So There I Was In Ireland...

Now, take a look at the picture on the left and tell me it doesn't look like a fairy glade. In fact, it's the home of the fairies who live in my next book. Okay, I don't have the name yet. Silhouette is still holding it in some vault somewhere. When I do, I promise I'll let us know. For now, I thought I'd talk a bit about putting a book like this together. My next post will be on the research I"m doing right now for my next suspense(no, I haven't forgotten those. I'm working hard on both genres at the moment).

So here I am with the third of my Daughters of Myth books to write for Silhouette. Number two, Sorcha's book(yeah. No title yet on that one, either) is in, is being edited, and I hope published this year. I'll let you know about that, too. Anyway, as I'd planned all along, the third book will be Orla's book, she of the rather surly disposition and the overwhelming desire for the fairy throne. I admit I love doing a book in which the bad person in one book is the heroine of the next. And poor Orla was certainly a bad girl. Not only was she the leannan sidhe (lyanan shee), which is the fairy who seduces and makes sexual slaves out of mortals, she went behind the queen's back to let some bad guys into the realm in an effort to prevent her sister from ascending the fairy throne.

Well, Nuala, that sister, is off in the land of mortal having babies. Sorcha, who was the next one the queen tapped to inherit the title, refused and is being punished by her mother, who sends her to a place her mother said was so terrible it would shrivel the very soul of a fairy--Yorkshire--to recover one of the lost Filial Stones--and okay, fall in love with a very uncooperative mortal named Harry. That leaves Orla to face whatever her punishment is for not only letting the bad guys in, but inadvertently letting them get away with the other Filial Stone(which brings power to the world of fairy). So her mother the queen has decided that she's going to offer Orla up to the enemy: she's wedding Orla to the prince of the Dubhlainn Sidhe.

Well, on the good side, I love a good marriage-of-convenience book. I also plan on doing a bit of a riff on Lysistrata with Orla's story, since the very masculine Dubhlainn Sidhe need to be taught to temper their testosterone a bit. I can't wait to see what trouble we're going to stir up.

On the not so good side, I realized that for the first time I had to set an entire book completely in the world of fairy. No characters peeking in with dry observations. No human intervention. Just fairies. And this is a fairy world I've kind of completely made up. So I have to flesh it out a bit more, especially since it will be with a completely different fairy clan than the one I've already introduced. It'll be like that Star Trek where they ended up in an alternate universe. Everything looks familiar, but not the same.

So I've spent the last few days doing a family tree of the royal family of the Dubhlainn Sidhe and how it connects to the mortal line of the second book, and the family of Orla, who is a princess of the Tuatha de Dannan clan. It's amazing how internecine that all can be. Because the king, Cathal, has a relationship with the mortal in the second book, and a relationship with Orla herself. But I didn't want to make it too close. Even fairies have consanguination rules. At least in my world of fairies.I can't begin to tell you how much trouble I had with all those cousins and grandkids. I might put the whole tree up on my website, once I figure out how to do it.

Then I had to give the fairies who populate this clan names. Not easy names, like Declan and Connor. Fairies aren't named after soccer players. They have Gaelic names with lots of silent consonants. And they each have a meaning, which is important. Because the women of the Dubhlainn Sidhe have become very passive and put-upon by their men. Until Orla shows up and points out the error of their ways--and their names. "With names like 'peace' and 'soft' and 'melodic,' how can you think to stand up for yourself? Couldn't one of your sires have named you 'warrior' or invincible? Goddess, I'd even settle for 'fiery one.'"

And, of course, I've been pouring over the pictures I took on my last trip to Ireland. I knew that the Tuatha de Dannan had their seat in the fields of Sligo. I'd been there and scouted out the area. Well, the Dubhlainn Sidhe couldn't be there, too. Very territorial, those Dubhlainn Sidhe. So I thought it might be a good idea to send them farther south. And when I went to look, I found the perfect place in Killarney. The picture on the left is in a valley called Gleann Fia, or glen of the deer, or fairy. It really looks like a fairy glade. But it's very close to another place called the Gap of Dunloe, which is bare, windswept and rugged. That's the picture on the right. And that's where the Dubhlainn Sidhe rule, too, because I've decided they control the wild places. And I had to know that before I could really get a handle on Orla's story. I had to have it all to really know who the hero is, even though I'd introduced him in Dangerous Temptation. He is Liam the Avenger. And with a name like that, don't you think he belongs in those mountains?
Now that I know a little bit more about him, I can't wait to see what he does there.

Not That I Feel Strongly About That....

That's what I'm thinking of titling my blog. I told one of my friends and she almost had a hernia. "Who, you?" she demanded. "Have opinions?" Yeah, okay. You know I do. It's a fine old tradition in our house. My mother was notorious. My dad couldn't get through a meal without staring a debate on something; anything. My brother and I get into shouting matches. And if we begin to agree, we switch positions and play devil's advocate, just to keep the debate going(once one of my son's friends came in while my brother and I were leaning across my kitchen counter finger-waving and shouting at each other over...oh, I don't know. Gun control. Nuclear disarmament. Exactly what part John Wayne played in the psyches of the males in the US. "Good grief," he said to my son. "Do they always do that?" Kevin shook his head sadly and said, "You should see what happens when her sister shows up.")

I was raised in a family that's lousy with Jesuits. We were steeped in the tradition of debate and discussion. And, yeah, I hit my formative years in the 60s, when anything was fair game for a good round of argument. There's nothing I love better. It is not only a learning experience, but the best exercise I can think of for the brain--certainly better than soduko, which makes my eyes bleed. I think debates clear the air. They open the door to new ideas and demand a person defend a position with tenacity, all the while allowing her (or him) to remain open to the discovery of new ideas. They sharpen a person's verbal skills and teach her to crystallize concepts.

My last post evidently started a very active debate. Passionate in some quarters. It ended up fitting into a dandy discussion going on over at Laura Vivanco's blog, Teach Me Tonight(the post on Elizabeth Thornton's Fallen Angel). I didn't agree with everything said, and I certainly wasn't agreed with by everyone. But I couldn't be more delighted. I think the idea of violence against women in the romance genre is one that should continually be examined. And I think that the discussions I read have been passionate, thoughtful, insightful, and intelligent. Should we label romance to indicate issues that might disturb? Would limiting content be censorship, if the same book can be published elsewhere? Is the observation being made in CTC valid? I still feel strongly about my position, but I can see valid points in many of the dissenting views.

I don't like censorship any better than anybody else. But I do believe that genres, by definition, have boundaries. I'm intrigued by the labeling idea. Some think it would be demeaning. I'm not sure. Nobody considers Harlequin to be patronizing by clearly marking their lines and what the parameters are for each. It's not censorship so much as marketing. It's something to think about I wouldn't have considered if there hadn't been a debate at all.

Which is why they're so much fun. Just ask any Jesuit. Or my mother.

eileen\kathleen, the evil twins.

Eileen the Angry

No, Eileen the furious. Eileen the outraged. Eileen the greatly disappointed.

Before I tell you why, let me preface it by giving you a bit of my history. I worked in trauma nursing for sixteen years. We were the catchment hospital for familial abuse, so I took care of endless numbers of women caught in a terrifying spiral of violence, abuse and degradation because they'd been taught that they were worthless, powerless and lucky to have the man who was crippling her and her children. So I have absolutely no objectivity about the subject. I know what an abuser looks like what he(statistically) sounds like and what the cost of his abuse is.

One of the things I've been proudest of in romance is that as a genre, we have persistently communicated the message that women have power, that women deserve to be loved, to be respected, and to have their needs and wishes fulfilled in a healthy relationship. Yes, especially in the early years, the message has occasionally been much darker. And I"ll tell you something, and I'm not being flippant. I used to stand in bookstores and watch to see who bought the kind of books that taught women that all they deserved was pain and punishment. That this was the definition of love. Universally, the women who picked up these books walked across to the self-help aisle and bought books on how to deal with abusive mates.

It makes perfect sense. If they've already been taught that this is all they deserve, this is the message they're reinforce in their romance books. Thankfully, those books were mostly weeded out. And while I can intellectually appreciate the "Taming the Beast" message of the old rape fantasies, I"m afraid that the women reading them for reinforcement, told me that the message they got was that if they just hung around long enough, their abuser would be redeemed by the love of a good woman. Usually what I saw was those good women on slabs in the morgue.

And now, the spectre of the abusive hero has reared its unspeakably ugly head again. I'm not talking about the old "he forced her when he first knew her but learned his lesson through pain and work" books. I'm talking about a book that is an abuser's lexicon. And worst of all, it came out from Avon. I guess I expected better of them. The author is new. She's very talented. Which is even more unsettling, because she does provoke emotion. It's called Claiming the Courtesan. What I'd call it is "Punishing the Helpless."

I read about fifty pages, and thought, 'no, it can't really be this bad." I checked in with All About Romance, whose reviewers I respect. I found out that it was far worse than I'd thought. The hero, a duke, has the most notorious mistress in London. She leaves. He refuses to allow that, insanely furious that she has the nerve to leave him(even though she's fulfilled her contract). He stalks her(and doesn't raise really comfortable images), kidnaps her and terrorizes her. He doesn't simply continually rape her, he forces home the message that she's worthless.

"You still don't understand, do you, Verity? And I've always considered you to be a very clever little poppet. You have no power. You have no rights. You belong to me. This isn't London. This is a forgotten little corner of a feudal domain. And I am its lord. There is nowhere to run. There's no one to help you. If I want you--and we both know that I do--I take you."

In St. Louis, we have a law that allows police who respond to domestic abuse situations to judge the real abuser by language alone, because the language of an abuser is classic and universal. What you just read would have had that man arrested and indicted. There could not be more classic abuse language.

I'm afraid, as Sandy Coleman said on All About Romance, that somebody's going to call this unfortunate work as 'edgy and cutting edge'. Not at all. It yanks us right back to the years when women were powerless and only good for subservience and obedience. And if it's all the same to you, we've worked too damn hard to climb out of that pit to go back there. Especially the thousands of women who risked their lives to save themselves and their children from the kind of situation this book glorifies. On behalf of my genre, I apologize to them all.

Eileen/Kathleen

The Two Sweetest Words in the English Language

Yes, that's right. The end. I finished my book this last weekend. I would have blogged about it Monday, except that was devoted to converting all my Wordperfect 6.2 files into Word for Windows so they could be edited at Silhouette, then copying them all, then sending the snailmail and the email versions to editors and agents.

Then the last two days I wandered around the house feeling a bit disoriented and lost, which is exactly what happens after I finish a book. I don't know where I'm supposed to be, because I"m not in my office sweating blood. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing, because I don't have a book hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles. Of course, I have the next book already hanging there. I need to start on that by the end of the week, because I want it finished within two months. But for now, I'm actually taking a bit of a breather.

How to describe the actual end of a book you've totally focused on for so long. First of all, I admit that I waste an inordinate amount of time cleaning it up and writing the last three or four pages. First, because I do not have an active brain cell in the linear logic division, and have to clean up my continuity errors(WHAT was that person's name again?) and make sure all my clues are in place for whatever happens later. Second, and the truest, I think, is because no matter how much I struggled over those characters, I've loved them enough to struggle over them in the first place. I've spent the last few months in intimate acquaintance with them. And, to be honest, The End also translates into Good Bye.

I simply hate to send my lovely characters away to someone who might not love them as much as I do. I hate to forfeit the feeling of delight and discovery I've enjoyed when a surprise character shows up(in this newest book, the second of the Daughters of Myth series for Silhouette Nocturne, I was surprised when exactly halfway through the book, a little four-year-old named Lilly made a dramatic entrance, and I fell instantly, madly in love with her. Lilly has Down Syndrome. And as she appeared on the set of my book, I discovered that the world of faerie calls children with Down Syndrome their "Cherished Ones", because nothing is more beautiful to the world of faerie than pure joy; and these children will never lose theirs. In fact, they are the only children who will never be too old to see the fairies). Quite simply, I hate to say goodbye.

But that's what The End is all about. And I'll be able to visit with them in about two months when I get my copy-edit back. And, hopefully, get to talk about them when people read the book. I'll let you know when it's scheduled. Oh, and what it's titled. The title committee's in charge of this one.

Eileen\Kathleen, the evil twins

Happy St. Patrick's Day

Yes, I know I'm late posting, but I"ve spent the day with my family. We consider this one of the high holy days, and spend it together--usually at a restaurant as far removed from an Irish bar as we can get. Because, you see, we're not amateurs, and we don't see a need to mix with them.

St. Louis has a monstrous celebration: fourth largest in the country. We have two parades: one downtown that is the big public one, and one in the area we call Dogtown where the original Irish immigrants settled, put on by the Ancient Order of the Hibernians. Usually those parades are separate, because the downtown parade is always on a Saturday and the AOH parade is always on St. Patrick's Day. And yeah, they coincided this year. The AOH parade is completely family oriented--well, as much as it can be when bars are open. And all the bars and restaurants with an O in the title rent tents and pour green beer. My very favorite site in St. Louis, John D. McGurk's, actually puts up a wire cage, like Blues Brothers, to keep the crowd from falling over the traditional Irish music band that plays.

So I refuse to wear shamrock glasses or F#$# Me I'm Irish buttons or silly green wigs. I figure if you take one look at my face, you get the idea. But it's a very important day for my family. Mostly I guess because of my mom. She was Irish with a capitol I. Wept at sad music(is there any other kind?), celebrated any Irish triumph, railed against the British(she used to point out the fact that there were no trees in Ireland. "It's because the English tore them down to build warships in the 1800s", she'd say. "Couldn't they have planted them again any time in the last, oh, say, eighty years they've been an independent country?" I'd ask. She'd smack me. After all, what's the point of replanting the forests if that takes away the chance to blame the English for taking them down in the first place? Fortunately, Ireland is much more sensible than my mom. They've started replanting.

If you've read anything I've ever written, you'll see how important Ireland is to me. It infuses everything I write. My themes tend to be guilt and redemption. My heroines are usually named something like Maggie or Molly. My families are dysfunctional(have you read Angela's Ashes? I know those people. I'm related to them--fortunately, one ring out on the family tree, so they're interesting instead of devestating). I find the dynamic of the Irish character endlessly fascinating. A land of madmen and poets, Ireland is called. So true; so true. I can't tell you the times I've walked into a music pub and seen a pathetic, drooling, can't-clean-himself drunk passed out on the bar until somebody with the band says, "Tommy, lad, will you give us a song?" And suddenly, for the length of time it takes him to finish a song--maybe twelve verses of it--he lifts himself, opens his rheumy eyes, his mouth, and a sound of pure beauty pours out from him. Then, finished, he lowers his head again. Amazing.

Yeah, I go to Ireland frequently. (Here are a couple of my pictures.) I can't help it. I was just saying tonight that I missed it--especially in the spring. There are so many places on earth I want to see, but every other year, like a salmon hearing the call of the river where he was spawned, I have to return to the west coast of Ireland and sit out on a headland and write longhand in a notebook. I sit the whole evening in the music pubs, and if I'm lucky, sing the old songs(I actually have a collection a friend gave me entitled "It's not an Irish love song if nobody dies"). It's therapy. We figured I've been over thirteen times. I can't wait to get back. It's where God lives for me. It's where countless generations of ancestors call to me, and the cousins who are still there welcome me with family stories. It's where I tap into the core of creativity(more on that in a later post).

So if you'll excuse me, I"m going to put on the movies Into the West, then Matchmaker and Ryan's Daughter and sigh for the most beautiful spot on earth. In the meantime, Slainte! I hope your St. Patrick's Day was nice, be ye Irish or not.

Eileen and Kathleen, the evil twins

I love it when a plan comes together

I've been hanging around Anne Stuart and Jenny Crusie a lot lately, and have been reading their blogs with great interest, and I love how they do that 12 days of whatever book they're writing. I'm also amazed that they can do it. My problem is that, usually, if I'm writing about writing a book, I'm not actually writing the book. If the book is working, all I can think of is getting words down on the page before they all disappear, like soap bubbles. I think about it so much that when I'm driving I miss exits, and when I'm cooking I burn whatever's on the stove. Because I'm just not there.

Such is the case right now. I'm only taking the time to write this because my husband is working on my work computer(the computer I write on is completely separate from this one. Not only that, its working systems are completely obsolete so my kids would never play on it. Yeah, okay, they're now adults and sneer at my computer, but old habits die hard--especially the habit of creating a book in Word Perfect 6.2). So I thought this would be the perfect time to talk a bit about end stage manuscripts. At least mine.

I'm not what you'd call a scheduled writer. I'm more what we lovingly call a "binge-and-purge_ writer. I spend days wandering the house staring at nothing, and then spit out at least a chapterin about 2 hours. I just did that yesterday. I spent 60% of my time on a book in the first five chapters. It's like pulling teeth for me. I liken it to a rollercoaster, when you're heading up that long, long hill, with the tracks making that click-click noise, and you think you're never going to get there and then suddenly.....woosh!!! Well, woosh happens to me just about when it reaches critical deadline time. One of my cousins put it most beautifully. "Eileen," she said. "You're just no damn good 'til the two-minute warning." She has a point.

So here I was(right before Rick had to fix my computer), with about 3/4 of the second book in the Daughters of Myth series(I can't remember the title--because the Silhouette title committee came up with it), about Queen Mab's second daughter Sorcha who has to convince a very angry mortal that he's in possession of one of the great ruling stones of faerie, and that she needs it back before all heck breaks loose. And he's just a guy trying to escape the notoriety of a family that made its name photographing fairie--and then, allegedly, catching one. And the bad guys have found them, and since the bad guys are fairies, they can do terrible things like infect dreams with terrible violence, and I'm at the 3/4 point, and I know kinda what has to happen to get to the end of the book, but not exactly, and I'm trying to write with my eyes closed, as if, if I don't look, it'll all work out, and suddenly, why suddenly-----woooosh!

I know exactly how Sorcha proves herself, and how Harry redeems himself, and how little Lilly, his neice who has Down Syndrome, which makes her one of the world of faerie's Cherished Ones, is saved from the evil fairies. It came to me on a flaming pie, as John Lennon used to say, and that's how all the best stuff always comes to me. And, even after over thirty books, it's still a surprise.

So Rick's finished now, and I'm going to head back to my office to send Sorcha and Harry after the great Dearann Stone, with Cian on their tails, since he wants the stone to help his clan gain all the power in the world of faerie--which would also rob the earth of any more springs--and Darragh from the first book playing his part, and....

well, we'll all just have to wait to see how it turns out. The good news is that I know. Whew! What a relief. I just love it when a plan comes together.

eileen\kathleen, the evil twins

Why dog shows are like publishing

I admit it. I'm a dog show junkie. There's just something about canines on a runway that attracts me; I can't say why. So I watched Westminster the other night--well, two nights. And I have to admit that I was pleased by the results. A beautiful springer spaniel won. I was pleased. Not thrilled. I'm waiting for more big dogs to win. I'm a big dog girl. I've had two golden retrievers, two labs, and a great dane. I have dogs that would eat the entire toy category for lunch. I want a dane to win. Even an Irish setter. Come on, you have to admit that there isn't anything quite as gorgeous as an Irish setter on the move.

But those small dogs keep winning. Okay. They jump around. Okay, they have cute little legs that work like hamsters in a wheel to get down that carpet and back in the allotted time. Okay, they've been groomed to within an inch of their lives(I still say, poor poodles. My aunt had a standard poodle. It was a magnificent dog. All I could think of watching those pouffed and moussed creatures they had prancing down the runway was, a)isn't your butt cold in this weather? and b) all the other dogs must laugh at you....when they're finished laughing at the Mexican hairless, anyway.

But I realized as I watched, that indeed, dog shows are like publishing. It doesn't matter if you have the winningest dog in the US(a long pouffy mop of a dog called the Dandy Dinmont). It doesn't matter if your dog is more popular with the crowd(the ubiquitous PBGB). What matters is the objective opinion of one man or woman on one night. Like the announcer says, they come down from 2500 entries to the 7 top dogs. And the judge said he wished he could give out seven ribbons, because the best of class were all champion dogs(I still can't warm up to the poodles) (of course, I doubt they can warm up, either)(I do love the explanation of why they have those puffballs of fur on their knees. It's to keep their knees warm in the water. Well, what about the rest of their naked back half?). But, considering that these dogs were considered the very best representation of their classes, perfect in conformation and blessed with a showring attitude(boy, could that bouvier stack). (yeah, I even have the lingo), it came down to intangibles nobody can control.

So there you are as an author. You might be the best author of your generation. You might have written a book--even a series of books--that are beautifully reviewed, that are beloved by your friends and family and even the critique partner who can never find a nice thing to say about you. You might even find an agent who loves your stuff. But if you don't get the subjective approval from an editor, it doesn't matter. And no matter how brilliant a worsdsmith you are, or how beautifully you craft characters or plots or themes, no matter how timely or topical, the sad fact is that often it ends up in the area of intangibles as to whether you're picked for the show. And then whether, once picked, you get the attention of the rest of the people in the publishing house. And the sales force. And the.....you get the idea.

On the other hand, if you're a writer, you do it because you can't not do it. So you might as well shoot for that ring in Madison Square Garden and the single spot, with that judge calling, "the winner is....." I know I do.

eileen\kathleen, the evil twins

Finally, Kareena

So here I am back at the coffee shop, and I figure it's about time I told you about Kareena Boudreaux. Now, for anybody who hasn't read it, SINNERS AND SAINTS is where you'll find my lovely Kareena, one of my favorite second-bananas I've ever gotten to write. SINNERS takes place mostly in New Orleans. I wanted to do a fish out of water book, in which my heroine, Chastity Byrnes, has to leave one of the premiere forensic communities, here in St. Louis, to wade through the much different forensic community in New Orleans. I think if I say "Good old boy" network, you'll get it. If I mention it might be a weensy bit inefficient, you might be able to see evidence of that, too, especially since Katrina.

Anyway, to set up Chastity's foray through a completely new community, I needed a guide. I knew that the male protagonist would be an ex-firefighter-turned-cab-driver, James Guidry(I really didn't want to fall into that "her boyfriend's a cop" cliche of discovering what was going on in the case). But James didn't have the contacts Chastity needed. But then, Chastity is a forensic nurse,one of the newest breed of forensic scientists. She is an ED liaison, who collects evidence, evaluates and testifies in abuse cases, and works with the police in a myriad of ways. And the thing about forensic nurses, is that because it's still such a new profession, they tend to know each other.

Which is how I came across Kareena. I was at a forensic nurse conference(I am trained, but do not call myself a forensic nurse, because I do not practice) in 2003, when I ran across the Forensic Nurse Liaison for the Charity Hospital ER in New Orleans. Her name is Karen Chabert, and she is not just funny, beautiful, interesting and edgy, she is a brilliant forensic nurse and an even better teacher. And she had every contact I needed for research.
"Please," I begged her. "I'm coming down to New Orleans for some forensic research. Help me."
"On one condition," she said."You have to have a character named Kareena Boudreaux from Cut-Off Louisiana, and she has to be sexy."

Well, when somebody makes a suggestion like that--that is pure gold--I gave them three good chances to change their mind. I gave her those three chances. She insisted. I wrote Kareena Boudreax.

Kareena is kind of my voice of New Orleans in the book. She knows the not-so-good stuff that happens down there, but she knows the really good stuff and good people, too. She knows how hard most of them work to do the right thing. And she knows that they're all doing it in New Orleans, which has rules and traditions all its own. Okay, and she knows the ways to circumvent them all to get the information she needs.

Karen Chabert took me through Charity, even to the morgue, which was built in the 1800s, and looked like it. She introduced me to people and drove me through the city with a forensic nurse's eye(we went back again after the hurricane, and she took me through the Lower Ninth Ward, where she pointed to one destroyed house after another saying, "One of my patients lived there...one of my patients lived there...that's where the chaplain lived. They still haven't found his sister. We sat in a warm April sun in the middle of desolation the likes of which I had only seen in photoes of Hiroshima, and prayed for all those patients she'd lost that day. I'm still not sure whether they found the chaplain's sister).

But as much a consummate professional as she is, she's also one of the funniest, most wonderful people I know. She's a member of the Zulu krew for Mardi Gras, and has taken her comments about medicine to live stand-up comedy clubs. She's taught forensic courses and raised money for the police, and made friend with every one of them. And when Charity was lost to the hurricane, she lost not only her job, but her beloved dog, and was homeless for months.

Karen is back now. Just as I considered Kareena my voice of New Orleans, I consider Karen the face of it. Because like the city, she suffered, but she's fighting back. And she's doing it in the most amazing style. If I get her permission, I'll find my picture of her on the Zulu krew and post it. Til then, when you read Kareena, think of her. And remember that although Karen was my inspiration, Kareena is only a shadow of her inspiration.

eileen\kathleen, the evil twins

the local coffee shop

I know, I keep saying I'm going to write about the genesis of my character Kareena Boudreaux in SINNERS AND SAINTS, and I keep meaning to, really. It's just that there are so many interesting different factors in writing, that I feel a compulsion to write about something else and then forget Kareena. And I'm about to do it again.

I'd like to pen an ode to my local cybercafe. Now, please understand that I have friends who have had their own cybercafes for years, and I have coveted their cafes. One friend, Rexanne Becnel, goes to the mother of all coffee shops in New Orleans in a historic building with true eccentrics and artists manning the tables. I have a lowly whitebread neighborhood, five tables and a fireplace(okay, there are some comfy chairs) (no one expects the Spanish Inquisition). Sorry. Couldn't help it. Anyway, it's not much as far as Hemingwayesque atmosphere. But it's mine. Well, mine and the guy who owns it and all the other people who come in through the day. But the point is that a)it's a funky little place with nice owners who treat you like friends, b) it has free wireless, and c) it isn't my house.

One thing you need to know about me is that for years my husband would regularly kick me out. Me, a pitcher of iced tea, my CD player and my laptop. I'd check into a local motel and closet myself in for four days or so in an effort to finish a deadline. And I'm here to tell you that it's amazing how much you can get written in a boring beige room with nothing but a bad print of the Grand Canyon for decoration. There must be a Chinese restaurant within a five block radius, of course. But other than that, I don't leave the room.

It's wonderful. You see, writing is a very selfish business. When the book is working, you don't want to stop for anything. Not husbands, police, children or doctors' appointments. You just want to play in the world you've created. But when you're working in your house, there's no way to avoid any of that. So I'd have trouble getting the deadlines done. Thus the motel. Well, I kept telling myself that once the kids were grown, I could skip the hotel. After all, I'd have the house to myself--with all the business work I hadn't done yet, the TV, the internet for mail and e-bay, and, of course, the evil telephone, which, as an old trauma nurse, I'm not allowed to leave unanswered. Because the one time I don't answer the phone, it will be the ER calling about a loved one in a perilous state of health, who demands my permission or referral RIGHT AWAY. Somehow that kind of thing doesn't occur to me when I'm not in the house to hear the phone ring.

So you see that the empty house thing wasn't enough. And then my cybercafe opened up. It's called Wired Coffee, and it's a cute little corner place with bright colors and soup for lunch. And nothing but my computer. I was there today because my internet went out and I had to use their wireless. And then I remembered how nice it was to write there. The music is good acoustic 60's stuff. The coffee is excellent and comes with free refills. And nobody really looks over your shoulder. I've tried writing on a plane, but nobody respects monitor privacy in a plane. And I sure don't want just anybody reading either my sex scenes or my serial killer scenes while seated next to me on a full four hour flight. In the coffee shop, nobody notices. They just know I'm working hard.

So what happens is, I get eleven pages written, just like today. I even leave in time to get dinner for my husband. I did ask the proprietor if he wouldn't mind lending me the key so I could come back about 1AM when I do my best work. I had to settle for coming back tomorrow. Which I might just do. I'll let you know. I'll drop a blog from the shop.

eileen\kathleen, the evil twins

If It's Tuesday, This Must Be Edits

Oh, if writing were a linear life. If only I wrote a book, published a book, basked in the glory of publishing a book(or the ignominious shame of not selling a book well), and then started researching the next book. Of course, if I did it that way, it would take at least twice as long for any of my books to come out.

This is January. I have a suspense that just came out in December(SINNERS AND SAINTS), a romance that came out in October(DANGEROUS TEMPTATION). I am in the process of telling you how the suspense came to be while I'm doing final page proof edits on the collaborative novel(THE UNFORTUNATE MISS FORTUNES) I did with Jenny Cruise and Anne Stuart that's slated for June '07. I'm writing the text of the second book in the romance trilogy that came out in October as I research my next suspense by taking courses in brain physiology and arson investigation. Oh, and I'm working with Jenny and Anne on setting up the website to promote The MIss Fortunes, and outlining the regency-era action trilogy I've been wanting to do for a long time and won't leave me alone.

In my spare time I'm organizing the travel for the speaking engagements and conferences I'm signed up for this spring (it will be on the website soon. But expect me in San Antonio, Seattle, Bloomington, Illinois, Cincinnati and Indianapolis). I'm sending out PR info, speech proposals, contest winnings, blogs on friends' blogs(LIPSTICK CHRONICLES), and writing the first blog for the new UNFORTUNATEMISSFORTUNES.COM website. Oh, and doing my best to map out the geneology of the mortal family who interact with the world of faerie in my next book(they all have to descend from the same great-great granfather without having three eyes and a fin).

Which is why authors are sometimes so confused when they see you at a signing or conference and you quote their latest book. That book might have only come out four months ago, but the author is already three books--and characters and crises and conflicts---past that already. It's also why it's tough for us to really enjoy our success. By the time we have it with a book--if we do--we're already hating the next book or the one after that we're stuck in the middle of with no obvious way out.

Ah, if it only happened in a linear fashion. But, alas, it doesn't. Which is why all those years working the emergency room stood me in such good stead.

eileen\kathleen, the evil twins

Happy holidays

It's been a few days since I've posted. Amazing how time flies when you have twenty people to the house for Christmas eve and then another thirty five to your dad's the next day. We had a wonderful Christmas. My whole family was here, which every year is getting to be a much more iffy proposition, considering the fact that my f-i-l is 95, and my own dad is 85. But we were blessed once again.

May I extend my most sincere and heartfelt wishes for your own holiday celebrations. I think it's a wonderful time of the year, and a wise time to place some of the most important holidays, right in the depths of winter, when the human in us simply wants to curl up and close our eyes, not really sure that spring will come again. Then there are lights everywhere, and people are actually kind in store parking lots, and okay, they play "It's a Wonderful Life" on tv ad nauseum. It really does get us through these shortest days of the year with hope.

I just read an extraordinary article in the New York Times that I'd like to include. http://www.nytimes.com/2007/01/01/us/01charles.html?ex=1168318800&en=302f250eda6c7ed8
&ei=5070&emc=eta1

I'm not sure if it will come through, but it's the story of a young soldier who wrote a diary to his newborn son on how to live without him if necessary. That soldier didn't come home from Iraq. This story to me highlights the special bond of the season, and I hope you'll take a moment to think of those men and women halfway across the world, who give of themselves to protect us. No matter your politics, these are our brightest and best, and they deserve our respect and gratitude. So the next time you're in an airport and see someone in uniform, reach out and shake a hand. Say thank you. I know they appreciate it. They're usually startled. Or donate to one of the many services that send small mementos of home to that distant place. Or just pray for them. My brother came home from Vietnam and was spit on for risking his life in an alien land. We know better now. But it can't hurt to take that extra step to say thank you. Especially at this time of year.

And to you and yours, a happy and healthy holiday season, and a wonderful new year.

my very best,
eileena and kathleen, the evil twins

The tao of booksignings

"Excuse me. Can you tell me where VC Andrews is?"
And so begins another adventure in the wonderful world of booksignings. Here I am at a major chain bookseller, sitting at the little table they've set up right in the pathway to not only the information booth but the bathroom--because people WANT you to interrupt their mad dash to pee for the chance to buy a suspense novel about New Orleans(they're probably just sneakinging in from the arcade down the hall anyway). Even better, right in front of me is the package-wrapping booth, which means that a shopper doesn't see me through the snaky line until she barks her knee against the aforementioned table. But me? I'm smiling.

"Hey," I say, trying very hard not to sound like a carnival barker with a waxed mustache and a megaphone. "Do you know someone who likes suspense?(I assume you know somebody who likes books, because you are, after all, in a bookstore). This is a really cheap Christmas present. The autograph is free(if I could have figured out how to charge for it, I would have)(only because I'm supporting pagan babies in Africa)."

Rubbing at her sore knee, she checks out the geometric patterns of the ceiling lights rather than make eye contact. She might have the courage to shake her head as she scuttles past, obviously afraid I'm going to take her to the floor and force her name from her so I can personally inscribe a book she'll then be forced to take home.

Me? I smile. First of all, because I know exactly how she feels. I'm not any happier than she is. I am TERRIBLE at promoting myself. Every time I even think of saying, "I highly recommend this book. I think you'll love it and want to take it home," I can feel Sr. Mary Alice, my gradeschool Dominican nun teacher standing over my shoulder all set to smack me for the sin of pride. Now, I can promote anybody else. Sit me at that table with another author and I'll sell them til they don't have a book left.

That's actually the secret to any booksigning. Bring friends who are also selling books. It's amazing how much more fun it is. There's someone else you can talk to in the lag times, so you're not just watching the crowd like a drowning woman hoping for a rope. You have someone else to play fashion police with(one of my favorite pasttimes at signings. For instance, today what I notice is that about a third of women over the age of 30 are wearing the wrong size jeans. And I'm praying that I don't look like that from the back). And there's somebody there in case you're the one who desperately needs to pee, so you don't miss even one customer.

Never forget. No matter how happy and relaxed we look, most of us would rather be dancing naked down Fifth Avenue than sit at that table(well, there are some of us who really would rather be dancing naked down Fifth Avenue. That's another topic altogether). Not because we don't want to meet you, the reader. Dear God yes, we want to meet you. We love book people. We positively yearn to talk to book people about books, about authors, about genres or LIT-rature, about anything. The problem is that not even Nora Roberts gets to spend all of a signing visiting with book people. Well, okay, maybe she does now. But I've actually been to a signing with her(my job was to clean off the clump of ink from the end of her pen), when not ONE person showed up.

It was my most important lesson in booksignings. Murphy rules. Just cause you're there, just cause you've done everything to let other people know you're there, maybe even unto radio shows and TV and newsletters, it doesn't mean you're going to have a good showing. That part really doesn't bother me at all. I still get to talk to the booksellers who are, after all, book people. But there is still that part about sitting at a table right in everybody's way waiting, hoping, PRAYING somebody just comes up to talk to you so you don't look like such a big loser. And then, finally, somebody comes up to you, smiling. You smile back. Your heart flutters. Your palms sweat. You straighten and hope you don't have any foam on your lip from the latte you've just scarfed down instead of lunch. And then, she opens her mouth. And she says,

"Excuse me. Can you tell me where VC Andrews is?"

And I say, "She's dead. Buy my book instead."

Okay, not really. But it would have made the time go faster.

Cristophe the cab driver

To preface this, let me say that when I set out to write SINNERS AND SAINTS, I knew that my heroine was going to be a classic fish out of water. A certified forensic nurse who worked in St. Louis, she has to wade through the good old boy network of New Orleans politics and police to find her missing sister. Well, I love writing both a heroine and a hero. The dynamics are always fun, and each brings a unique perspective to the story. And I didn't want to fall into the cliche "she's dating a cop who can get all her info". But who would she--a trauma nurse--trust in a strange city? Easy. A firefighter. Only this guy couldn't be on the job. He had to have lots of free time. So I created James Guidry, a scarred ex-firefighter-turned-New-Orleans-cabdriver. He's a native, Chastity can hire him to help her, and he knows the city. Voile! The problem was, I didn't know any cab drivers. I knew forensic pathologist, forensic nurse liaisons(that's another entry), cops, authors, artists and tarot card readers. And it seemed not one of them knew a cab driver either. So I went searching.

It was 2AM on a weeknight that I hit the jackpot. My friend Karen and I had been doing research out at one of the lakeside bars that probably isn't there anymore. A great place with beer and boots and a surfeit of Dwight Yokum. After a few hours, we needed a ride home and called a cab. And who we got was Cristophe.

Yeah, just the name probably says it all. A man of more than one race, although I didn't closely quizz him on which ones, he was slick and sleek and handsome, with long hair tied back in a queue, skin the color of cafe mocha and a delicious New Orleans accent. He had statues of saints on his dashboard and jazz on the radio. And he said he'd be happy to answer my questions. We went over schedules, maps, routines, problems. We reached my friend's house. Cristophe wouldn't let us out. Not yet. "I cannot tell you all about my beloved N'awlins in ten minutes," he protested. "I'll tell you what. Let me take you to my favorite restaurant in the Fauberg Marigny, and we'll talk, and I'll tell you all about my life, and we'll watch the sun come up." And that's just what we did.

Of course the longer we talked, the more I learned about New Orleans. Not just what Cristophe said. What he didn't say. The statues on his dashboard weren't saints. They were his loas of voodoo, there to ensure him safety, money and success. He wasn't really from New Orleans. He was from Queens. And I have a real suspicion that his name wasn't Cristophe(it was a while later before I found out that Cristophe was also a character in an Ann Rice novel). But he was the epitome of the best of New Orleans; its whimsy and creativity and bravado. The fact that anybody(but a local, evidently) can remake themself into whatever image they please there. A lot of the flavor of SINNERS AND SAINTS came from that cab ride. And not a little of James Guidry. I have two grease-stained place mats from La Peniche,crammed full of notes. I have material for more than one book. And I have the satisfaction of knowing that I mortified my daughter.

As Cristophe dropped us off, we exchanged phone numbers in case there were any more questions. The next day, my daughter called me from St. Louis. "Mom," she said, sounding truly bemused. "Some guy named Cristophe called? He said he has some great places to show you?" You can imagine how confused she was by a hot young guy calling her MOTHER. "Yeah, baby," I said. "That's right. I'm cool." I'm not sure she's gotten over it yet.

Next I'll tell you about the lovely, inimitable Kareena Boudreax.

eileen\kathleen, the evil twins

Just when you thought it was safe to go back to the blog

I swear I was going to be posting sooner than this. But you see, an ice storm hit last week, and I was without power or access to my internet for five days. FIVE DAYS. Did I tell you I'm a lousy refugee? I spent all that time rotating through siblings and trying to keep my house warm(temps dropped near zero each night) with a barbecue grill(I told my husband I was NOT going to tell my firefighter friends that I burned down my house with a barbecue grill in the living room)(then, of course, he decamped to Chile, the rat bastard--on business. Uh huh). And, of course, right in the middle of all that, SINNERS AND SAINTS hit the bookshelves. I'm just getting around the St. Louis area to do drive-by signings (that's when you stop in the store, sign stock, gab with the booksellers and then run on to the next place). And here I'd promised to tell you a bit more about SINNERS. Well, and so I will.

Here's the thing. I've been fascinated by New Orleans my whole life. When I finally got to go, I fell madly in love with the city. There's just something there that makes me feel at home; an energy, a unique spell the city casts over you. I love the color, the characters, the lazy, kind pace of the place. Yeah, okay, and the food and music and architecture and...you get it. Well, finally I had the chance to set a book there. That was about three years ago, when I first started collecting research information. Now, I'm a rabid researcher. I don't want any of those emails that say, "You're such an idiot. Don't you know that it's the MIssissippi that runs through New Orleans, not the Missouri?" (not that I'd ever say that). And, of course, it gave me an added excuse to spend time in New Orleans. Which was just fine. Can you think of a better way to research a book then singing in the back room of Jean LaFitte's Blacksmith Shop at two in the morning? Or driving to every cemetery in the city limits? Or driving through the good and bad streets with one of New Orleans finest(all cops tell great stories. New Orleans cops are in a universe of their own. You can read one of the best stories in my OUTTAKE section of my website). I almost didn't stop researching at all. In fact, I ended up taking out over a hundred pages of the finished manuscript."Eileen," my editor said with great patience. "This is a suspense novel. Not Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil." Fine. Just fine. I cut some of the stories.My cop friends and nurse friends and CSI friends have told me I got it right anyway, which makes me very, very pleased.

Fast forward to last summer. The book comes out--five days before Katrina hits. Yeah. I have great timing.It absolutely killed me. Not just because I'd just written a love poem to a city that had just been destroyed. But because I felt that destruction like the grave injury of a loved one. The good news is that all my friends are now back home and working. The bad news is that the city still struggles. But I do believe in her. I believe in her people, who are the greatest survivors I've ever met.

But now, the paperback is out, and I hope you'd enjoy visiting with me in the New Orleans of my heart--okay, even though there are some grisly murders happening, a heroine who is in terrible peril, and--did I mention this?--a level 5 hurricane bearing down on the city. (considering when the book first came out, I've decided to take contributions to NOT write about earthquakes in California). Next blog, I'll introduce you to the inspirations behind one of my very favorite heroes, James Guidry, and the unique, the wonderful, the lovely, Kareena Boudreax. Til then, stay warm. I'll try and do the same.

eileen\kathleen, the evil twins

feeling MUCH better now....

So there I was about to go on the offensive about promoting my SINNERS AND SAINTS, which should appear in paperback any minute now, when Thanksgiving happened. Now you have to understand that Thanksgiving isn't just a holiday in my house. It's a sporting event. Because my lovely husband's grandmother was a collector of note--the note being that she had no money and still ended up with enough Limoge to hold a state dinner-- I always end up with Thanksgiving dinner at my house for my entire family; that was, this year, 34 people, all at linen tableclothes(on permanent loan from my sil who loves estate sales), crystal(mismatched) and Limoge plates. The place looks like a British officer's mess, with tables taking up every square inch of available non-kitchen space, and my family taking up the rest as we cook two turkeys, and lashings of dressing(my mom's basic depression dressing) and various other starch-ladened classics. We have a fabulous time, that usually ends with somebody getting whipped cream, if not an actual pie in the face(this year I was so honored. My 16 year old neice nailed me--and then teepeed my tree).

But since there can't be a holiday without some kind of disaster(when my kids were teens and insisted on using my oven for pizza, we never quite got the dinner rolls cooked, because my oven would catch fire from the grease and turkey stuff---the good news is that my kids now have great disaster-related reflexes) this year my one brother managed to make my toilet overflow--right through the floor to where my son has rigged up all the various equipment that makes our internet run. Yeah. Hiss. Crackle. Meltdown. So I spent five days trying to replace it while hoping nothing big happened on email(good news. it was mostly spam).

So, now that you know my holiday trevails, I hope you understand the slight delay in my schedule of gushing enthusiastically about my book. And talking about the fairy series. As for the Unfortunate Miss Fortunes,with Jen Cruise and Anne Stuart, check in on Well Behaved at All Times. I'll be back tomorrow with more on the background of SINNERS. I'll also try and explain why I had to cancel the auction I'd hoped to do for the New Orleans police. I'm waiting to hear from them, and hope to have a fund that is equipment specific to replace it with.

Anyway, I hope you had a great Thanksgiving, too. And you'll stop by again soon to hear about SINNES AND SAINTS. I swear it will be worth it.

eileen\kathleen, the evil twins

back to work

It amazes me sometimes how the rest of the world can be so organized. I just looked up from the Silhouette Nocturne book I've been writing as Kathleen to discover that it's November, and darned if I don't have a November book coming out(as Eileen). And not just any book; my beloved SINNERS AND SAINTS. If you've been with me, you know that the hardcover for SINNERS came out two weeks before Katrina hit. And that the book is about a forensic nurse who searches New Orleans for her missing sister---yeah. As a level 5 hurricane bears down on the city. Not good timing at all. And the reviews on the book were really glowing(I usually don't say stuff like that, but this book meant an awful lot to me). Even more important than the book reviews, were the reviews I got from the cops and docs and other New Orleans natives who helped me research. They told me that it was absolutely true to the city, which is the most important opinion I think you can receive on a project. I can't think of a US city I love more, even St. Louis, which is my native town. And I can't think of more generous, inciteful, gracious, funny people than the ones who went out of their way to make sure I could tell my story.

Anyway, the paperback version comes out in a week or two, and I need to take a bit of time and announce it. I'll add more in the next few days. Tantalizing you, if you will, with a peek into the twisted mind that created it(and I look so cute).

Til then, back to work.
eileen and kathleen, the evil twins

The Inimitable Sister Krissie and the Power of Envy

I'm afraid I'm always a day late and a dollar short on industry news. But I just caught wind(and a pretty foul one) of the crap that was posted on the blog of an anonymous hack who calls herself Ms. Snark about Anne Stuart. I say hack, because even her writing is insignificant. If you want it taken apart bad cliche by bad cliche, check out Jenny Cruise's Argh, Inc. I thought of answering on the Snark comment page, which is filled with the kind of vitriol Ms. Snark was hoping for, I'm sure. But I just don't want to give her any validation at all.

What this blog by the anonymous Ms--and other of her blogs I caught--reminded me of was Rush Limbaugh. Nobody plays the schoolyard bully better, making uninformed, often cruel accusations about his enemies for the sole purpose of catering to that small, mean part of the human spirit that says, "yeah! You're not better than me!" And how much easier is it to indiscriminantly accuse behind a mask of anonymity. It isn't just petty, it's cowardly.

But when this would-be pundit incorrectly accuses someone who is not only a friend, but a colleague and, truth be known, one of my role models , I don't think anybody needs to be polite back. Anne Stuart has been in this business longer than I have, over twenty years. In that time she's been the consummate professional: talented, responsible, exceedingly generous, and, okay, she looks great in a habit. Not only that, she's made a hell of a lot of money for the houses for which she's worked. As my brother the Marine says, she's definitely earned her stripes. I consider it an honor that she is a colleague.

Yes, as Ms. Snark says, there are those whiny authors nobody wants to deal with. But as Jenny Cruise said, the ones who will end up working for no one are the ones without talent, and without the ability to bring in money. How many ways can you say that Anne Stuart is a New York Times author? The idea that because after twenty years she told a truth in the industry,she should be vilified, is absurd. Who has more right? The anonymous Ms. Snark, who, for all we know is a fat, fifty-year old accountant in Pacoyma? Even if this person actually is an agent, would you sincerely wish to be represented by a person whose message is, "Shut up and be a good girl?" Gee, thanks. No.

Every author has been through what Anne talked about. It's that kind of industry. And for anyone who compares it to, say, selling washing machines, trust me. There really is no comparison. And would you rather this kind of thing remain our secret? Would anybody who wants to survive in publishing really wish they weren't told the truth? Or would you rather be surprised that it's a hard business? It's hard when you begin: it's hard as you go on; it's hard no matter how famous you are. If it weren't, Hemingway never would have shot himself.

So I hope Ms. Snark enjoys her fifteen minutes of fame. That's all she's worth. Because, if she could write like Sister Krissie, she wouldn't waste her time slinging mud from behind a fence.

eileen\kathleen, the evil twins

Oh, and one more thing....

Did I tell you I'm from St. Louis? Did I happen to mention I'm a Cardinals fan? Well, my son has told me he can never put me in a nursing home, now. I took him to a World Series game. And if I can finally figure out how to post pictures, I'll put up a shot of us at the stadium. Cause, WE WON!!!!!!!!!

So, Hooray Cardinals! And now that the series is over, I can concentrate on my books again.
eileen\kathleen, the evil twins

and now for something completely different...

This is a political post that isn't. I just had to comment on the election. Not who won. That's almost incidental. The fact that so many people came out to vote. Now, you have to understand I'm an child of the 60's, when we were all involved. When the vote was the most important thing in the world, and we were happy to wait, because we could change the world(okay, that didn't work so much, but we did manage a few things...oh, say the end to the war in Vietnam). Anyway, it's not been since then that I've seen what I saw Tuesday. I stood in line for an hour and fifty minutes. In an area that's chockful of old, cranky people(older and crankier than I). And not only did everybody stand without complaint outside for at least an hour and a half each, but everybody--EVERYBODY was talking about how excited they were to be voting. Old people, young kids, everybody. I felt like I was in a Frank Capra movie.

Now, I love what I do. But it ain't brain surgery. I've seen brain surgery, and this isn't it. And as much as I'd love to say this isn't true, it isn't nearly as important as what we did Tuesday. We reinvolved ourselves in the national debate. We reclaimed our right and responsibility to have a voice in our future. Hooray for us! And now, hopefully, we'll remember that our responsibilities last beyond election Tuesday. Oh, and one more thing. I brought a book while I stood in line. And when somebody commented on what a good idea it was, I handed them one of mine. I'm not completely altruistic, after all.

eileen\kathleen, the evil twins.

the rules of writing

Okay, I just had to say this. I just saw where yet another author put on his\her blog the rules of writing. And I think of the years I struggled to consider myself an author, because I didn't obey any of the rules that other people--who knew they were right--laid down. Oh, I could write. I'd been doing it non-stop since I was ten. I have a big lock box full of the stories I'd written, and I thought they were good. But I wasn't an author, because I couldn't follow the rules.

Most of the books I read on the subject were written by people with left brains. Outline, character charts, routine writing hours, etc, etc. Well, not only do I have a vestigial left brain that is all used up with punctuation and spelling, I'm so dominantly right brain that not one of those suggestions worked for me(okay, and I was diagnosed last year with ADD. It's the hat trick of disorganization).

I felt like a failure because I couldn't write an outline to save my life. Not that I can't write a synopsis. I can tell you who my characters are, what the conflict is, and many of the scenes that are within. But to do it in a linear fashion before I actually write the book is, literally, impossible. Every time I try I can feel my head hit the wall. I'm frustrated, I feel like a failure, and my creativity shuts up like an irritated clam. It took me years of study on brain function and some wonderful books on using the right brain to finally understand that the way I wrote, which included laundry-listing items in the book, doing a free-association character study that just let the character talk for herself, writing my books in what we lovingly call the binge-and-purge fashion(more on that later), was absolutely right. For me.

Here's the best word I've ever heard on the subject of rules of writing. It's by Somerset Maugham, who said, "There are three hard and fast rules to writing. Unfortunately, nobody knows what they are." In other words, whatever gets words on paper in a timely fashion is the right way. For you. Yes, I can give suggestions. Anybody can. Just remember they're suggestions of what works for me. You have to take those and see if they fit into your way of doing things. If it energizes you to write better, more easily, more comprehensively, great. If they stop the words like big clots in your chest, then they're the wrong suggestions. Keep looking.

If you want to write, and you want to improve, you'll always find something that resonates for you. I do all the time. But always keep in mind this simple fact. Not every rule is for every author.

Happy writing!
Eileen\Kathleen, the evil twins