It occurred to me a few weeks ago, watching some figure skating, that it's undergoing the same sort of slump as publishing. I mean, seriously, if I hear Swan Lake or Romeo & Juliet or some truncated, horribly edited version of Rhapsody in Blue or An American in Paris again as a program, it'll be too soon.

As for the skating itself? Feh. It's all "let's grab the blade, yank it up behind our heads, in as many improbable (not to mention, boring) variations as we possibly can." All because of the points. I can't remember the last time I saw a skater who actually appeared to be skating to the music. (Oh, for the days of Paul Wylie and the Brians and Michelle Kwan.) It really hit me this morning as I was listening to the soundtrack from the film, The Duchess. Even twenty-five-odd years after my last competitive skate, I'll still hear a particularly evocative piece of music and begin choreographing programs and long for the feel of the ice beneath my blades. Except the likelihood that I'll ever hear this music on the ice any time soon isn't high. Because it's not what the judges want to hear/see. I remember some years back, the commentators on a competition talking about why you heard the same pieces of music over and over and for example, over again. And the commentator who was a former skater (might have been Paul Wylie, actually) said it was always a risk to use something new because the judges liked the familiar. Not that they objected to new music and unique costumes or anything, but generally, they wanted to see certain kinds of costumes and hear certain pieces of music, ostensibly so they could focus on the skating.

Which would explain why these days, it's difficult to tell one skater apart from the next unless someone really deviates wildly-- then they're branded a "rebel" and have to be that much better in order to succeed. Sound familiar?

Within the context of publishing, this is equal to the "We want different, but not too different. Stick within the parameters we set (i.e. the rules) and you'll have a better chance of succeeding." Yes, both disciplines are grounded in having a firm grasp of fundamentals; tools that allow you a greater ease in creating your art, however, in the end, those fundamentals aren't the rules to which I'm referring.

What people seem to forget is that at their core, both of these pursuits are first and foremost, creative expression. You're inspired by the music to create beautiful forms on the ice, to leap high on an explosive note, to spin or glide in a spiral or spread eagle during a long, elegant passage, to recreate a pattern of rapid staccato notes with light, effortless footwork.

You read a news story or experience an event or are privy to an exchange and a story idea is born and you want to express it in narrative and dialogue. You use the ingrained basics to create art, be it via movement or language, but ultimately, it's your individual form of expression.

And the thing is, I'm just not seeing the joy being expressed. These pursuits are hard enough to master on their own-- there's got to be something driving that desire and generally, it's a joy in what you do. Yeah, there's a large measure of competitive fire involved too, but in the end, it's the joy that's the real payoff.

So I find myself wondering, not for the first time, at what point did we allow the gatekeepers to become so important we decided it was okay to sacrifice creative expression at the altar of oft-times arbitrary rules? That it was okay to sacrifice the joy?

All I'd like is time enough to finish this one chapter.

That's all-- enough time to finish this one chapter, then I promise, I'll put the WIP aside and focus on packing/organizing for the move. If I have time to write, I'll take advantage of it, but I won't expect to write. Just as long as I can finish this one... godforsaken... chapter.

Ta, ever so.

"No one will want this."

Machito & His Afro-Cuban All-Stars

"No one will want this."

Willie Colón

"No one will want this."

Richie Valens

"No one will want this."

Freddy Fender

"No one will want this."

Linda Ronstadt

"No one will want this."

Ricky Martin

"No one will want this."

Selena

"No one will want this."

Gloria Estefan

For the past two days, I've been absolutely absorbed watching a fantastic PBS/BBC produced program called, Latin Music USA. I don't expect that everyone reading this is going to be as fascinated as I was-- after all, it hits hard on a couple of major aspects of my being: my Latin background and music. But if you have any interest whatsoever in history or music or the cultural melting pot of the United States from the 1930s on and the enormous part that Latin music played in it, I cannot suggest this highly enough. You can watch it on the website (the website is exceptionally done-- lots of resources to be discovered) and again, for me, it was fascinating. So many different aspects of it, but one of the things that I found most fascinating was the line I used as this blog's subject and that I repeated above those various names.

Those fabulous artists, at some point in their careers, all heard those five damnable words: "No one will want this." They may have been just starting out. They may have achieved a measure of success but wanted to try something different. But they all heard those words from the people who allegedly knew the market. Who knew what the public wanted. And they all refused to accept those five words and kept plugging away and harassing and taking their music to the people and they all enjoyed massive successes and maybe more importantly, they all pushed that door open a little further. That door that the people who "knew better" were so reluctant to open. The shoved their foot in the crack, held it open and shouted through, "We're here and we're representing the people and we know what the people want. Come on, we'll show you."

And being me, I can't help but relate it to writing. Because what do those of us who write out of the box hear, all too often?

"No one will want this."

Or its fraternal twin, "I have no idea what to do with this."

And so often, it's the people in the offices and towers making those decision who have no idea what the people want because they don't know who "the people" are. It was stunning, really, how those people just didn't realize the potential of the audience out there.

"No one will want this."

Every time I hear that about my work, I'm going to remember this show. Or perhaps even watch an episode on the DVD, because I just had to have it. Or listen to some of the music from the CD because I just had to have that too. By whatever means, I'm going to remember how those artists refused to accept those words.

Thank goodness because I shudder to think how much less rich my musical landscape would have been without them. All of them.

I want it. All of it.

Here's a preview of the show. So, so good!

I'm sure y'all have guessed what a visual writer I am—while music engages all of my senses, having something visual as a touchstone can really help me illustrate the finer points. (Like last week and the lipstick cases) Other times, however, it serves as the jumping off point for something completely unexpected.

Which brings me to today's Tuesday Teaser

The images:




The teaser, from Between Here & Gone

"Why Las Vegas?"

"Because that's where she always goes first." He spared me a glance as he shifted and accelerated past a large produce truck, the speed and deftness of the move making my breath catch as effectively as the alien landscape that unfurled before us as we broke free of the shadow of the truck. A seemingly endless sweep interrupted only by the occasional gnarled scrubby tree and washed in shades of gold and brown, this desert struck me with the same sense of unease as the urban jungle of New York. Extraordinary, but not particularly comfortable or welcoming.

In a matter of moments, the snorting, backfiring truck was reduced to a dot in the sideview mirror, leaving us alone on the highway with only the growl of the car's engine and the rush of the wind as accompaniment. Both more than adequate excuses for avoiding further conversation which I would have expected Jack to take advantage of. But he surprised me, sending another sidelong glance my direction, accompanied by a soft, resigned laugh.

"The wheels in that head of yours—they're going fast and furious, aren't they?"

"I—" I ground my teeth as I looked away, aggravated at the continued transparency I couldn't seem to help around this man and terrified of what I might reveal. I resolutely focused my attention on the scenery and the surprisingly abundant wildlife, from the lizards lazily watching from the side of the road to long-eared rabbits dashing alongside the car as if challenging it to a race. Above us, a lone bird flew, its wingspan majestic as it soared gracefully through the gilt-edged sky. Fascinated, I watched, catching a flash of red feathers as it suddenly tucked its wings against its side and dove in a terrifying blur toward the desert floor. A moment later, it swooped back into view with a triumphant cry, hapless prey squirming futilely within the grasp of its claws. Feeling an eerie sense of kinship with the victim, I shuddered and returned my attention to Jack, who wore an enigmatic half-smile as if he knew precisely what was going through my mind.
"I have to admit, it's fascinating to watch the wheels turn. I wonder if maybe that's why I don't offer everything up right off the bat."

Giving up, I snapped, "I suspect it's more that you're not accustomed to being held accountable to anyone else."

"Not true. Although I can see where you might think that."

"Really?" I crossed my arms, aware that I no doubt looked—and sounded—like a petulant little girl. "When was the last time anyone called you on the carpet? For anything?"

"Well, unless it's a liquor-induced hallucination, I seem to recall you doing a fairly admirable job of holding me accountable for my idiocy. Telling me how much I was going to regret my actions." With the road a straight, unbroken ribbon ahead of us, he was able to turn and face me, head on, one questioning eyebrow raised.

Which sounds ridiculously selfish, doesn't it? But it's not exactly as it might sound. This is more about trying to give my career more focus.

At first, it was about getting published-- which I managed to accomplish, not in the way I necessarily anticipated, but in a manner which has nevertheless proved incredibly satisfying. But in the end, publishing only in YA isn't going to satisfy me. I love it, and I'm glad I discovered a gift for it, but it's not enough for me.

But now, I'm with a fantastic publishing house; one that I really feel will allow me the freedom to write in multiple genres and where I can really grow my career (pleaseohpleaseohplease...) and I think the focus really wants to be sharpened.

So long term, what do I want?

I want to publish in adult fiction. Now that I sold Stars/Carmen, that's my next goal. It's been my next goal since I sold the first YA in 2005. Hell, it's been my next goal, since I first started writing for publication. But the difference now is that I'm far more aware of what I write. Or rather, what I don't write. I don't write romance. I write romantic, but not romance. It's a bit of a bitter pill to swallow, admitting there's something I can't do. Or as ifigrowup would say, "No Barb, if you wanted to, you could do it. You just don't want to do it. You want to write romance your way, which is to say, it's not romance as the industry and the readers want to define it." (All right, all right, he has a point, dammit. Still, it remains that by all current definitions, I don't write romance.)

So, anyway, semantics aside, I continue working on my adult fiction and hoping that I can make that next step.

But then I get started thinking on some different measures of success and by what standard I would consider myself successful. In other words, what's more important-- New York Times Book Review or New York Times Bestseller List?

I won't lie-- I want approbation for my work. I want to be considered critically successful-- I want acknowledgement that I'm good at this thing I've dedicated myself to. However, at the same time, I'm very, very well aware that critical acclaim is such a subjective thing. Not to mention, personal-- I have to believe I write well. External validation is nice, but I can get that from the reader letters that say I touched them in some way. And in the vein of wanting to touch as many readers as possible, I think I'd take Bestseller over Book Review.

And because publishing is such a numbers game these days, simple fact is, the more I sell, the more I can continue to sell new books for publication.

Finally-- and this might sound bizarre as a goal-- but I never want to stop questioning my abilities. Because as long as I continue to question, that means I feel the need to improve my craft, and I don't ever want to feel as if I don't have more to learn. The day I say I've gone as far as I can and I can't possibly become a better writer, take me out back and shoot me, because I'll have become too insufferable to live.

So-- only three goals. Two lofty and one that I live on a daily basis. Seems like a good place to start.

Y'all tired of the HQHos debacle? Yeah, me too. Not that it's still not important and needs to be discussed, but you get to a point of oversaturation and simply have to draw back. And frankly, I have this thing about Publishing Darwinism. For the people who are insisting that vanity publishing* is a viable alternative and that we traditionally published folks are all elitist and shit, think we're more talented than Everyone Else, and have no faith in an individual's ability to discern what's a scam and what's not? Vaya con Dios, my friends. Catch you with your broken bank accounts on the flip side. (And yes, something like this did happen-- to authors Stacia Kane and Jackie Kessler.)

*And for the record, vanity publishing and self publishing are not the same. A lot of other people who are far smarter and have more patience than I have explained it. And if I get permission to post, a bookseller has done an amazing breakdown of what it would cost an author to produce a book with the benefits a bookseller would expect in order to carry it in a brick and mortar store.

Okay, enough of that. Moving on.

First up, my lovely, darling Selah March (dubious_virtue) liesillustrates the insanitynuances of a critique partnership of nearly a decade over at Tales From the Crit. The conversation quoted is actually real. And repeated often.

Moving on some more. To the thing I actually love and for which I would dearly love to continue receiving payment, writing.

I love when a random bit of research sparks a bit of a scene, if not an entire scene by itself. I was researching vintage lipstick colors and cases (don't ask-- it's me being supremely anal-retentive) and discovered that in the late 1950s/early 1960s, Revlon partnered with jeweler Van Cleef & Arpels whereupon the latter designed a limited edition cosmetics cases. (Lipsticks and compacts are what I've found so far.) For my purposes, I was more interested in the lipsticks (Didja know that Revlon's "Love That Red" has been around since 1951? True fax.) and once I discovered an image of the Van Cleef & Arpels designed cases, a dimension to the scene I was currently working on formed in my mind and Wouldn't Let Go. So I went with it. Because this story gives me enough fits-- I don't need to be arguing with the little bits here and there. So here we go.

Oh, and before I post, look at the cases. Aren't they pretty? I'm tempted to buy one, just because. Maybe if this story sells, I will. Packrats R Us.



Teaser Tuesday, from Between Here & Gone...

He pulled free from my grasp, pointing back to the front door as he headed down the floating staircase. "Wait for me in the car. I mean it."

Not an option. And now was not the time to explain I didn't need to be coddled. That at this point, we were in this together. I clattered down the stairs behind him, ignoring his warnings of, "Natalia, no—don't."

It was gallant, but what more could there possibly be? I was inured against more of the same. Was even able to breathe fairly naturally as I confronted more of the same filthy words scribbled across the white walls. Was steady enough to disregard the graffiti in lieu of the unexpected sight of dozens of small silver cases lined up with a uniform precision along the long edge of the pool.

"Ava, wherever you're hiding, get the hell out here. "

As Jack's voice echoed throughout the enormous room and he pushed open the various doors, I crouched down by the cases, picking them up, one by one. All of them identical, etched with delicate scrollwork and capped with faux pearls and rhinestones. I recognized these cases. Lipstick cases, created for Revlon by Van Cleef & Arpels, a limited, sought after item several years back. I recalled the glossy advertisements splashed across the pages of all the fashion magazines, showing off the elegant cases, fit for royalty, nestled inside their red-velvet lined boxes. And after hearing me gush time and again, Nico had arrived home from one of his trips to the States, package in hand. I could remember the thrill I'd felt, lifting the lid on the small box. So elegant—so unique. Something not everyone could have. To see so many of them gathered in one place was unnerving. Almost… obscene. There they stood, so pristine and polished, as if never handled, until removing the cap from one exposed the ravaged remains of a once-vibrant lipstick. The same dramatic red she'd worn the other day. The same shade as what was smeared across the walls. Slowly, I removed the caps from each case, not surprised to discover all of the lipsticks—all the same color—ground down to waxy nubs.

***
As usual, there's no guarantee that any of this will wind up in the finished MS, but I like it, it was a pretty free-flowing moment and you have to treasure those, and let's face, I'm the descriptive passage's ho.

So.

Damned.

Tired.

No, I'm not doing NaNo this year, not officially, but something about the frenzied writing atmosphere of the month of November (not to mention the marginally cooler weather) has finally got my ass in gear. I've been writing more steadily than I have in weeksmonths, really. So the story is well and truly on the backside, which is a relief, frankly. Even more of a relief is the fact that I finally saw glimmers of what the rest of the story arc looks like and was able to sit down and outline the rest of the story. I won't lie, I was terrified— this is easily the latest in a WIP that I've stopped to do this. Usually, I get going on a story, write about five or six chapters, get to know the story, the language, the characters, then I sit down and write a chapter by chapter outline of how the rest of the story is going to go. This is extremely valuable for me because I'm a fairly consistent writer in terms of chapter length and it helps give me a rough idea of final word count, which, considering how wordy I can be (quit laughing, dubious_virtue), is an important marker for me. I mean, ultimately, I'm gonna write the story how it comes out, but something about having that little counter/marker in my head helps.


Anyhow...

Eighteen chapters and 65K into this bastard, and I finally knew how the rest of this was going to shake down. I don't know if it's because I knew the basic arc of the beginning, or probably more likely, that I had no freakin' clue until this far in because it kept taking left turns to Albuquerque, but I finally got it outlined. The good news is, it should fit within my 100K limit (thank God, because I was beginning to really worry). Of course, it took yet another left turn to Albuquerque, but at this point, I might have been concerned if it hadn't—worried that I was missing something. As it turned out, the left turn is a huge thing, solving a mystery that's plagued me since nearly the beginning. *note to character: next time, wouldja let me in on your issues just a wee bit earlier?*

So now, I have shiny new scenes and ten pages of handwritten outline with which to gird my loins for the homestretch. My hand hurts like a mother and I'm mainlining ibuprofen, but I have this as reward:



And my favorite new bit from the MS:

"Shh…"

My heart stuttered, then began racing again. "What?"

A crooked grin lifted one corner of his mouth as one eye opened to stare at me blearily. Lifting one finger to his lips, he whispered, "Be vewwy vewwy quiet. I'm hunting wabbits."

"Be vewwy vewwy quiet. I'm hunting wabbits."

Startled, I jerked my head around, noticing for the first time the flickering screen of the large console television with the Saturday morning cartoons playing, Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny engaging in their endless chases and attempts to best each other.

Releasing a long breath, I turned back to Jack. "I would never have taken you for a Bugs Bunny fan, Jack."

"Why not? Their drama's never ending and one's an eternal fool." Chuckling, Jack raised the bottle of Wild Turkey to his lips and took a healthy slug of the 101 proof without a single wince. Then again, how could he possibly feel anything, I noted, taking in the empty bottle lying on the floor by the bed. At least this one was still reasonably full.

Week and a half, really.

Last Monday we found out our offer on the house we really, really, really wanted in Seattle was accepted. Tuesday I learned that Stars was going to committee, Wednesday, I learned St. Martin's wanted it, by Thursday, it was a done deal.

Yesterday I got some other potentially fabulous news, but I have to wait on that until it's a certainty. But I can be patient.

Y'know, thing is, I think the whole thing started the Saturday before. It was that morning that we had put in the initial bid on the house. More importantly, however, was what happened Saturday night. I finally, finally got to see Robin Williams in concert. When I say "finally" it has two different meanings. One is, that we were originally scheduled to see him back in March, but it was literally the show before ours where he fell ill and needed heart surgery. A big thing, since heart disease runs in his family. I was devastated, of course, but mostly because I really wanted him to recover. I have followed the man's career since the Mork & Mindy days. (Earlier, really, because I saw his first appearances on Happy Days.) I love a great deal of his film work (Dead Again= Best Cameo EVAR) even though, like any other actor, he's done some clunkers. I have multiple copies of Live on Broadway and Live at the Met. Hell, I even listened to Live at the Met when I was in labor with both of my children. Hey, y'know, the drugs can only do so much... laughter, on the other hand, makes all manner of pain disappear. Besides, it was a great way to freak the hell out of the doctors and nurses.

He, to me, is simply one of the funniest, most brilliant observers of human nature out there. It's so funny to watch him pick apart the world's weaknesses because he's so ruthless about picking apart his own. To say I adore this man's mind would be putting it mildly. (The Hub has often said that he could really only see me leaving him for one of two men: Jon Stewart or Robin Williams. What can I say? Brilliant and funny trumps all. Luckily, I have brilliant and funny at home, so no worries there, dear heart.)

So seeing him in concert wasn't just about finally seeing him since he'd rescheduled the show-- it was also about finally seeing him after close to thirty years. And because The Hub is a prince among men, when he bought these tickets for me as my Christmas gift last year, he bought the Super Delux-o Meet & Greet Package. Where we'd get to actually meet the man!

Okay, y'all who know me, know I simply do not get star struck. I don't do autographs. I can carry on a conversation with almost anyone, but in this case, may I just let loose with a hearty,

SQQQQUUUUUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEEE!!!!!

*ahem*

I will say, I was able to have a nice conversation with him. And I was even able to tell him, without stuttering or stammering, that I'd listened to Live at the Met during both my labors. To which he responded with "Fuck me!"

Hee!

But here's the thing. It was after that wonderful, fabulous Saturday where I got to meet a childhood idol and found him absolutely lovely and unassuming and truly grateful to meet his audience. Where I laughed and laughed and laughed like I haven't in quite some time, that everything finally fell into place. Because it was after that Saturday that we got our house and I got my book deal and all manner of lovely things fell into place. Coincidence? Sure. But I'm also going to look at it as a turning point.

And I have a lovely memento from it. (I look like death, but that's because it was my first night out after a minor surgical procedure ten days before. Don't care. I think my smile's about to split my face wide open. Also, don't care. It was WONDERFUL. (I do need to lose weight again. Maybe that'll be next...)




Now if I could only sing with the GLEE cast, life would pretty much be complete.

Especially in light of our recent conversation...

Found during a quick drive-by reading of Jenny Crusie's blog:


“It is dangerous to let the public behind the scenes. They are easily disillusioned and then they are angry with you, for it was the illusion they loved. ”
— Somerset Maugham

Yep.

Works for me.

PMA PLACES BARBARA CARIDAD FERRER’S WHEN THE STARS GO BLUE WITH TONI PLUMMER OF THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS

Adrienne Rosado, of PMA Literary & Film Management Inc., is proud to announce the sale of North American rights to young adult novel, When the Stars Go Blue by Barbara Caridad Ferrer to Toni Plummer at Thomas Dunne Books.

From RITA award winner Barbara Caridad Ferrer comes a new novel, When the Stars Go Blue, a reinvention of Bizet's Carmen, set in contemporary Miami against the world of competitive drum and bugle corps. Soledad Reyes is our modern day Carmen, a passionate dancer, who is torn between the attentions of her musical prodigy boyfriend and a charming soccer player, who she can’t help but notice.

Barbara Caridad Ferrer is a first generation, bilingual Cuban-American, whose young adult debut, Adiós to My Old Life (MTV Books/2006), won the Romance Writers of America's 2007 RITA® for Best Contemporary Single Title Romance as well as being named to the 2009 Popular Paperbacks for Young Adults list, awarded by the ALA. Her second MTV Books novel, It's Not About the Accent was released in 2007 with Publisher's Weekly stating, "…this twisting book amply rewards readers."



I know I don't have to articulate exactly what this means to me. Next to Breathe this has been the project that's meant the most to me, not just because of its content but also because of the journey it had to take. My gorgeous, wonderful agent gets her own Cabana Boy (or twelve) for so, so enthusiastically believing in this project and becoming such a great champion for it and as for my new editor Toni, I have been wanting to work with her for ages. It seems kind of perfect that it's on this book.

Finally, When the Stars Go Blue has found its rightful home.

Posting about being daring. Please, to go read and comment, if you so desire.

Romancing the Blog

Also, asking for some unspecified good thoughts to be headed our way for the next couple of days. I'll clarify as soon as I can.

(Although I can say it doesn't have anything to do with writing, unfortunately, although if'n you wanna send good thoughts for that too, be my guest, I'll never turn 'em down! *g*)

You wrote 1500 words and tamed a beast of a chapter yesterday.

Yay.

But now you're being utterly chickenshit about opening the file and looking at what you wrote, especially since the last couple hundred words happened well after midnight and could be in Esperanto for all you know.

Oh puh-leeze. Get over it, Miss Thing. Pull up your big girl panties and get on with it, k? We'll tell you if it sucks. And tell you what— if you suck it up and read the chapter, we'll send you pretty boys like this one.



Okay, perhaps that's a bit unrealistic in that, "how on earth would we ship him?" sort of way, but we can at least send you pictures of pretty boys as inspiration, right? Like this one:



Or this one:



So there you go. Pretty men to look at and you know, it's really not going to be that bad. You always think it is and it never is. And don't go being all self-deprecating and saying "worse" because you know that's not true either. It may not be perfect, but it's at least there and can be improved on and gives you a jumping off point for the next segment.

It's progress, doofus. So get on with it.

This is probably the most erratic I've been about posting since I first started, but simple fact is, I have so much going on right now and at the same time, precious little. Yes, we're planning for the Great Migration West, so that's taking up a lot of time, having the Boy around full time as he does school online is a little distracting as we still get into the groove of things, and I'm trying to write.

My famed discipline has gone AWOL as I try to snatch moments here and there and try to get the "feel" of writing back into my system. (Damned annoying voices in my head, making me doubt every freakin' word and wonder about every plot point.) I really want to love writing again, so I'm trying not to force it, while at the same time, knowing that I have to exercise that discipline to get the rhythms back. It's just like practicing the piano, I swear.

And frankly, I can't imagine you guys want to hear me rant about how when the hell is publishing going to get over vampires and werewolves already and no, I don't happen to think zombies make for sexy alpha heroes because, you know, ew.

But there are some ripples happening about which I will remain quiet for the moment because I don't wanna jinx it, but if you can spare a kind thought here and there, I'd certainly appreciate it.

Right now, I'm still plugging away at Between Here & Gone. I had hoped to have the first/fifth draft finished by the holidays. (First complete, fifth by the time I get done revising as I go along) However, that's just not gonna happen, especially with the impending move. At least, not unless I get some miraculous work done in the next few weeks. Which is possible.

Maybe.

But only after the grocery store.

We talk about it so much with respect to books, what makes one book stand out when there are countless others out there with similar characters, tropes, story elements, whatever? What makes one book hit a particular chord with readers when those other books might even be better written.

It's indefinable, it really is. Which to someone who has a tendency to be analytical, like me, can drive me nuts, but at least my creative side is large enough to counter all that analysis and just accept that sometimes, that indefinable "it" can trump all manner of experience and finesse.

I was reminded of that it factor again while reading a feature on People online this morning about how many ways the iconic final dance from Dirty Dancing had been interpreted and emulated. (Interesting side note: "I've Had the Time of My Life" is popular as both a wedding first dance and as a funeral tribute song. Go figure.)

Anyhow, among the vids featured in the piece, was an interpretation from Dancing With the Stars' second season-- one of the pro dances that are usually featured on the results show night while a special musical guest sings. In this case, of course, it was Bill Medley (with his daughter singing the Jennifer Warnes' part) while pros Cheryl Burke and Tony Dovolani recreated the dance.

It's gorgeous. I can't lie. It's a beautiful interpretation by two incredibly skilled professional dancers. And yet... as good as it is and as much as it brings chills to my skin because they really are amazing dancers and they did a fantastic job with it, it's still... not quite the same. I mean, yes, you can argue that Patrick was every bit as accomplished, if not more so, than Tony (as a former member of the Joffrey-- you see that Tony doesn't even attempt the triple pirouette that Patrick did so effortlessly) and of course, Jennifer was a trained dancer as well, but neither of them were everyday professional dancers at that point in their careers. I just think that for all its beauty and finesse, the DWTS version is lacking the "it" factor-- the chemistry between both partners and the dancers with the audience that so entranced us with Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze.

In the end, analysis doesn't do diddly-squat other than to illustrate that sometimes, there is no easy answer. It just is.

The DWTS version (the original is both in the article and in yesterday's post):

When I was speculating on my possible insanity and trying to purge myself of a passage that was driving me bananas?

Relax, I've actually moved on... sort of. But at the same time, that passage still wasn't right. My lovely critique partner, dubious_virtue had pointed out a small thing that pulled her out of the sequence of events (and of course, she was right) and while I dutifully marked it and moved on... sort of, I still couldn't shake the feeling it wasn't quite right.

So, this just continues as an exercise and example of how a scene evolves (and the perfectionist Virgo lizard brain works). Mind you, I don't ever give craft classes or presume to tell anyone my way is the way it has to be done, but I just thought it would be fun for people to see how things change.

And to keep record of the crazies for when the Cabana Boys in white coats come visiting.

( The scene, reworked... again )

I'm really, really, really going to leave it alone now. I think.

Okay, I am going to freaking purge myself of this goddamned passage on which I've spent the last three hours. Because if I post it here, then it's out there. And once it's out there, I can't take it back, right? Unless y'all tell me it sucks. Because you will, right? Tell me if it sucks? And then, I can fix it. I hope.

Y'know, it's quite possible I'm insane.

Oy.

Anyhow, fly little passage, be free!

He turned, slowly navigating the steep narrow path through a thickly wooded ravine that despite the well-tended gravel driveway, maintained a sense of undisturbed mystery.

"Jack, you don't think this is some kind of joke, do you?"

"It would hardly be the first time." He slowed further, pulling his sunglasses off in order to better see through the sudden twilight.

No… I did not like the way this felt. My heart raced, my breath catching in rapid shallow gasps at the sensation of forging through darkness with no idea what lay on the other side. My fingernails dug into the edges of the seat as I fought the memories.

And just as I was about to suggest that we leave, that we get out rather than continue further into the nerve-wracking darkness, the trees broke into a clearing flooded with light, the path widening into a perfectly oval drive crowned with the most perfect house I had ever seen. Or rather, less house than fantasy. Spans of glass and natural wood planks with mossy green trim giving the overall impression that the building had emerged one segment at a time from the earth on which it sat until nature decreed it done. Behind the house the Pacific stretched in wild, vivid contrast, white-capped waves sweeping in before suddenly disappearing with a crash and hiss, the occasional fine mist springing up over the cliff's edge, sparkling against the burnt orange horizon.

It was a scene out of a fairy tale.

Okay, so it's Monday and normally, I'd be doing Cabana Boys *pauses to giggle at unintentional double entendre* but I think I'll save them until tomorrow when there are more people about.

Anyhoo, I'm going to be working today, but tonight, the college football season kicks off and wouldn't you know it, my Seminoles have to open the season against freakin' Miami.

Unlike Florida, who opened their season against perennial powerhouse, Charleston Southern. *inserts crowbar, removes tongue from cheek*

A few years back, I was asked to write a novella for an anthology that ultimately fell through. I can't see really doing anything with it and given that the Noles and the Canes start their seasons tonight, it seemed like the time to set it free into the world.

So I give to you guys, Mixed Marriage: A Novella of Family, Football, & How Love Conquers All.

(That's a PDF/web version, for a plainer web version, try here, although the formatting is a little wonky.)

Warning, there are some explicit scenes! This is an adult story, not a YA and it's a romance-- or at least, as close to it as I get.

It's very light, very silly, (completely different in tone from my usual drama-laden stories) and designed to be nothing but pure, ridiculous fun with very sexy overtones. And if the situations seem unrealistic, then you don't live in the south and/or have never been around college football season. I've been to wedding receptions where near-riots broke out based around rivalries.

It's funny, too, going back and looking at it, how my writing has evolved. Best way, I've discovered to track the evolution of style-- go back and read something you haven't looked at in ages. Part of me wants to hide it under the bed, but at the same time, I can recognize some good elements in there and most importantly, I still like the story and the characters.

So, please, read and hopefully enjoy.

Oh, and ETA: While I'm still completely on the fence leaning on the "not sure I like it" side of things, I do have a Twitter account. I started it as an experiment in the wake of the panel on social networking that I was on at RWA National. For the first couple of months I had a handle comprised of my initials and birthday and was curious to see how many people I knew might find me. (Not many, which was actually quite freeing, truthfully.) Gradually, I started "coming out," posting replies to people I know and then, last week, I took the step of changing my handle to my name. So if you want-- I'm @barbferrer. I promise, there will be no cross-posting of tweets to my blog. That still remains one of my pet peeves.

So. Anyone who semi-regularly reads here knows that my latest adult MS, Between Here & Gone has been giving me fits.

To put it mildly.

It's been a series of fits and starts and missteps the likes of which I've never experienced with any other manuscript. You'd think it was because I hadn't thought it out completely, but thing is, I had. I had my storyline, arc, characters, the conclusion, everything I need to get going.

I thought.

Originally, this story was to be a dual first person POV between two women, Natalia and Eva, very similar of background, but with wildly differing life's experiences leading them to become very different individuals, at least on the surface. Their lives intersect and boom-- you have story of discovery. Each woman learns from the other.

I thought.

I started with Natalia. And kept going. And kept going. Every time I thought it was time to insert Eva's POV, it just didn't seem like the right point in the story until finally, I realized, I wasn't hearing Eva's voice. At all. Her story, compared to Natalia's was simpler, her voice not as compelling as a narrative character. I simply never heard her as a POV character. Okay, fine. I figured she still had a role-- I needed her as a foil for Natalia, someone to play off of, a mirror of sorts in the "But for the grace of timing and the gods, go I" sort of way.

I thought.

When Eva finally did show up there were two issues. One, I had already acknowledged-- that it was far too late in the story to introduce her as a narrative character. It was the second issue that would potentially prove more problematic-- she's an incredibly potent character. A little Eva goes a long, long way. Oy. Seriously... oy.

And I realized, those scenes I had amorphously plotted out that had the two of them interacting? Yeah. Weren't going to work. They were going to have to be scrapped because they didn't advance the story forward and didn't even work well as bridge scenes, setting up the rest of the story arc. (Unlike some authors, I think bridge scenes can be important-- they serve as both transitions and to provide a breather for the reader-- a calm before the story, if you will.) Eva is still important as a mirror for Natalia, but this can be accomplished by having her appear in two ways--physically, in small doses and through the experiences of the other characters. Her other purpose, as a catalytic character is effectively achieved in the same way-- small doses of actual screen time combined with the understanding/learning of other characters' experiences with her. Perhaps more importantly for this story, Eva becomes a more sympathetic character with a bit of a scrim between her and Natalia and by extension, the reader. You're allowed to see more of the woman behind the façade if you're not experiencing her directly-- that's how potent Eva is. Or I could just be a massive wimp and not have the chops to write her directly in such a manner that the reader can sympathize with her. It's not that she's two-dimensional, which is what I'm sure this sounds like, it's just that she's so in-your-face, she's the kind of person you need distance from in order to see the complete person clearly. I know this syndrome well-- it's why I live hundreds of miles from my family. Seriously.

The fact that Eva as a POV character has been so elusive throughout has revealed that this story is actually only Natalia's story-- her experiences, her growth, her journey, her ultimate destination, which ultimately had the effect of bringing other characters to the forefront-- a whole segment of Natalia's background revealed itself because of Eva's elusiveness, not to mention, a character who had been intended as a secondary rose to prominence and provided another angle to Natalia's story, further pushing Eva to the background.

So.

Do I have all the answers and a new storyline all tidily in place?

Oh hell no. This story has been less left turns to Albuquerque as it's been a traffic circle in Rome at rush hour. I'm attempting to go along for the ride, but I'm torn between hanging on for dear life and desperately wanting to hurl my lungs out all while trying to read the road signs and figuring out where I'm supposed to go.

I knew Eva was going to be trouble from the get go. I just didn't know how much. I just hope that by the end of it, I've made the right decisions in going along with the organic flow, rather than trying to force it into the tidy box I'd prepared for it.

This happens rarely, but every so often a bit of dialogue or scene snippet occurs to me out of sequence. Of course I write it down then save it until its turn appears. (Curse of the Linear Writer.)

Anyhow, this is a bit from a section that's going to be coming up soon, if I can get my stuck ass in gear and actually, you know, WRITE.

*ahem*

Our characters are about to embark on a cross-country road trip chasing after another character who's gone AWOL and who could be, if left to her own devices, a danger to herself.

( From Between Here & Gone )

Damn. Made myself weepy.

You hope, when you get a google alert for a review for book that's been out a couple of years (It's Not About the Accent), that it's going to at least be good. After all, someone went to the effort to read it and say something about it.

So when it reads "It's Not About the Accent- Not great," it has a way of taking the wind out of your sails.

I tried to cheer myself up with the fact that the "review" was simply a list of books the blog author had read and her off the cuff responses to them, so it's not like it was a big deal. Also, no responses, so really, how many people had seen it.

I tried to cheer myself further with the fact that the entire review was littered with horrible misspellings and wretched turns of phrase, ironic, given the fact that the blog author purports to be a writer and editor and in possession of an English degree.

I tried to pep myself up with the knowledge that so what if this no-name blogger didn't like it—Publisher's Weekly liked it.

Nope. Didn't work.

Still hurt.

Eh, I'll get over it, but still--

It's the dismissiveness, I think. I'd feel better if it was a legitimate, thorough review, even if they didn't like it. I may not enjoy it, but I'd respect it more.

I really need some good things to start happening on the writing front.