I was invited by the lovely and talented Beth Lapin to participate in the "My Writing Process" blog tour. I'm a week late, sorry to say, but I figure late is better than never.

I'm supposed to answer these questions:

1. What am I working on?
2. How does my work differ from others' of its genre?
3. Why do I write what I do?
4. How does my writing process work?

Honestly, I can't think of a better approach than to dive right in, so here goes:

I'm working on two major projects right now. The first, praise be, is the sequel to Discovering Ren, entitled, Shadow King. At this very moment, I should be poring over the text, word by word, looking for typos and making sure all the plot details are consistent and make sense. Ah, the joys of final editing. If you're an author, you know how hard this is. If you're not, just know that the authors you read make less per hour than the poorest third-world factory worker, given all the time they put in and the tiny royalties they receive. (I'm assuming you're not reading James Patterson.) But the good news is, if you've been awaiting, eagerly or otherwise, the next chapter in the tale of the Ambrosine family, you'll get it come fall from Cogwheel Press!

The other project is my first venture into novel-length steampunk fiction, under my alter ego's name, Evelyn Grimwood. It's a steamy adventure-romance, blending genuine history and Victorian technology with time travel, theoretical/quantum physics, and sizzling hot sex. Oh my oh my, such fun.

My writing is a blend of everything I've ever read. And I mean everything, from Shakespeare to Donne to Austen to Dickens to my college textbooks, Bruno Bettleheim, Camus, the Bible, and whatever I was reading last week. On some level, I remember all of it, and it stews away in my brain, adjusting and accommodating every time something new is thrown in, and eventually it may come back out in a different form and/or context. I just finished The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield (highly recommend that one; it stuck with me for days), in which one of the principal characters, herself a writer, calls this effect "the compost of fiction." New life is born of the death of many things, blended together. I loved that analogy, for its organic, earthy imagery of the unconscious mind where stories lurk and breed.

I write what I do because it's what I want to read. Simple as that. I think it was Toni Morrison who said that if there's a book you want to read that doesn't exist, you should write it. I don't write to be rich or famous (although I wouldn't necessarily object!), and I don't write to impress people. I certainly don't write to please my family. I write because I want to. I enjoy it. I'm a creative person. I used to paint, but with small children I found the constant interruptions didn't allow for my creative process. I can write in short spurts, stolen time, here and there, early in the mornings, late at night, on my lunch hour, whenever I'm alone and it's quiet and the voices have been clamoring to be released from their prison in my head. Which brings me to…

My writing process can be subconscious or conscious. Sometimes I sit down and force myself to write, extracting the words like teeth, one excruciating bit at a time. At other times, I wake up with scenes, dialog, and full chapters in my head, and it's a matter of transcribing them. (I've got a good bit of the third book in my series stored away in my brain.) I write while I'm driving, in the shower, while I'm weeding, when I'm putting myself to sleep. About the only time I'm not writing is when I'm talking or when it's noisy.

Wow, that was lengthy! Thanks for persevering, dear readers, and peace to all!

Whoa.. yes, it's really I, posting. Much going on in my life that has prevented me from connecting with you, dear reader; some of it good, some of it not as much, but all interesting.

Here's what I've been thinking about lately: a writer friend of mine is revising a novel. It addresses a difficult and painful subject - sexual violence - and tries to reach some kind of happy outcome for the characters. This friend is having difficulty, due to the temptation to bring too much reality into the book. Too many details, too many subplots, too many extraneous motivations, too much emotion that distract from the horror of the subject. Yet, the author says, all of the extras are real. 

Fair enough. I don't envy the author; this is a truly challenging topic, and frankly I stay away from "real" problems as much as possible in my writing. (There's a reason I write speculative fiction, after all.) But my friend has chosen to wrestle with the subject, so I'm here to support the effort as much as I can.

And in so doing, I've been trying to articulate what exactly the role of "reality" is in fiction. My friend's novel would probably come under the genre heading of Women's Fiction. The Romance Writers of American define women's fiction as "a commercial novel about a woman on the brink of life change and personal growth. Her journey details emotional reflection and action that transforms her and her relationships with others and includes a hopeful/upbeat ending with regard to her romantic relationship." OK, then. So how does reality figure into the plot, the setting, the dialogue, and the character development? 

That question led me to a more fundamental one: how does reality figure into any novel? And in pondering, I've deduced the following answer: it doesn't. Somewhere on my bookshelf of "respectable" literature is a little tome left over from my expensive undergraduate education, called Resisting Novels: Ideology and Fiction by Lennard J. Davis. There's more to it, but the gist is that novels are in essence, lies. They are a structure of ideology, carefully crafted to subvert the reader's hold on his own reality and ensnare him in another world order.

… it's exhaustion. 

I don't think I've ever been as freakin' tired as I am right now. I mean, my brain feels as sludgy as liverwurst. My eyes actually hurt to be open. And let's not even mention the headache. I want nothing more than to just curl up and black out.

And yet, I'm listening to little girls tap out "Old Macdonald" on a tinny electronic keyboard next to me. Because I'm still mom. I'm still "on." And there's no rest in sight. Ugh.

It's been exactly two months since my last blog post. WTH have I been doing all this time? 

Well, the good news is I've started another novel. And I've been THINKING about Shadow King and my looming editing work. I've gotten lovely useful comments from my beta readers. And there's another short story brewing in my head. Sounds like author heaven, right? All wheels turning, all cylinders engaged.

The bad news is I've been dealing with yet another health crisis with yet another parent. January seems to be a sucky month in this respect. And there's been a slew of snow days, which have meant I'm on mommy duty more than author duty.

I don't know how you imagine your 40s, but I never thought I'd understand so clearly and keenly what the term "sandwich generation" means. It means stuck in the middle, with two equally beloved and equally cranky and needy groups of people vying for a dominant piece of my pie. Or, I suppose I should be consistent in the analogy: vying for a bigger slice of ham and cheese. (If you're a vegan, think hummus.) I had a realization the other day: this is what the rest of my life will be like. And I thought, how did I get here? I'm not even that nice of a person.

Seriously, I'm not. I'm no selfless angel. I don't live to serve. I don't get off by denying myself. How can I possibly fit into this role of caregiver that has been thrust upon me, by choice in the case of the children, and circumstance, in the case of the parents?

The beta readers I mentioned above both had a similar reaction to one element of Shadow King: that of the plain-clothes, off-the-mountain, earthly Jesus. They were freaked out a bit. Without giving away the plot, I can say that Max encounters the divine not in the way we often imagine - a garden of blazing light, with angelic choirs and celestial majesty. Nope. His Jesus shows up in khakis and a sweater. He carries a pocket knife; he plays checkers, drinks whiskey, and talks about sex. He's ordinary, but pushy; he gets into Max's head and messes around there. He doesn't go away, doesn't take kindly to being ignored, and won't let Max step away from what he's been called to do.

So why is this Jesus freaky? I think because he's so real. He's so close. He's so human. He's just around the corner; Max bumps into him all the time. Transcendent encounters with the divine are easy to accept in literature, because so few people ever have them. They sound beautiful, comforting, not scary. A God who drinks your Perrier at a cafe is freaky because it could happen to you. And then what would you do? 

Like Max, I'm feeling selfish. I don't want to sacrifice myself for the sake of others. I don't want to love my neighbors as much as myself. I can't imagine I'm that good of a person. But that same Jesus that's bugging Max won't leave me alone, either. He's drinking my coffee. He's messing with my head. He keeps calling, and because he's infinite AND human, he'll keep at it.

I guess I'd better stop ignoring. Can I be myself and the sandwich? Maybe so, with the right help. I'll let you know how it goes. Peace to you all.

I've had reason (more on that shortly) to look back at my blog posts, and I was surprised and more than a little horrified to see that my most recent post was three months ago. Three months! My goodness, time just flies, especially in the last quarter of the year. Here it is, nearly Christmas already.

Not that I've been idle during this period of blogging inactivity. Far from it, actually. I'm happy to report that I've FINISHED the first draft of the second book in the Discovering Ren series, now formally titled The Shadow King. With luck, it may be released in spring 2014. I hope all of my loyal and lovely readers are champing at the bit to get their hands on the next installment in the Ambrosines' story. I have to say, I love this book. I mean, I love the first one, too, but this one was such a challenge to write and in the end, I'm pretty darned happy with the result. 

In the meantime, if you just can't wait, here's your help. Cogwheel Press has just released a brand-new anthology of short stories by the members of the author "family." I had the privilege of serving as the editor and writing the introduction to this collection of spooky, funny, disturbing, and provocative tales. Readers of Discovering Ren will recognize one of the characters in "From Here to Where" (hint: he's a werewolf). I also hope you'll enjoy "The Stowaway," written by my steampunk alter ego Evelyn Grimwood. If you love speculative fiction - and really, who doesn't? - every story in A Turn of the Wheel is a great read, just in time for holiday giving. 

So, the "time between" is not a void. Stuff happens, but it's really a long interlude between two significant events. In Discovering Ren, the Almighty tells Isadora that she lives in the time between, the period of existence after humanity's fall from grace and before the last judgment. No one knows how long this time between will last. None of us does. We have many little "times between" in our lives, and of course our entire existence is bookended by birth and death. It's easy to forget, or to ignore, or to become despondent when faced with the realities of the time between. Waiting, after all, is very hard to do. 

Advent is the season of waiting. Today marks the last Sunday in the Advent season. In a few days it will be Christmas, but we're still waiting for the second Coming. Waiting. Watching. Hoping. 

Make the most of your time between, for in it you will accomplish everything. This is the time you've been given. Savor it. Make the most of it. Cherish it. Rejoice in it.

May Christmas bring you renewed hope, and may the new year bring you joy. Peace.

Those of you who know me well, know that I'm 1) a huge fan of paranormal adventure and alternative history; and 2) a stickler for getting things right. Okay, we all make cock ups now and again, but when they get in the way of my enjoyment of a good spectacle, I get annoyed.

I've been enjoying the ridiculous fun of Fox's Sleepy Hollow. After all, it features a RevWar hottie with a pony tail and great boots, AND a headless horseman - what's not to like? But in last week's episode I found I couldn't concentrate on Tom Mison's awesome cuteness when he was running along machine-milled hollow steel catwalks in his "18th-century" underground tunnels and and when he struck a match to light a lantern. And then his modern-day co-star referred to being "so far down a rabbit hole," and Mison's Ichabod Crane seemed to understand the reference.

Seriously? History PhDs are a dime a dozen out there. The screen writers couldn't pay one of them in Starbucks gift cards to review the script for basic accuracy? Heck, they couldn't use Wikipedia? Sheesh. (For those of you playing at home, extruded hollow steel pipe is a post-Civil War-era material, the first modern, self-igniting match was invented in 1805, and Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland was published in 1865.)

And, when I saw a novel entitled Spank Me, Mr. Darcy, I was not offended by the subject matter or premise, but by the fact that the cover image featured a modern reproduction of a Victorian corset, NOT a Regency-era one. Again, c'mon, people, just do a little research! That's all the fangirls are asking.

Ok, enough ranting! Peace, everybody.

A dear friend of mine, who happens to be a voracious reader, just told me that she keeps seeing a facebook ad from an indie author claiming that Jodi Picoult was "completed absorbed" by his book, and wouldn't we all like to buy it right now???

The lovely Kristin Stieffel over at The New Author's Fellowship invited me to guest post on their blog. I was happy to oblige, since I love to offer whatever help I can to other authors. So, please go check out my post entitled, Six Steps on the Writing Journey. Let me know what you think, and I wish everyone out their great success! Happy writing. Peace!