Or at least sometimes I believe that. One of my downfalls is that I’m constantly looking back. I believe it has more to do with seeing where I am now and how far I’ve come.

Today, I feel like I knew more about writing when I didn’t know what I was doing. Yes, I suffered from headhopping, lack of sub-genre, the business of getting published, but I knew and believed in authentic storytelling. I didn’t put myself into the story and try to be clever, because there was this story to tell and it was bursting out of me and I couldn’t catch up to it.

Now it takes several hours logged into the story before the story gets ahead of me and then I spend the next few weeks trying to catch up to it. Before it was natural and in certain ways I was a better writer because of it. NOW I have to find that place again in order to write. NOW I spend hours editing to make the story seem like I was in the “place” to begin with.

I find this conundrum akeen to coloring. You really don’t know how to color, but you’ve got this crayon in your hand. You go berserk and the page looks like a massacre of color. Then someone comes along and says “You have to color within the lines.” For months or years you try to keep everything within those lines. You mentally berate yourself when you go outside of them. You stop thinking about coloring and only focus on staying within the lines. One day you can stay within the lines without really thinking about it. You once again start to color the picture. If you are one of those steady hand type of people you can jump into coloring. Or, like me, you outline the lines and then start to color within very carefully.

The sad thing is some people never re-learn how to color i.e. write with that abandon. Because it is re-learning. Once again you have to find that place were the stories are told even within the lines.

How have you found it? Are you still struggling?

At this point it’s almost mythical. I grew up hearing about the women who burned their bra. About how it was symbolic to the time. The bra represented repression. At the same time I grew up knowing you never went out without your bra. Not because it was repressive, but because I came along a line of women who were top heavy. You were likely to lose an eye.

But of course romance is about women. Yes, we have the heroes who we drool over. Yet it’s a genre about women. You can say Mrs. Giggles had me thinking when talking about men who never had a porno stash within the romance genre. *Reality* Even something so innocent as having a centerfold somewhere, anywhere.

So I had a thought, what about women and their bras? I know I’m not the first, nor the last who has come home, started to relax and whipped off their bra. When that final latch has come undone I sigh. Almost like “Oh, thank God!” Don’t get me started on under-wires that stab.

But where is that scene? Not the hero taking off the heroine’s bra, but the heroine taking off her bra after a long day *and that borderline orgasmic relief*? Does it exist? Is it something that goes without saying?

I know I’m not the only woman with a bra story…

Those were the good ol’ days. See I’ve been blogging for four years and at this point I feel I’ve run out of interesting things to say. So on those days you might get a flash back.

Since I let my blogging anniversary pass by without notice I think I should showcase how I used to be funny.

Title: Just Lost My Bloggers-Virginity

Quote worthy-line: “[this]being my first time [,] this blog will be awkward and later when I read over it again I just might experience some pain.”

And since I had to scroll through years of posting I got to see the old me. I was so green.

What did you write in your first blog?

But I swear if I ever meet the person who decided to put Charles Barkley in a commercial AND have him do that Lot’s In A Box rhyme, I’m running them over with my car.

Then I’ll put the car in reverse.

How do you define writer? Does that definition sit it well with you?

At one time I believed I was different, special, and/or unique because I wrote. I’m not going to lie, I loved that feeling. Just by associating myself with the word author I could get cool brownie points. It made me mysterious. I’m a what you see is what you get kind of woman so this perceived coolness seduced me.

Then there came a point when I wanted to stop writing. That want made me realize I no longer defined myself as a writer. Just like my brown eyes don’t define the real me. It’s a trait I was born with. Yeah, I need to take care of it just like anything else or….else.  If I wanted to keep it in shape I needed to write and learn my craft. And write some more. Rinse. Repeat.

As my grandmother would say, “Only brush the teeth you want to keep.”

So I reached the point where I accepted writing was a part of my make up, but it wasn’t all of ME.  I have considered I might be lying to myself. *insert pothead who says, “I can quit any time I want.” Though the day never comes.*

So to truly test out this theory I secretly quit writing. Well maybe not so secretly. Then the next year I quite again, but that time I like to think I was the only one who noticed I gave up. To sum up…I’ve quit writing five years straight. Every year I reached a point where I say, I’m done.  This year though I’m not seeing my homecoming to writing as something outside of me as I have before. That outside thing controls me by it’s every whim. It’s magical, mythical, fairy dust, wishes and unicorns who fart rainbows. Or a taskmaster that isn’t satisfied until I cry Uncle.

In reality, it’s something I choose to do that I just so happen have the rudimentary talent for.  Again, I repeat, I choose to write.  I can quit writing. I have before. What I didn’t realize is that when I would quit I was saying I reject the idea I have to be enslaved to this gift. Enslaved in my head equaled being a real writer. Not being enslaved means I’m going to stop interpreting “Quit if you can” as though writing is a compulsion (that everytrue writer has) and the only reason someone quit was because they didn’t have IT.  I.E. In order to stay sane I’ve got to stop using other people’s definition of writer.

This thought process depressed the hell out of me. I liked other people’s definition because if I bought this new reality then I was no longer different, special and/or unique just because I could write. This new thought bordered on sacrilegious. And when, if ever, I  decide to voice my opinion I deserved every horrible death in all my peers next book.

But, you know, how you approach situations in life is how you define it. Fat. Happy. Bad. Good. Selfish…Writer. So if I was to go whole hog on this new idea, this new definition I’ll never feel guilty again when I didn’t suffer for my art. Hell, when I get paid for my heart art I’m not whoring my gift. I don’t have to smoke or drink myself into oblivion. I can go on not knowing what a Bon-Bon taste like being a romance author. If I quit (again) or if a friend quit writing I wouldn’t go off the deep end, because it screwed my definition, my ideal that writing is a compulsion/calling. I could see the act of writing as a choice. If someone chose to stop a fairy would not die, because an angel does not get it’s wings every time someone is born with the talent to write.

I choose to do something that makes me happy. I choose to do something that isn’t easy. The process of writing a book can be draining, frustrating…damn hard in every way on some days–and I still choose to do it. No Muse or Gods are holding a gun to my head.
I’m doing what I damn well want to = cool brownie points.

Sad isn’t it that I rationalized all this just to end up at the same starting point? The thing is this definition settles over me and it feels right. In no way do I feel burdened. In no way will I ever do less because writing is no longer this huge thing. Hell I might do even better now. How many of you relate more with the family you chose? Just something to chew on.

Again, I’ll ask: How do you define writer? Does that definition sit it well with you?

This particular quote comes from Tom Hanks talking about Philadelphia, a movie he starred in as a man living with AIDS. This quote came from talking about the gay men he worked with during the making of the film, men that were gone. This particular Actor’s Studio I watched happened during the 1990s. Already only a handful had survived so I’m sure most, if not all of the men, are now gone.

And what fascinates me about this quote is that we live dual realities. One reality we accept wholeheartedly. More than likely it’s the less painful one. We watch a movie. We read a book. For me, we write a book. But it’s the memories attached to that action. I’ve written about this idea before on Southern Fried Chicas. But it still compels me. I can remember one thing about my real life when I re-read/edit my own stories. I’m sure I can be transported in time when I read Love, Unexpected, my first book. Even without opening the word doc. I can recall the drive–the newness to this writing thing. I may have had angst, but I can’t recall. It was such a new thing and so wonderful and so empowering nothing could make it horrible.

Oh, well, submitting it. And I’m eternally grateful no one actually replied to that first submission. My state of mind hinged on no one telling me the truth about my writing. Goodness it was so precious and fragile that I can say if someone told me I couldn’t write I would have stopped. Yes, I would have stopped just from someone saying “Keep your day job.”

And with each book I can attach a writing/life lesson and memory to. How Much You Want to Bet? = whims can lead you down interesting paths. See Megan Run = this writing thing is not easy.  I Said Never = All of them aren’t mean to be published. Diary of a Food Addict = You’ve got to love this thing even if your spirit is broken. Everything You Need = You can write for money.  I  can do this with all of my books. All of them. They are much more than words on a page. May be a bad thing in the scheme of things, but I can tract my life by what I’ve written.

And some days I believe that may be the point. I’m curious to know what memories you can get from the books you’ve written.

I’ve been sitting on a book for months. It’s a book I absolutely believe in. Not only is it what I imagined in my head when the idea first came to me, but it’s better in so many other ways. And I don’t want to submit it.

I’m scared that I’m going to hear this book isn’t as good as I think it is. Or that it is but it’s just not right.  It’s not hot enough. It’s not good enough to be published.

Doesn’t matter that the stars may align and someone would take this book, but I’m scared that this book will go into the grave yard. My solution is to do nothing, which by default puts the book in the grave yard. But I reason with myself at least it’s not forced to be there. I’ve got control of the outcome.

I hate that I feel I need to do this. Worse, since I know I’m doing this, what is the point of writing any other book? I know I can finish a novel. I know I’ll always have stories floating around in my head, but since I have no intent to get them published why put myself through the misery of the dreaded middle?

The only solution is to submit the book. Admitting my fear is nice and all, but it means nothing if I don’t do anything about. Other wise I’m just bitching and wallowing. And I know I won’t be able to write until I do this.

So would it be asking too much for ya’ll to hold my hand? Also, what’s got you scared?

In defense of romance type of post has rarely happened on my blog, because other people have always said it better. Really what can you say to arguments that romance novels today will never be an Austen or Bronte? They won’t be for another 100 years at the very least. Plus, those authors are dead and the work they created has stood the test of time. Scrunity and praise has been given by both scholars and laymen.

Yes, in every romance novel today there’s a moment, maybe more than necessary, of those feel good emotions that make you blush, giggle, or sigh. *get your tomatoes ready* The very idea of  romance is supposed to be the fluff of life. There’s nothing wrong with that. Have you met people who didn’t enjoy the fluff? I have. Not pretty and makes me want to have a shot of whiskey after dealing with him/her for five minutes. So, yes, I believe romance is fluff. I also believe fluff is necessary to stay sane.

Where I truly start to break from naysayers of the genre (even some who love romance) is that’s ALL romance novels are.  The romance, the fluff, that makes it truly resonate is the conterpart that’s often ignored or not given enough due for the role it plays in a romance novel. Even with Disney’s spin on fairy tales the heroine’s come from dark places–broken homes, deceased parents, evil relatives. I find it baffling that in our society it’s more accepted to laugh in the face of tradegy than instead to learn to love, to let yourself be vulnerable, to share those dark places with someone else in the face of tradegy. Between laughing and loving unconditionally, I find the latter takes more cajones. (Note: this genre is filled to the brim with women.)

A genre that deals with rape, abuse (verbal, emotional, physcial) from a signficant other and/or parent, weight/skewed self-image on and on. Not to mention the themes of redemption, forgiveness, acceptance…again on and on. Yet in some circles it’ll never be more than a bodice ripper. Only the lightness, the fluff of romance is considered and dismissed. What makes that necessary component of living in this world so worthy of disdain?

For me when it’s put in those terms I’ll take fluff any day.

I signed up for 31 Days to a Better Blog eight months ago. My intentions were in the right place. I wanted a blog that actually helped people and entertained them or even made them ponder for five seconds after closing out the screen. Needless to say I was waylaid.

Anyway, the first assignment is to create an elevator pitch for my blog. As it stands I have no idea what this space is supposed to be. So for it’s been narcissistic to the extreme–about my books, my writing process, my children on and on and so forth. To my three faithful readers I apologize.

Despite my need to change the basic set up, underneath it all I still want a blend of a place for a public diary when it comes to my writing life that more times than I want crosses over into personal and for it NOT to be about me all the time. All the while being entertaining and informative. The only for sure thing in my mind is creating a day for Time Wasters.

Other than that I’m open to ideas. What would you like to see more often on blogs in general? An author’s blog? My blog, since I’m asking?

I’m guilty of a phrase. I use it so often it’s become a mantra in a way. It’s not something I want as a mantra, because every time I place it before a a statements it undermines me. It’s an insidious way to put myself down. To make me less.

I can’t blame the phrase. It’s innocent.  In the grand scheme it’s ok to express that you have uncertain about an idea, fact, or even feeling. Matter fact admitting that you aren’t certain can be very humbling and sometimes life changing.

Yet 90 percent of time I used the phrase with false modesty. I denounced false modesty almost a year ago and my subconscious rebelled.

So what is the phrase?

I think

Simple, right?

But, I think revising is truly a mindset.

I don’t think it, I believe it. It’s true for me. I know my reluctance to just say this is what I believe has everything to do with my discomfort of forcing my ideas on someone else. What if I’m wrong? If how I hate being wrong was water it’d be the size of the Pacific. No, I’m not a know-it all. Really. I hate feeling stupid. Something probably happened when I was a kid and it stayed with me. I’m more than sure it’s been reinforced, (*cue psychobabble*) because I want it to be reinforced. Believing I don’t know anything keeps me from doing the really scary things–like things that would crush me if I don’t succeed.

I think is such a small phrase, but when I use it I’m telling myself I’m stupid.

A stretch right?

But, I’m stupid to believe revising is a mindset.

Yeah.

So first order of risky decisions this year, I’m cutting out I think from my vocabulary. I’ll use some other words or phrase to explain my uncertainty when I’m actually uncertain. That way I’ll have to assess (ha) the why.

What words or phrases are you willing to cut?