My Writing Process Blog Tour

I was tagged by two wonderful writing friends, SK Keogh and Precy Larkins, to participate in a blog tour where authors answer a few questions about their writing process and what they're working on. SK Keogh writes historical fiction. You should check out her Jack Mallory Chronicles, of which two books are published and a third is on the way. Read more about her writing process here. Precy Larkins is a Young Adult author and you can read all about her writing process here. Now, on to the questions!

1. What am I working on?

Well that's a heck of a question. As a self published author, I'm never just working on the next book. Writing-wise, I'm currently working on a women's fiction manuscript tentatively titled Confessions of a Non-Believer. In this story, Bree is a young woman dealing with the emotional fallout after the sudden death of her fiance. She faces the daunting task of keeping her life and sanity together while facing a crisis of faith--or non-faith, as it were--and acknowledging the growing attraction to her would-be brother-in-law.

Additionally, I have the start of a contemporary romance on paper and fighting for brain space. This one is untitled, but it's in an introverted love story that I was inspired to write because I think the quiet soul is super sexy and underrepresented.

In terms of marketing, I'm working on some new cover concepts for Sorry's Not Enough. The book will be one year old at the end of May and I'll be revealing a fresh new cover and it will be hugely discounted for a short time as well! My short story collection, Consenting Adults will get a new cover to celebrate also. I've already decided on that and will reveal it soon. (Check out my Facebook page to stay updated on when that happens or to give me feedback on the things you love/hate to see on book covers)

2. How does my work from others in its genre?

That's a difficult one to answer. Based on feedback I've gotten from readers and what I see in my own writing, I would have to say the degree of realism. But in a good way. We want to get lost in stories and characters, so sometimes being too true to life can be boring or dull. I think my realism is the opposite. My characters are flawed, sometimes awkward, emotional, sometimes uncertain, sometimes very certain about something only to discover they were wrong. I think they can really touch on elements of the human experience that speak to us all. I've also been told I write great, natural dialogue.

3. Why do I write what I do?

Because I love it. That's the simple answer. The more complicated answer is that emotion and drama make me feel connected and alive, even when they're sad ones if a character is going through something bad. Maybe it's because I am, in my own reality, a fairly even-keeled person who goes with the flow and doesn't express extreme emotions very often. So I like to live it out in fiction. People fascinate me, which is why my stories are character-driven. The vulnerability (and, of course, sexiness) of what happens between two characters in the bedroom, is beautiful and presents a great opportunity to explore more of the emotional things I like in fiction, which is why I never shy away from sex in my stories when it makes sense.

4. How does your writing process work?

I'm a slow drafter. I do all of my first drafts by hand, in notebooks. It involves a lot of staring at the page or off into space as I decide the next word, the next sentence. There's also lots of daydreaming and working through potential scenarios while in the shower and before falling asleep at night. It can take me quite a while to get that first draft written. I'll type up large sections of it when I get stuck or feel uninspired, to put myself back into the story. And as I type, I do some minor edits. So the typed draft is a little more polished than the written one. So far, I've been very lucky that my first drafts are often pretty clean and I don't usually have to spend months ripping it apart and putting it back together again. With the exception of my first novel, but we won't talk about that! Then it's off to some trusted readers for feedback.

I'm supposed to tag others to participate, but if you've read any of my other meme or blog hop type posts, you know I often decline to do so. Mostly to spare myself the awkwardness of asking others and fearing they'll feel obligated because they're my friends even though they don't want to. What can I say? I like to avoid even the potential for conflict or awkwardness. Guess that's why I write it instead. If you feel inclined to share your process, then consider yourself tagged! Tell folks I inspired you to blog about it, and tag some others to participate the week after you do yours. Or don't. Whatever. You're a grown adult. You can decide. :-)

The Difficult Decision NOT To Publish

I've been talking about, and working toward, self-publishing my first novel, Sorry's Not Enough, this fall. I've done a lot of research, learned a whole lot of things, tried my hand at creating an ebook cover, put my novel through several beta readers, and agonized over every word. My plan was to put together a few short stories as a collection to release for free a few weeks before publishing the novel, as a sort of teaser for people new to my writing. While doing all this, I was going to continue working on my WIP, Confessions of a Non-Believer, a commercial women's fiction story with a bit of religious debate. And THEN, when that was done, I would start writing my erotica series during the time it took to seek representation for Confessions, while hopefully making decent self-pub sales with Sorry's Not Enough. That was the plan, and I've put in a lot of work, so this post may come as a surprise.

I will not be self-publishing Sorry's Not Enough.

And no, it's not because I got an agent or anything like that. I will also not continue working on Confessions right now. I may tinker with it here and there, but it won't be my priority. This is a hard thing to say, because on some level I feel like I'm abandoning the love of my life. I love both of these stories, and it does hurt a little bit to say "Sorry, but I have to set you aside."

Anatomy of a decision

I'm not dropping out of the writing game. What I am doing is carefully selecting my career path. It has been in the back of my mind for a while that I have two separate audiences for my work. The dream would be that my fans would be my fans no matter my genre, but realistically I know that the audience for my women's fiction and the audience for my erotica are two separate market segments. There will be some overlap in the customer base, but sustaining a career in one or both genres means different marketing plans and, most importantly, a steady supply of new material for fans of EACH genre. My FTWA colleague Sophie Perinot wrote about author branding and genre in a post last August that really spoke to me. I think I've been mulling this over on a subconscious level ever since.

The bottom line in Sophie's post, and the reality of publishing, is that you will most likely mold your writing career around the genre you debut in. At least for a while. I'm sure you've all heard the saying by now that the best marketing for one book is to write (and publish) your next book. A solid career track depends on a writer being able to deliver a steady supply of writing that the readers are eager to gobble up. So it doesn't make sense to debut in one genre, then switch to another. Like I said, you might get some readers who follow you from one genre to another, but you'll essentially have to re-market and re-brand yourself to a new readership in the new genre. Career-wise, it just isn't a smart move. At least not for me.

Which is why my commercial women's fiction projects have to take a back seat while I focus on erotica.

I've had this idea for my erotica series for a couple years now, but I've always been waiting to finish (and hopefully land an agent/publishing deal) with the women's fiction first. Probably because that was the order in which the ideas came to me. If I am truly honest with myself, though, trying to break into the publishing world with my women's fiction is a BAD idea. Why? Because SNE and Confessions are the only two women's fiction manuscripts I have, and I don't currently have any ideas for more. Nor has any viable idea come to me in the past two years. All of the other awesome ideas I have are for erotic stories, starting with this series. The series idea was just a nebulous collection of scenarios in my head at first, nothing too concrete, so I kept working on Confessions. But now the idea is more fully formed and screaming to be written.

There's also another reason I'm shifting my focus to erotica: timing. I have a sense that right now - like, YESTERDAY! - is a prime time to launch my career as an erotic novelist. No matter how much I, or anyone, may dislike Fifty Shades of Grey for whatever reason, it has thrust erotica into the mainstream limelight. Do I think there's better erotica out there? Of course. I hope that mine can be counted in the better quality category. We'll have to wait and see on that. But there's a buzz around the genre right now, and it seems like there's no better time to step onto the stage and try to make a name for myself. The fact that this is happening now, and that my series concept has finally gelled into something I'm finally prepared to write, now, is immense stroke of luck. I mean honestly... the timing! I feel if I put it off any longer, I'll miss out on a great opportunity.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not hopping on a bandwagon. I've been interested in erotica for a long time now, and I've written short stories, and the idea for the novel came to me a couple years ago. Erotica has also been a very healthy genre, sales-wise, way before the 50 Shades explosion, especially in the indie and self-publishing realm. But now is just the right time for me. How can I say no?

But can't you just use a pen name for one genre and do both at the same time? Or even if you don't use a pen name, can't you STILL self-publish like you were planning to and also write erotica?

As I already mentioned, it just doesn't make career sense for me. Even if I use a pen name to keep the marketing/genre stuff separate, I'll still only have two viable women's fiction manuscripts. Why self-publish one, seek representation for another (or self-pub both), and then have nothing else in the pipeline? I feel I'd be doing a disservice not only to my readers, but to myself and those two stories. If I (fingers crossed!) build a readership and fan base with my erotica and it doesn't look like I'll have any more women's fiction stuff to offer down the line, maybe then I'd consider self-publishing SNE and Confessions as a little something extra to offer my readers. I think I'd have better luck getting fans of my erotica to read my non-erotic titles than vice versa. Not sure why. Just a hunch I have.

Even disregarding all of the above, I still couldn't do both. I. Just. Can't. Recently I did an interview for Matt Sinclair at The Elephant's Bookshelf (publisher of the Spring Fevers anthology) and he asked whether I tend to work on multiple projects, or one at a time. In hindsight I realized just how much my answer foreshadowed this very decision:

I attempt multiple projects, but usually I end up not making much progress on any. For several weeks now, I've been stuck in the "thinking and scheming" frame of mind for about three different projects. I have to buckle down soon and start focusing on one first, then another, so I can actually get something accomplished.

I simply don't have it in me to write this erotica novel in a timely manner while also trying to focus on self-publishing my first novel and all that comes with that - marketing, blog tours, monitoring sales, etc. And forget about trying to write the erotica, self-publish SNE, AND keep working on Confessions.  I get anxious just thinking about it.

I'm indecisive. It's one of my flaws. I'm paralyzed by choice. Having to consider and manage all aspects of writing two projects and publishing a third is just too much. In discussing this decision with a friend yesterday, I told him I have this thing where I have a hard time problem-solving by just taking things one step at a time. I see things in a very interconnected way, and when I consider even one option, I can't help but also see the myriad possibilities branching out from it, like a choose-your-own adventure on crack. While this ability is actually an immense bonus to me working in retail environments, it is crippling in my writing life. If I let it get the best of me, I'll end up doing what I've been doing for the past three months: wasting time on Facebook and Twitter or staring at mindless drivel on TV because the magnitude of so many choices, so many potential actions, results, and consequences is overwhelming.

This has been a gut-wrenchingly difficult decision. Partially because I've been saying I'm going to self-publish this book for a good while now, and seemingly at the last minute I'm pulling the plug. I don't like saying I'm going to do something and then not doing it, no matter the reason. Makes me feel like a flake. (Thank you to all my Twitter friends and the #goatposse for assuring me I am not a flake.) I'm not sure what else has made it so difficult for me... probably a little soul-searching and psychological analysis to be done there, but I won't bore you with that. :-)

I hope that by sharing my decision with you, maybe someone else who feels like they're floundering without direction or struggling with a decision that's been eating at them for a while will find the courage to really examine themselves and their goals. Writing is art, and I want to write the stories that I want to write. But I also want this to be a career, which means making tough calls about what I should be writing at any given moment. And sometimes it means going with your gut, even when you aren't sure, like me.

What's the hardest writing career decision you've had to make? How did you know you were making the right choice?

Sample: Confessions of a Non-Believer

Confessions of a Non-Believer
Mainstream/Women's Fiction
Chapter 1

Carl is dead. If ever there were a day I wished there was some god to comfort me, to welcome Carl's soul to paradise, today is it.

I lie in bed, sure the last few hours have been a cruel dream. After all, young, successful attorneys aren’t supposed to die of undiagnosed heart defects. They aren’t supposed to die two months before their wedding, three months after buying a house with their fiancée. If they’re going to die in the middle of the court room, it’s supposed to be sensational: the result of a crazed defendant or disgruntled victim taking justice into their own hands. Especially Carl, who always had to do the best and be the best, who had to make a name for himself everywhere he went. He’s probably looking down on the whole thing now, pissed that he hadn’t been able to deliver his brilliant closing arguments before fate ripped a hole in his heart and sent him falling to the floor of Judge Aberman’s court room. He probably wouldn’t have thought of me on the way down—of how he was making a widow of me even before I became a wife—only how he’d never get to make partner now.

Our bed seems much bigger than it used to. The edges stretch farther and farther away from me, drowning me in expensive organic cotton. Taunting me. Telling me with all the softness and compassion of an automaton that no matter how many times I roll over, I’ll never again feel Carl beside me.

Still, I heave myself over, and over again, searching for a warmth that isn’t there. Or, at the very least, a cool empty space just over the edge that might tell me our bed hasn’t really grown to infinite proportions I can never escape. I find the latter, in the form of a three foot fall onto the hardwood floor. I hardly try to brace myself, my hip thudding gracelessly against the golden pine, my elbow cracking against the nightstand on the way down.

Shit.

I swallow the metallic taste that has sprouted from the tip of my tongue, curl my knees up to my chest, stare at the dust bunnies that have collected under the bed. I should get up, I think. Should wipe the stream of unladylike snot sliding across my upper lip. Instead, I let my forehead drop to the floor and continue scanning the shadowy void under the bed as if my fiancé might magically appear there.

Every time I try to imagine his face, I see him as I saw him in the hospital.

When he left the house this morning, he was wearing a dark grey three-button suit. Pale blue shirt. Grey and blue striped tie. But when I pushed through the hospital doors, the only grey was the ashen color of his face; he was wearing only a white sheet.

I’ll have to change the sheets on our bed—my bed now. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to sleep on plain white sheets again.

My cell phone rings from somewhere unseen. I roll over onto my back with every intention of getting up and answering it, but by the time the white ceiling comes into view, the ringing has stopped. So I stop trying to get up.

Minutes later, it starts again. I don’t know how long it rings, only that it keeps on ringing. And ringing. When it finally does stop, for good, it’s replaced by a loud knocking at the door.

“Bree!” The deep voice is somewhere outside my bedroom, but in the house. Apparently I didn’t lock the front door. “Brianne!” My brother-in-law calls to me again. At least he would’ve been my brother-in-law. Not anymore.

“Luke.” I mean to call out, but my voice fails me, emanating as only a cracked whisper. The bedroom door bursts open anyway, and Luke is suddenly on his knees with me.

“Jesus, Bree, why didn’t you pick up?”

“It’s not real, right?” Arms encircle me. I find my face pressed against his neck, a day’s worth of stubble scratching at my forehead. Definitely real.

“You should’ve called me first. I would’ve gone with you to the hospital.”

I hadn’t thought to call. When someone told me my fiancé had collapsed in court, I wasn’t thinking about who I should call to meet me at the hospital. I was thinking about the designer gown that would be arriving at a local wedding boutique in a week for a fitting. I was thinking about the nearly 200 guests we were expecting at the wedding in 8 weeks.

“Gloria,” I said. I was thinking about her, too, on the way to the hospital. Carl and Luke’s mother. Somehow, she would make this out to be my fault.

Luke squeezes me tighter and for a moment I imagine I might feel better if he would just squeeze all the breath from my lungs.

“I called. They’re trying to get a flight out.”

I hadn’t called anyone at all. The drive home is a blur. Someone at the firm must have called Luke.

“I have to call Father Granger.” He was supposed to marry us. Now he’ll have to perform another ceremony. I try to scramble to my feet; Luke scrambles with me. His arms are the only thing that keep me steady when my knees turn to jelly.

“Bree, stop it.”

“I have to call.”

“You can do it tomorrow.”

“I have to—”

“You don’t.” His grip is firm. I try to push him away.

“There’s so much I have—”

“Bree, just stop. It can wait.”

“He’s dead!” I scream, saying it out loud for the first time. “What am I supposed to do, huh?” I pound my fists against his chest. “He was supposed to marry me, and love me, and be with me forever, and now he’s dead!”

He’s dead.

Luke sits on the couch all night and watches me make phone calls. Sometimes he protests, tells me it can wait, I should sit down. Eat. Something. Anything.

But I can’t, because every time I slow down, I can feel the world spinning beneath my feet. It’s always been turning, changing, buzzing with the hum of millions of busy lives. But before now, my life always hummed right along with the rest, one ballerina in a carefully choreographed dance. Now I’ve lost my place and can only mimic the movements of the other dancers, frighteningly aware of how fast everything is going by, until I can find my way again.

I call my parents back home in Seattle and they promise to get on the first plane they can catch. Mom tells me to hang in there, not to stay the night alone, to surround myself with friends. She, like Luke, tries to convince me that all my phone calls—to cancel wedding plans and make funeral arrangements—can wait until morning. But I keep dialing. Wedding’s off. Carl’s dead. No other reason, and why should there be?

Call the caterer. The florist. Maybe the florist can…no, don’t think about that. Keep dialing. The reception hall. Should’ve started cancelling things yesterday, or the day before, but my lips couldn’t form the embarrassed excuse then. It’s more difficult now to spit out this tragic news instead. This isn’t what I wanted when we decided… How was I to know?

Call the ceremony site. And the guests. So many guests. I can at least start calling my side of the list tonight. The rest will wait.

Can’t stop to listen to the silence or look at Luke’s expressionless face. I haven’t seen him cry. He sits there and watches me pace across the living room, cell phone pressed to my ear. When my fingers run out of numbers to dial, when my lips can no longer bear to form any words, Luke watches me cry.

I stand in the middle of the living room, sniffling, wiping at the tears as fast as they come. I don’t even have the luxury of denial because I saw him, covered from toes to neck. I felt his skin, not yet cold, but not as warm as mine. I can’t delude myself that he might come walking through the door. I cry because he won’t.

And I cry because a selfish part of me is relieved he can’t.