Welcome to Revision Hell

Most writers hate the revision process.

For some, it’s because when they finish a story and turn it in, they do so convinced that the story is the best they can make it – they wouldn’t have submitted it if it weren’t – so any attempts by editors to change or revise anything is going to be met with resistance. This is the “I pour my heart and soul into my book and every time you delete something I bleed a little bit” syndrome.

I don’t have that. My books aren’t my children and I don’t bleed unless you actually, you know, cut me. I’ve never had an editor really rip my story up and demand that I rewrite it, though – if that ever happens to me, I know I’ll cry and moan as much as anyone. It doesn’t bother me when I’m told that the story – the plot, the pacing, the sequence of events or the reasons behind them – has a problem. I think I’d be more upset if an editor wanted me to start tinkering with characters. I get more attached to my characters than to my stories.

Sometimes an editor will demand such extensive revisions the author’s left to wonder, “If you have so many problems with it, why’d you buy the damned story?” It’s like, “I love the heroine, but she needs to be tougher, and the hero’s great but he’s not sexy enough, and the whole espionage thing has been done enough so let’s make this a paranormal and oh yeah, maybe it should be a ménage.” And sometimes all this happens after the contract has been signed, so the author’s really screwed. I have not – thank God, please God – had anything like that happen, but I know people who have and it Sucks.

I've got mixed feelings about revisions. In some respects, revisions are easier than the initial writing. I’ve complained – long and often – about how slowly I write. I have a really hard time with plotting. I can do characters and dialog very easily, but making up stuff for them to do is a lot harder. So, once I’ve completed the book, it feels much easier to go back and start tinkering with stuff. As La Nora likes to say, you can’t revise a blank sheet, but you can revise crap.

Simple prose edits – awkward phrases that need rewriting, overuse of certain words, too much descriptive filler and asides, that kind of stuff – is no big deal.

More difficult is the substantive edits – where you have to take apart whole scenes or write new ones. I’m having to do some of that for Yours, Mine and Howls – there’s one scene, in particular, that I’d thought I wouldn’t write. The hero has to do something very intense near the end of the book, and I’d left it to the reader’s imagination. My editor said that was a mistake – the thing the hero has to do is actually the emotional climax of the book and if I don’t show it, the reader will feel cheated. I realized she’s right.

There were other scenes I have to tinker with, places where motivation needs to be made clearer, timing fixed. When you start revising scenes like that, it’s like altering a garment or adding a wing onto a house. A change here will necessitate an adjustment there, and if you switch the gravel path to a blacktop road you have to make sure you change all subsequent references to the gravel road, and if the heroine said she was gonna take a shower but now you’ve got her walking straight out of the kitchen and to the stables…continuity is a bitch, is what I’m saying.

You would not believe how I’ve procrastinated over all this (then again, if you follow me on Twitter, you probably would.)

See, once I finish a book and send it in, I’m done. It’s off my plate, and time to move on to the next one. I don’t mind proofreading, I don’t mind doing text and line edits, but to have to go back in and write new scenes, invent plot points, rewrite, I’m just like….ick. I’m sick of the book at this point. It’s over, I’ve moved on. Shiny new plots are beckoning, and I can’t get to them because this old thing is following me around, clutching at my ankles and begging, “I’m not finished! Don’t let it end like this! Why don’t you love me anymore?”

Samhain offered me a contract on the book I'd sent them after they’d contracted for Yours Mine and Howls. It was the second time I’d submitted the novella, which will be titled Ready to Run. My former editor had given it a Revise and Resubmit, which I did, and the new editor liked it. But…she said she’d want to see some changes to it. She trusted me enough to offer me a contract before I did all the changes, and I trust her judgment about whatever changes she thinks will make the story better.

I hope it’s not substantive stuff, but I bet it is. Makes me tired thinking about it.

Where do you buy your ebooks?

When I started reading ebooks a few years ago I didn’t have an ereader. I didn’t even have a laptop, so I downloaded Microsoft Reader onto my computer and used that to read the books I bought. My first ebooks were purchased from Ellora’s Cave. I learned about Ellora’s Cave because of author Toni Blake, who I’d discovered and whose back list I had devoured. Then I learned she wrote under the pen name Lacey Alexander for Ellora’s Cave, so I went and bought every book she had there too.

I learned more about ebooks as an author when I started researching digital publishers to submit my books to. I bought some books from different publishers because I wanted to see the kind of books they published. I always bought those books directly from the publishers’ websites.

Then I started to learn about on-line bookstores, like All Romance Ebooks, Books on Board, Fictionwise, Amazon. I didn’t buy anything from them, though, until I bought my Sony reader. Then the whole digital world opened up to me and even the books I saw in the "bricks and mortar" bookstore by my favourite authors could be purchased digitally and read on my reader.

Now, the majority of my books are purchased at the Sony Store. I still go to the publishers’ websites sometimes, but the only reason I do it is because I know the author generally makes more in royalties from a purchase there, than from a purchase from a third-party vendor. But I love the Sony Store because it’s so easy – they have all my info, I log on, find the book I want, click, and it’s in my library, perfectly formatted. One more click and it’s on my reader. Even at My Bookstore and More, I have to enter credit card information, save the file somewhere and import it into my library. I’m sure the process is equally easy when buying from Amazon for a Kindle.

I don’t even do a cost comparison because it’s just so easy at Sony.

I suspect I'm not alone in this. I suspect that most people like to go to a "book store" even if it's on-line, and look at the selection of books from a variety of publishers, rather than having to search publishers' websites.

As an author I’ve been thinking about this a lot, as the Naughty Nine will know from my recent ranty posts. It’s no secret that sales of digital books at Amazon have grown tremendously over the past year. Apparently lots of people are buying their books there and I’m benefiting from those sales as an author. Publishers have different deals with Amazon. With one of my publishers, I earn a little less from sales at third party vendors than sales at the publisher’s site, but the volume of sales more than makes up for that. With another publisher I earn the same regardless of where the book is purchased and yet sales are so much smaller –which makes me wonder why?

So readers – where do you purchase your ebooks? Do you shop for the best price? Do you look for ease of purchase and download? Do you buy at Amazon because you have a Kindle (or B&N because you have a nook, or the Sony store because you have a Sony)? Do you automatically check out new releases by your favourite digital publisher? Do you look for specific authors or genres? Inquiring minds want to know!

The Zillionaire Vampire Cowboy's Secret Werewolf Babies - Chapter Ten

Oh, Rock! Buffi nearly swooned when she felt Rock’s cold, hard lips bruise hers. When he kissed her like this it set off a firestorm of lust and longing deep inside her. Not an actual firestorm, of course, just something that felt like one without all the messy burning, charring smokiness that would have accompanied the real thing.

Rock had been her first love, her only love. He was her mate-for-life, the vampire cowboy of her dreams. She could deny him nothing…oh, but she had to. She was a mother now. For her children’s sake, if nothing else, she could no longer allow Rock to ravish her beneath the grapes, in clear view of any random passersby. Not that the winery saw many passersby these days and given how badly they needed the business…perhaps something like this would draw traffic?

But, no, what was she thinking? She couldn’t do that to her boys...could she?

“Rock, stop!” she cried at last. “We can’t! Not here! Not now!” Or at least, that’s what she meant to say. It was surprising how extraordinarily difficult it was to form words with those cold hard vampire lips pressed so ardently to hers, or with Rock’s tough but agile tongue muscle forcing its way between her teeth, teasing its way into her mouth, begging her to bite it.  Her words came out sounding more like, “Mrble mphrm-mrmble-frum-mrowr!”

“Mrowr-mrem-phmph-frum-fru,” Rock replied without removing his lips from hers. Buffi frowned. What was he trying to tell her? Did he want her to bite him? Was he calling her baby? Perhaps he was merely making random sexytiem sounds in an attempt to further enflame her already flaming passion?

Oh, Rock! He knew her so well. He knew how hot those rumbly-grumbly, gravel-voiced noises made her; hotter than two rats wrestling in a wool sock…only not as scratchy. Or as smelly. Probably less squeaky, too.  But she had to be strong. For the sake of her children. For the sake of her winery. For the sake of her poor, battered heart. For the sake of this story, which would be over far too quickly if she gave in to him now.

 Buffi wrenched her mouth from his. “Rock, no. Think of the twins!”

“Who told you?” Rock gasped, gaping openmouthed at her, like a carp. “Forget the twins! They mean nothing to me! I sent them back to Dallas over a month ago. I swear there’s been no one but you. Other than Chastity, that is. But she means nothing to me as well.”

“Oh, Rock!” Chastity? Was that the sexy siren’s name? The woman he wanted to marry? His…fiancée? Buffi couldn’t deny how much it hurt her to think about all Rock’s many conquests, all the women he’d bled or bedded in the years they’d been apart. “I don’t care about all your…your…your cheerleaders! Those aren’t the twins I meant. I’m talking about your— I mean my— I mean our—” Almost too late, Buffi shut her mouth, teeth snapping closed on the words that wanted to come tumbling out like potatoes from an overturned truck. 

“I was talking about the boys,” she managed at last. “Vlad and Ivan. This isn’t Spring Break in Cabo, you know.” For just an instant, she was nearly overwhelmed with sadness. She’d never been to Spring Break—not in Cabo or anywhere else—and now that she was a mother it was too late for her to go. She’d missed her chance at being young and irresponsible.  She’d missed her chance at a lot of things. Damn you, Rock Fangsworthy.

Buffi pushed herself out of Rocks arms. Drawing herself erect, she glared at him. “This is a family winery, Rock, and I’m not the girl you once knew. You can’t just sex me up any time you feel like it now.” Rock’s jaw clenched. His vein started to throb. Buffi felt her resolve start to slip. Oh, well. On second thought, maybe…

Luckily, they were interrupted just then by a loud, braying noise that split the night. “What’s that sound?” Rock demanded, turning away from her to stare out into the adjoining field. “Who’s sneaking around out there? So help me, Buffi, if you’ve taken up with some mangy mongrel, if you’ve brought him here…”

Buffi laughed bitterly. “Me? You’re a fine one to talk!” Werewolves mated for life—something Rock seemed to have conveniently forgotten—unlike vampires, who'd happily propose marriage to anything with a pulse.

Buffi's keen wolf eyesight easily pierced the dark night darkness with ease. A small donkey galloped through the brush barely out-distancing the two puppies who chased after it, snapping at its heels. “That’s the rent-a-burro your fiancée left behind. Damn her and the ass she rode in on. She must have hitched a ride out of here with someone else. There was a mini-cooper parked just inside the front gate last night. I could tell the make and model when I sniffed the tire tracks it left in the mud.”

“The vampire hunter.” Rock's cold, hard blue eyes snapped like cold, hard blue fire.  “That no good, cross-bearing, taser-wielding cur. Do you still swear you had nothing to do with hiring him?”

“Whatever,” Buffi replied disinterestedly, already tearing off her clothes in preparation for shifting to wolf form. She had to get to her boys and stop them before they caught something that would make them sick.

Rock’s eyes grew big, round, startled looking.  “What are you doing?” he asked eagerly. “Not that I mind, but I thought you said we couldn’t?"

“Oh, Rock,” Buffi sighed helplessly. “How can you even think of sex at a time like this? I have to take care of my babies. I can’t let them eat that donkey—who knows where it’s been?”

“Buffi, wait!” Rock clutched her arm in one rock-like fist. “Boys will be boys. Let them have their fun. They’ll grow up to be nothing more than lazy, good-for-nothing lap dogs if you coddle them too much now. Is that really what you want for them?”

Was he right, Buffi wondered, stricken with guilt. Was he speaking now with the instinctive wisdom of a father who didn’t even know he was a father but still knew better than anyone what his half-vampire sons needed?  Wasn’t that exactly what she’d been hoping for when she’d come back to Bloodsuck?

“Let them be, Buffi,” Rock urged. “Let them run free. Like the wind.”

“Let’s go inside,” Buffi agreed, giving in at last to all the achy-breaky love in her heart. “I have a bed as big as Arkansas—just like that song you used to sing to me. And…toys.”

“Toys?” Rock asked hopefully. “What kind of toys?”

 Buffi smiled. “You know what I’m talking about.” She sure wasn’t talking about the rubber squeaky chewy things she bought for the twins.

“Handcuffs?”

“Possibly.”

“Oh, Buffi,” Rock sighed happily.  “Buffi, baby. You slay me.”

***

Billy Bob crept cautiously into the winery’s tasting room, past the passed out enologist lying peacefully on the floor. Concealed in his pocket were several paper packets of his special blend—a mixture of twenty-seven herbs and minerals (patent pending) he’d spent years perfecting—guaranteed to stop even the biggest, toothiest vampires in their undead tracks. He had no idea if it would work on winery owners as well, but from what he’d seen of Buffi Van Pelt, he was pretty sure she wasn’t the kind of girl you could just walk right up to and stake.

Chastity not withstanding, BB liked to think of himself as a gentleman when it came to women. He was too mannerly to outright kill the girl.  Besides, he was pretty sure the Bobson vampire hunting code took a dim view on the killing of non-vampires. Thinking about what Big Daddy would say if he knew what his son was up to was enough to make Billy Bob break out in a cold sweat—which, given the hot Texas night, actually felt pretty good.

There were several wine bottles standing ready on the tasting table. Billy Bob uncorked them and then set to work, quickly contaminating the lot and suffering only one small, incredibly painful, surprisingly bloody, but unlikely to be life-threatening paper cut in the process.

His mission accomplished, he’d just re-corked the last bottle and was getting ready to leave when he was stopped in his tracks by a terrifying growling sound that came from the direction of the door.

Damn it. Billy Bob frowned uncertainly at the two puppies who blocked his escape. This could spoil everything.

Just then, he spied a large burlap sack that someone had conveniently left behind (for no apparent reason) on one of the tasting room chairs and, on the table in front of it, the remains of what appeared to be the inebriated enologist's dinner: a NY strip steak. Perfect! This was just what he needed—and not even slightly contrived!

Billy Bob grabbed the bag and the meat with impatient hands and advanced on the puppies, crooning softly, “Here, puppy, puppy. Good dogs!”

To be continued...Chapter Eleven

If you enjoyed this chapter of The Zillionaire Vampire Cowboy's Secret Werewolf Babies, please be sure and join us again next Thursday for the next exciting installment.

You can read more about the serial HERE. And be sure to enter our contest! Rules and information can be found HERE. 

Scavenger Hunt Winners

Thanks to everyone who entered our Anniversary Hunt and congrats to the following winners:

3rd Prize - Ebooks of Just Right by Erin Nicholas and Primal Pleasure by Sydney Somers goes to: Jenn (meandi09@...)

2nd Prize - Ebooks of Iron by PG Forte and My Three Lords by Juniper Bell and a signed print copy of Beginnings: An Anthology from Kate Davies goes to: Yadira (yadkny@...)

1st Prize - $50 Gift Certificate for Amazon goes to: Lillie (lillie80@...)

Three Little Words

Only three words. But still they manage to strike terror into my heart.

"What's for dinner?"

Don't get me wrong, I like to cook. Trying out new recipes is fun; whipping up a dish that's been given the thumbs' up from the family in the past is a pleasure. But too often, I find myself glaring at the clock around 4 pm, then rooting around in the fridge in the vain hope that ingredients will magically rearrange themselves on the shelf so I can combine them into something tasty, healthy, and easy to prepare. What's worse is I work from home, so I don't have the handy "I was away at work all day" excuse.

And it can be easy to fall into a rut. There are certain quick and healthy meals I've given up on making, because I've gone to that well one too many times and have burned out the family on it.

That said, there are still a few things working for me in the meal-prep department.

1. The crock pot. Oh, crock pot, how I love thee. Soups, stews, tonight I even made barbeque ribs. There's something so satisfying about tossing a bunch of ingredients in a pot in the morning, ignoring it, and taking out dinner at the end of the day. It's like magic, but with more dishes to clean.

2. Listening to the family. Now, I'm not going to serve soda and pixy sticks at every meal just because the kids would really really like that pretty please. But when a meal is served and I get the, "didn't we just have this?" response, it's time to take it out of rotation, at least for a little while. Conversely, if something gets an enthusiastic YES, it's a good idea to keep those ingredients on hand.

3. Stock the fridge. This is where I fall down most often. The more ingredients I have on hand, the more likely I'll be able to whip something up for dinner at the last minute - and not be tempted by the "let's just go out to dinner" suggestion.

I'll end with one of my favorite quick to prepare crock pot meals. Feel free to add your own in the comments! *whips out notepad and pen, ready to take notes*

Cranberry Chicken

Boneless, skinless chicken breasts (one per person)
1 cup whole berry cranberry sauce
1 packet dry onion soup mix
1/2 cup French dressing

Place chicken breasts in crock pot. (Can be frozen) Mix remaining ingredients together and pour over chicken. Cook on low 6 or so hours. Enjoy.

Seriously, it's so easy it's ridiculous - but incredibly tasty as well. Goes great with mashed potatoes.

Happy cooking!

Passion: Erotica For Women

When Rachel Kramer Bussel put out a call for blogs to take part in her "Passion" virtual tour, I jumped on it, and not just because her anthologies--all of Cleis Press, really--are beautifully composed, but because this was subtitled "Erotica For Women."

What differentiated that from the more traditional literary erotica collected by Cleis? I just had to find out. Within the first few pages, it became clear. "Erotica for Women" is less edgy, maybe, more about the romance and female fulfillment than some other erotic stories I've read. The female point of view dominates, for sure.

But what I've found is that each story centers on building relationships, new or old, which definitely falls within the purview of many female readers. Though it may be stereotypical, women, as far as I've found, seek out new relationships as a matter of course. We feel energized and fulfilled by these new connections--I certainly do. And add a healthy dose of arousal and eroticism to the mix? Female heaven.

I was particularly taken with Angela Caperton's "Dear in the Headlights" because I feel it embodied not just the raw lust found in most erotica, but that indefinable touch that makes this story "erotica for women." It was not only sexy, but made me think about erotica and its possibilities in a new way, both as a reader and a writer.

The only issue I take with the anthology is this: though it may be erotica for women, this should definitely be required reading for men. Definitely. I will likely be slipping this book into the hands of some well-intentioned but misguided men I know in hopes that they'll learn a thing or twenty (one for each story) about how to bring passion to their relationships.

Curious? Well watch the trailer below, and get your hot little hands on a copy of "Passion: Erotica for Women" ASAP.

Whiteout

Right now, I have only one thing on my mind, one thing taking up all my time…so when I had to pick a blog topic, I really didn’t have a choice. What else could I write about besides…

Two days ago, everything was normal here in the town of Homer, Alaska. Days were getting shorter, nights were getting colder. Every morning we’d check the temperature—hm, got down to 28 last night. We’d squint up at the sky, admire the lovely flock of sheep-like clouds flitting across the blue, then get on with our various projects.

Then, overnight, it all changed. While we were sleeping, a veil of white fluttered down on us. The veil thickened to a featherbed, which grew and grew and grew until everywhere you look, white now stares back at you. White trees, white buildings, white ground, white cars. Everything is white except the sky, which has stayed a stubborn gray, warning of more to come.

Mark it down: November 6. The day the snow started falling on Homer this winter. As I write this post, it still hasn’t stopped. Two feet of fluff and counting. It’s everywhere, in enormous, exuberant amounts.

It’s as if we’re suddenly living in a different element, not air, but snow. To get anywhere, you have to wade through hip-high piles of the stuff. When you open a door, a ridge of newly fallen snow collapses on you. Everything—cars, trees, piles of lumber—has been transformed into ghostly white yak-like blobs. When you brush against them, you’re treated to a shower of icy crystals.

The onslaught of snow has to be factored into everything we do. If anything was left on the ground before the snow fell, you can forget about finding it until sometime in May. Everything takes twice as long to accomplish, once you add in the time it takes to put on your snow gear and wade through the drifts and chip the ice off the car. The drive into town, which usually takes fifteen minutes, can take half an hour of white-knuckle, afraid-to-blink navigating of icy curves.

Better to stay home. Which brings me back to where I started. Shoveling. Yes, that’s been my life for the last two days. Shoveling paths, making huge snow mountains, clearing the driveway, digging out the cars. Sure, the snow’s still coming, but we’ve got to start sometime, and who knows when it will stop? It’s hard, sweaty work, but when I take a break and the quiet flakes cool my face and I sense the silent sigh of the land settling in for the winter, it’s a joy.

Those of you who live in the North, has anyone else had snow this early in the winter? You in the South… jealous? ;) Or thanking your lucky stars?

Okay…back to work. Thanks for the break! If no one hears from me for a while, I’m either still shoveling…or we’re drowning in the stuff. I'll keep you posted.