix more media than crayons and fingerpaints.

Excited to show off their daughter’s talent, they had the picture framed and hung in a place of prominence over the dining room table, where we could admire it.

And then one night during dinner, as my brother kicked me under the table so my parents couldn’t see, my mom turned to me and asked, “What made you decide to put that dab of blue right there?”

“What?” I asked, more worried about Mom catching me kicking my brother back than about answering her.

She repeated her question.

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well, what about the red, right there in the corner? What inspired that?”

“I don’t know.” Thinking the chat finished, I surreptitiously fed another pea to our golden retriever, who hovered hopefully beneath my heavy wooden chair.

“And the yellow?” she tried again, waving one hand at a few blobs.

“I don’t know,” I repeated. “It’s not mine. I didn’t paint it.”

Silence, as my parents’ forks froze over their plates. When my mom could form a coherent thought, she asked, “You didn’t?”

I shook my head, oblivious to their tension and, not understanding that my entire future as an artist hung on my next word, said, “No.” Then I went back to shoveling stuffed peppers in my mouth because, really, they were delicious.

“So, uh, who did?” my mom asked gently, as if hoping my answer had been a mistake.

I looked up, mid-bite. Seriously, were we still talking about this? “I don’t know.”

“But why do you have it, then?”

A close approximation of my kindergarten artwork, circa 2011.

“Teacher told us to take a painting home. I liked that one.” After all, even if I had no talent in the visual arts arena, I could still recognize a pretty picture when I saw it.

Silence. My parents’ eyes flicked to the picture. To me. To the picture – the one I hadn’t done with my own skinny little fingers and globby kindergarten paint.

They stopped saving for art school but, just in case, asked me to bring home a few paintings of my own instead of leaving them for my teacher to discard – an easy request since I created a new masterpiece every afternoon. And each day it was the same: a house with curtains in the windows, a slanting stick figure family of four, sun in the upper corner. Tulips. Grass. Our pets made an occasional cameo appearance. Sometimes there was a rainbow.

To this day my drawings look as if I did them with my left hand while crossing my eyes, but that’s okay because I never had art school aspirations anyway. I wanted to be something much more practical: a writer.

Please welcome Liz Reinhardt! Not only is she one of my favorite bloggers, but I’m lucky to have her as a critique partner, too. She just published her first novel, a YA romance featuring snappy dialogue, a love triangle, to-die-for heroes (two of them!), and lots of humor. It’s the first in a trilogy, and is already netting some fabulous reviews. So read and enjoy her guest post, then go buy her fabulous book. Take it away, Liz!

20 or so people may be reading my book this very minute!

My newly published book is bumping around out in the world and, I don’t want to brag or anything, but a whole 20-something  readers (I can never remember the exact number…okay, I can! It’s 23 last time I refreshed the sales page!! WHEEE!!) are reading it! And tons of them are total strangers, NOT people who I shared Doritos and poetry and too many secrets with in high school, or who drank cheap keg beer at field parties with me and my husband back when he was my boyfriend, or who danced to “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” in a fist-pumping-Jersey-girl-dance-athon at my wedding.

Okay, maybe just I wish tons of them were strangers…because as amazing, awesome, generous, fun, sweet, helpful, and gorgeous as all these life-long crazy friends are, they know a lot. And they think they know more! And they’re guessing about people and places and events that are fiction. But, you know, fiction that’s based on reality, because I’m not that creative. And I’m sort of lazy. And my friends know that.

Even in college I was a woman of great mystery. A deep thinker whose musings and philosophies were rare gems, carefully polished and doled out in specifically measured, thoughtful increments. This picture probably depicts a small break from typing my great Western/immigrant/romance/mystery/literary novel instead of doing my Biology paper. Deep.

Even my husband thinks he knows more than he does. When I was writing Double Clutch, I was in love. Like swoony, butterflies in my stomach, can’t sleep, obsessive love…with this book and Brenna, Jake, and Saxon, the main characters who lived and breathed for me, through me! The need to share this love was absolutely undeniable. And I had a captive audience in my loyal, loving husband, who has a very hard time saying no to me when I get that maniacal gleam in my eye. Also our house is too small to hide in, and he could only stay at work until the bosses forced him to go home, kicking and screaming.He wanted to relax after a long, grueling day, watch “Overhaulin’,” work on his truck, and sit on the back porch quietly contemplating life while the stars appeared in a slow speckle across the darkening sky. He wound up listening to me read AN ENTIRE novel in rushed, breathy spurts, stopping frequently to edit sentences that rang wrong in my ears, and often abruptly leaving him alone on said porch under said lovely stars so I could get down the entire scene that had just blossomed in my brain before I lost it.

Is there anything more romantic than star-gazing gargoyles in love? Well, unless she has a chapter to finish. Broadway can totally fend for himself out there, under the stars! If Angela doesn't get it all typed out, she might lose it! And then how will they provide for all their little gargoyle children? How?!

It’s not a stretch to imagine that Frank (my husband) assumed he knew at least something about these characters who I so adored and forced him to adore even as he watched them steal his wife away and leave her completely uninterested in things that had never really interested her very much, like laundry and cooking and attempts to keep the floor from getting so sticky certain spots could pull the sock right off of your foot. My husband knows when he’s come against a force stronger than he is. He wanted to stop having to sniff the armpits of his shirts before work in a desperate attempt to find the least smelly one. And he wanted company for star-gazing, and peace when his favorite shows came on TV. He knew he needed the book to end. So he willed it to end.

This makes perfect sense to me. And Frank is an awesome helper...I don't pull my weight when I have books on the brain. And that's really, crazily often.

“Just have Brenna choose the right guy and end it,” he urged as he stuffed our daughter’s red dress into the washer with a load of his undershirts and socks one night when I was close to finishing. The words hot pink flashed a dangerous warning through my brain, but I was too consumed by the Brenna/Jake/Saxon dilemma to give them any serious notice.

“But who does she wind up with?” I mused, my laptop staring at me with its coolly taunting blue light.

“What do you mean?” He banged the lid of the washer down and narrowed his eyes at me before crossing to the dishwasher. “You know who she ends up with. The right guy.” He picked up the bottle of dish soap in one hand and the dishwasher fluid in the other and looked at them both with a frown.

“But that’s the whole point.” Frank held the bottles up, and I pointed to the one that wouldn’t break our appliance. “It’s not that easy to choose.”

“Sure it is,” he growled, holding up the dishwasher liquid for emphasis. He banged the dish soap on the counter. “One works. One doesn’t.” He squirted half the bottle of dishwasher liquid in the tiny dispenser square.

“No. Each one offers something different. Each guy is awesome in his own way.”

Frank’s face darkened. “Um, no. One guy is a loser. One is a decent guy. Stop pretending there’s any question.”

“You’re simplifying, Frank…” I began, but I was shocked into silence when he banged the dishwasher door shut and glared.

“Fine! Let Brenna pick the dirtbag, okay? If she’s too stupid to know who she should end up with, she doesn’t deserve him!”

There's something about boys I love throwing righteous temper tantrums that makes me smile!

Part of me was foaming at the mouth with excitement! He was so passionate! He was banging the dishwasher shut! He was in a rage! OVER MY BOOK! Part of me was confused. He was in a rage over my book?

I followed him as he stalked across the sticky floor. “Why are you so upset?”

“Because I know who I am in the book, and I know who you are, and I can’t believe we’re not getting together!” he bellowed.

What?

“It’s fiction! I’m not in the book! You’re not in the book!” I insisted.

“Oh really?”

Then Frank listed a dozen examples of interests, mannerisms, sayings, and situations that he shared with ‘his’ character, and he was absolutely right. I had plucked details from the guy I loved and peppered them into a fictional guy I loved.

But Frank was also absolutely wrong. See, he did pick up on exactly how he was like one of the guys. He just conveniently missed how he was exactly like the other guy, too. And he didn’t see the other real life guys who made up Jake and Saxon. Obviously! Because I don’t kiss and tell. Okay, that’s a lie! I totally kiss and tell, but I do it in fiction and I hide a lot of it in layers, the same way, I’m sure, a ton of writers do.

Is that me kissing Chance Crawford? Wouldn't you like to know? (Of course it's not me! And if it was me, it would totally be for research reasons. I write YA romance, after all!)

My past loves aren’t the only ones who made it into my book, either. For example, Frank has a really charismatic, frustrating, good-looking cousin who we’ve laughed with and watched work his magic a million times. We also watched him fall in love with the girl who inspired him to change his life. They’re both in Double Clutch.

I have a friend whose gorgeous, sweet husband was the object of just about every girl in our county’s crush…and he took full and complete advantage of all that admiration. When he met my friend, The One, the girl who swept him off his feet, she had to make peace with his very active romantic past, and she talked to me about how that felt. They’re in Double Clutch.

I watched my little sister, my best friend, my college roommates swoon with love…first love, unrequited crushes, crushes realized, soul-deep-let’s-get-married love, heart-wrenching-long-distance-love. They’re all in Double Clutch.

So is the guy I imagine my husband was before I ever met him. So is the guy I traded sly glances with every Tuesday and Thursday in Art History 105 but never got up the guts to ask out. So is the girl my ex-boyfriend eventually dated after me, and the next girl, who are both extremely nice, smart, funny ladies (hey, he always had good taste!). They’re all in there, wrapped up and taken apart, sprinkled around and put back together.

I'm the old guy on the right. And Brenna, Jake, and Saxon are hanging in the middle! Aren't we cute?! You know, in that creepy, old-movie-monsters way.

I am a little like Dr. Frankenstein. I’ve taken names, personalities, stories, glances, kisses, daydreams and molded them into a walking/talking world all my own but also everyone else’s. So when emails pop up and say, “Okay, is so-and-so based on so-and-so?”, the answer is…yes. And no. And yes. And no.

So I typed the last chapter, and read it to Frank, who crossed his arms and pouted a little, but said that it ended right enough as far as he was concerned. Then I steam-mopped the floor, threw together a fairly edible chili, bleached all of his socks and undershirts white again, and joined him on the back porch after we tucked the baby in. All was right with the world.

Are you in Liz’s book? Go check out Double Clutch and see! It’s available for the Kindle and Nook. The print version and sequel are both coming soon. If you want even more Liz (and who wouldn’t?) check out her blog or like her Facebook page. Have a question or comment for her? Leave it below, and she’ll see it when she checks in.

This morning I kicked off my list of errands with a stop at the fitness center, where I pounded out a 55-minute suffer fest on their diabolical machines. I find that ignoring exercise is the easiest way to get through it, so I queued up an old audiobook that I bought last year based on an inexplicable number of five-star reviews and never could finish.

Almost immediately, the two main characters jumped into bed together (and by bed, I mean the shower). Since I’m not one for the, uh, more intimate scenes, I set the player to double speed and hoped the hero and heroine found quick gratification.

They did not. Their staying power was impressive, their stamina improbable. And the author described everything in such detail that even the most die-hard love scene fans would find it tedious. It went on. And on. And on. Annoyed, I finally gave up, stopping the book well before the big finish (if their recent performance was any indication).

Over the next hour Sunshine and I drove all over town, ticking through my to-do list. Just before lunchtime, when my exercise session and the accompanying book were a distant and unpleasant memory, we hit our final stop.

My iPod dock recently died – it could play music, but it couldn’t charge any devices. Since it was less than a month old, I took it back to Radio Shack to see what they could do. I explained the issue and handed it to the guy at the counter, a skinny kid in his early twenties. Just to be helpful, I also passed over my iPod so he could diagnose the problem. Because I’d already gone through a few rounds of testing on my own, the dock’s volume was up. When the guy clicked my iPod into place and pressed the play button, it positively blared my audiobook, the narrator picking up mid-sentence with the lascivious, “…circling lazily around her nipple.”

Horrified, I leapt forward and yanked the iPod out of the dock, but it was too late. The store was utterly silent, every customer frozen in place. A million explanations came to mind, but I was a second too late for a convincing, “Oh, my. I wonder how that got on there?”

The awkwardness hung in the air until, flustered, the salesclerk thrust a new dock at me and wished me a good afternoon. He couldn’t quite meet my eyes, which was fine since I couldn’t look at him either. Through force of will I lifted my chin, flashed a cursory smile in his general direction, thanked him, and fled. Sunshine, oblivious, waved a cheerful goodbye to everyone on our way out the door.

Although I’ll have to let the incident ripen a bit before I know for certain, I believe this morning’s debacle just nudged aside number three on my list of Most Embarrassing Moments (yes, there are two that are worse than this). Want to make me feel better? Feel free to share one of yours below, or put it up on your blog and give me a link in the comments so I can go check it out.

And then I imagined a question that truly stumped me: “Mommy, what did you want to be when you grew up? Why didn’t you do it?” What would I tell her? There’s no Wikipedia entry for that one. “Mommy wanted to be a writer,” I could say, “but she just never got around to it. You can be anything you want to be, though, sweetie. Really.” Hollow words from someone who had several completed manuscripts languishing, mostly unqueried, on her laptop, plus a few unwritten ones banging around inside her brain.

Obligatory signing-of-the-contract photo

This answer – entirely truthful and seriously lame – haunted me. Did I owe it to my daughter to follow my dream? Maybe. More importantly, I owed it to myself, my passion for writing, and my abandoned books.

The next afternoon, instead of spending Sunshine’s naptime doing laundry or reading a novel, I pulled my computer onto my lap and opened my most recent manuscript, a young adult paranormal romance I’d written several years before. After an exhaustive round of revisions I shipped it off to my phenomenal critique partner. She was nice enough to tear it apart before sending it back to me to put together again. My query letter – all three reincarnations – followed. Then I zapped it over to my friends Shari, Liz, and Heather for their (very helpful) opinions.

Finally I could stall no longer. I had to get my work out there.

I knew that, in the face of rejection, the temptation to quit querying would be strong, so I made a list of potential literary agents and vowed not to give up until I had emailed every last one. I didn’t get that far. I didn’t need to. Because after several tumultuous months, I am happy to say that last week I signed with Erzsi Deàk of Hen & Ink Literary Studio.

Although it’s not a guarantee that this book will sell, it’s one giant step closer to my being able to tell my daughter from personal experience, “Dream big. Because if you keep at it, you have a chance to make your dreams come true.” Here’s hoping that soon we will indeed make my publishing dream a reality, for this and future books. In the meantime, I have revisions to make, and a career to plan, and a new novel to write. Better get to it.

Over the next decade and a half I whipped my camera out for every hiking, rafting, and camping expedition, but the results always made it look as if I went on these jaunts alone because no people ever appeared in the shots. Plenty of flowers and mountains and butterflies and chirping birds, but never, ever nature of the human sort.

Then I had a baby. I traded in my zoom lens for a 50 mm and finally read the manual for my auxiliary flash. Sunshine learned to ignore the camera and my embarrassing attempts to coax her into looking into the lens, while I learned to take portraits. No one who peeks at my hard drive these days can claim that Sunshine is not well-documented.

Here’s the thing about photographs of your baby, though: Even your most die-hard Facebook friends don’t need daily documentation of your child’s every facial expression, and the internet at large probably shouldn’t know that much about your little cherub. But photos are much more fun when shared (just ask a grandma), so I needed an outlet beyond portraits of my kid. And so, after nearly a year and a half serving as Sunshine’s personal paparazzi, my camera lens and I have rediscovered nature. Because the truth is, one subject is no longer enough, no matter how cute she may be.

This isn’t sudden, nor is it unexpected. It happens every time I begin working on a new book. There’s something about writing copiously that brings out the photographer in me, as if playing with photos is the twin of playing with words. Creativity is a funny thing.

If you’re curious, you can find the results on my photoblog, Playing with Pixels, which I finally started back up again. In the meantime, I’ll be outside, taking pictures of nature and Sunshine, in-between jotting down paragraphs for the book I’m working on.

By the way, if you have a photo – or even a photoblog – you want to share, I want to see it! Post the link in the comments. (No more than three links, though, or your comment will be kicked to spam, and we’ll all miss out.)

These cherries now languish - crushed, mutilated, and wholly untouched - in our freezer.

Somewhere between buying thirty-six cloth diapers for Sunshine and committing to what our local Target calls ‘natural feeding’ (because some people consider ‘breast’ a terrible word) I heard about the wonders of making your own baby food. The magazine article claimed it was Easy! Wholesome! Cheap! Fun! And Totally Not Messy At All! Since I’m into cheap fun, I went for it.

It was not the first time I’ve been lied to by a magazine.

There were hints from the start that life would be easier if I simply opened up a jar of Gerber and shoveled it into Sunshine’s mouth. For one thing, Gerber doesn’t require a blender. But I’m a stay-at-home-mom now, so I feel an obligation to get my inner housewife on. Most of the time that means I toss laundry into the washer a few times a week, make dinner when I feel like it, and sweep the floor on a semi-regular basis. Otherwise, it’s all Sunshine, all the time. Still, girlie and I were lurking about the house anyway, so why not?

The peas came first. I lovingly cut open the bag (because, no, I was not going to hand-shell three hundred sugar snaps, no matter how much I love my daughter), dumped the frozen contents into our electric steamer, and set the timer. Now all I had to do was grind them into baby-safe mush. Easy. I poured a mountain of veggies into the blender, tapped the puree button, and waited for the magic. The engine whirred ineffectually, a burning smell tinged the air, and smoke curled out from under the base. Okay. Fine. Next button. More power. Still, those blades would not move. Hot pea juice fogged up the inside. Sunshine fussed. The Mother of the Year acceptance speech I’d been composing in my head dissolved.

A quick consultation with my father – who’d never made baby food in his life, but does have a knack for dealing with mean machinery – solved the problem. A little water, a little stirring, a little more water…a lot more water. With a groan, the blender finally complied, grinding the peas into an unappetizing neon sludge.

Giddy with accomplishment, I slid Sunshine into her high chair and served up a big old glop of the stuff. Which, of course, she refused to eat. (Because, you know, who wouldn’t love warm pea mush for lunch?) Undeterred, I spooned the rest into three ice cub trays and froze them in baby-sized portions, as per the instructions in the magazine article, two cook books, and seven websites I had, by now, read on the subject.

Carrots came next, chopped and steamed and blended with a bucket of water, then chilled into little orange cubes. I dished up a mound of the sticky slop. Ick face ensued.

I was desperate for a victory, so when she ate the yams I sent a silent “Take that!” to Gerber and planned my next feat. Luckily, the end-of-summer trees were heavy with fruit. I peeled, sliced, and simmered apples. I halved and roasted hand-picked peaches and apricots, then slipped off the skins. I removed the seeds from so many grape-sized plums that my thumbs hurt for days. And every bit went into our now-compliant blender.

On occasion I trot out one of the cubes, let it melt, and dish it up. Sunshine still likes her peas round and her carrots chopped, but she’ll take a taste if I pretend I don’t care. As for the rest? Wholesome, cheap, and, if you’re fourteen months old, rather tasty.

Thank you, everyone, for playing! If you were not the lucky winner (and, heck, even if you were) you can pick up a copy of the lovely Marilyn’s Friday Mornings at Nine at Amazon.com (Look! They have a Kindle edition!), at Barnes & Noble, and/or at your local independent bookseller.

P.S. In case you’re wondering how I did my math (since Jess’s comment is not the sixth), I subtracted all comments from Marilyn and me. We already have copies. And in Marilyn’s case, I’m willing to bet she has more than one.

By the way, as a bonus we’ll give away a copy of Friday Mornings at Nine to one lucky commenter at the end of this week. Believe me, you want this one! Plus, just because we both love them so much, I’m also throwing in a bag of delicious Ghiradelli chocolate squares. (See below for details.) In the meantime, see what this wonderful author has to say about her newest book – and about writing in general. When you’re done, be sure to take a look at Marilyn’s blog, where she writes about a variety of topics in her trademark warm, witty voice.

Hi, Marilyn! Thanks for coming. So, what is Friday Mornings at Nine about?

Thanks for having me, Caryn. It’s great to be here. Friday Mornings at Nine is the story of 3 forty-something suburban moms who find themselves questioning their marriage, their friendship and themselves. I think the back-cover blurb encapsulates it well.

What a great premise! What inspired you to write it?

I’ve talked with a lot of women about their marriages — and, in some cases, about their affairs. Sometimes these revelations came in the form of random comments thrown out unexpectedly. Other times they were part of well thought out discussions about whether the women in question should or shouldn’t stay married. I met my husband 20 years ago and we’ve been married for almost 18 of those years. I consider us to be pretty happy, but I don’t know anyone who’s been married that long who hasn’t experienced some ups and downs. I think the fortunate couples are the ones who keep choosing to be together and work on their relationships despite all of those years and the inevitable changes. Of course, it takes both people to do that, and it also takes a lot of time and effort. The individuals involved have to want to get to know *now* these people they married (who may be different creatures than the ones they met a decade or more before), and they need to really pay attention to their own needs and desires, too. They have to know why they’ve chosen to be in that relationship (or friendship). Sometimes, in the process of that kind of deep analysis, it turns out there was a profound disconnect somewhere along the line, and it’s possible to reconnect. In other cases, it’s not… So, essentially, I wanted to w rite a story about three women who have marital disconnects to some degree, and this makes them wonder what would have happened if they’d chosen differently. Then I wanted them to finally take the time to examine their lives so they could choose mindfully where to head next.

So what’s next?

My next novel is scheduled to come out on 11-29-11 — it’s a contemporary women’s fiction  story called A Summer in Europe. It’s about a woman who’s never left the States, but she gets a 5-week bus trip through Italy, France, Switzerland, Hungary, Austria, Germany, France, Belgium and England as a 30th birthday gift from her eccentric aunt. The only catch is that the two of them are going with her aunt’s senior-citizen Sudoku and Mah-jongg club, which is — in my heroine’s opinion — a cast of rather offbeat companions. There are, however, hot European men and delicious regional dishes to serve as distractions, along with lots of visits to fun European landmarks .

It’s always fun to see writers’ offices. Care to show us where you work?

Usually, in my messy home office. As you can see in the photo (to the right) I have my writing and reference books within easy reach and can check whatever story details I need to online. Must limit myself when it comes to email, blogs  and Facebook, though!

What is your writing schedule like?

I write or do writing-related things *all* the time. There’s really no end to it and no set hours. My real life exists alongside of the writing life and I’m simultaneously doing things for both — all day – from the moment I wake up until I go to bed. I need to read/respond to emails, write blog posts, give interviews (like this one — thanks, Caryn!) and interview other authors, give talks to libraries and other organizations on writing/publishing, take part in real or online book-club discussions (I’m participating in one throughout March as part of the B&N General Fiction book club — fun!), create and send out promo material, do research for the manuscripts I’m currently writing, make editorial revisions on a book that’s coming out, read for fun or as a judge in RWA-related contests, do critiques for my small band of critique partners and, of course, write the novels I’m contracted to write as well as, sometimes, just work on a story idea because I’m curious to see where it’ll go…

Any suggestions for writers who want to become published?

There are NO shortcuts. Read a lot, especially in the genre you want to write, but read outside of it, too. Study writing craft — not every book or handout on novel structure will work for you, but try a number of things until you find a few techniques that help. I found I had to write about one million words (yes, one MILLION) before I became the master of my own voice. You may be able to do it with fewer than that, but writing ten 100K manuscripts before selling is not uncommon. I wrote 4 full manuscripts (and rewrote a couple of those) before I wrote the book that eventually became my debut novel, According to Jane. That was book #5, which had to be completely revised before it sold, and I then wrote 2 more novels before I got The Call on it. During this time, I was also writing and actively submitting short stories, articles, essays and poetry to magazines and newspapers…so it was a very long process that, for me, took about 8 years.

That sounds time-consuming! How do you balance your family life and your writing?

Not well enough! Seriously, this is VERY difficult and I’m still working on this juggling act. Trying to get all of the things done that I need to during the day within the writing world while, still, taking care of my family, the house, cooking/cleaning, exercising, spending time with those friends and loved ones who enrich my world, sleeping sometimes…and then, of course, there’s my Nathan Fillion/Castle addiction!

That was great, Marilyn! Thanks for visiting.

Thank YOU! If your readers have any other questions, I’ll try to stop by to answer them.

Enter to win a copy of Marilyn Brant’s Friday Mornings at Nine and a bag of delicious Ghiradelli chocolate squares (caramel, mint, or raspberry – your choice!) Entries close at midnight Eastern Standard Time (9 p.m. PST) on Saturday, March 12. I’ll post the name of the lucky winner sometime Monday.

How to win:

1) Leave a comment below

and/or (for a bonus entry)

2) Tweet about the contest on Twitter. Link to it and use hash tag #fma9 so I can find you and count your entry. For example:
Win Ghiradelli chocolate + a copy of Marilyn Brant’s Friday Mornings at Nine! http://www.caryncaldwell.com/fma9 #fma9

Can’t wait to see if you win, or want to pick up a copy for a friend? Friday Mornings at Nine is available at Amazon.com (including on your Kindle), at Barnes & Noble, and at your local independent bookseller.

It’s such a relief to let go of the old, to be into something new. I’m half here, half in my writing, lost among possibilities, feeling for the shape of the thing, probing, questioning. Anything is possible, but everything is not. Everything is too much. So when new ideas sprout, I turn them over in my mind, maybe stop the stroller or the car or dinner to jot them down in my little spiral notebook. Some will survive. Some won’t. Only time and writing and revisions will tell.

Soon I’ll feel out the story with a chapter or two and, when I’ve dribbled enough I’ll make an outline because, yes, I’m one of those people, the ones who prefer minor outlines to major revisions, planning to fumbling, plotting to pantsing. Plus, plans just plain make me happy.

In the meantime, though, I doodle in dialogue, half-formed conversations winding down the page, nameless characters asking me, over and over and over again, “What if?” And my answer is, so often, “Let’s see.” Because it’s a first draft, and anything can happen.

I love this phase.