The Healthy Writer

Writing isn’t the kind of job you’d expect to be hazardous. When all you do all day long is sit in a comfy chair at your desk and poke some keys from time to time, you’d think your body would respond beautifully to all this pampering. But, as any desk jockey of longstanding knows, desk work isn’t without its dangers. In fact, injuries and ill health are rife among writers for several reasons.

• Long periods of inactivity.

• Intense, sustained typing and mouse use.

• Poor posture.

• Poor visibility, due to poor lighting, small type, or sustained focusing.

If I haven’t got you nodding your head in commiseration at one of these symptoms, then I congratulate you on having maintained your physical health in spite of the challenges of our profession. However, I’m willing to bet that more than one of those ailments hit home.


So what’s a writer to do? Certainly, we have no intention of forfeiting our passionate pursuit of art, no matter what the cost to our health. But there’s no reason we can’t be proactive in creating habits that will ward off all these hazards of the writing workplace. Following are just a handful of tips for preventing injury and guaranteeing health and wellness.

• Make it a point to work out every day, even if only for a short time. Studies have proven that a 30-minute workout five days a week is all it takes to keep ourselves fit. As desk jockeys whose most strenuous daily activity is typing a mile a minute, we can’t afford not to set up a regular workout schedule.

• Look for excuses to get up and move. We’ve all heard the suggestions about foregoing the television remote control, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, and parking at the far end of the parking lot, but we can also implement similar ideas into our daily work schedule. I make it a point to leave my water (and I drink lots of water) upstairs in the kitchen, so I have to leave my desk and jog upstairs whenever I want a drink. Taking my black Lab for walks at least twice a day and walking to the mailbox instead of picking it up as I drive past are two more easy, implementable ways to keep myself moving.

• Give your eyes frequent breaks. In an article in The Writer, Stephanie Green recommends considering “the 20/20/20 rule. Every 20 minutes that you work at a computer, look away at an object 20 feet away for 20 seconds.” Take care to keep your writing area well lit; don’t write in the dark with only the monitor’s light to see by. Forcing your eyes to refocus from light to dark whenever you look away is stressful and can cause vision impairment.

• Pause sporadically to stretch. Sitting all day in one position can make every muscle in your body stiffen. Take sporadic breaks to stretch yourself back into shape. You can find helpful video examples of arm, wrist, and finger stretches on the ProBlogger Blog and full-body stretches designed especially for desk jockeys at the fitness blog Better Is Better.

• Use preventative equipment to avoid Carpel Tunnel Syndrome and Repetitive Stress Injuries. As someone who suffers RSI, I’m on a constant quest to find the best way to not only prevent the degeneration of my injury, but also a means of healing it. I’m still working on the latter half of the equation, but my researching into prevention leads me to recommend plenty of TLC. Find a good gel mouse pad and a keyboard with a wrist support. Don’t push yourself to keep typing (or clicking) if your wrist becomes fatigued. The occasional five-minute break is more than worthy compensation for preventing a painful and inhibitive injury. If you’re already suffering chronic pain, try a wrist brace. I’ve had good luck with the IMAK™ SmartGlove.

We may live vicariously through our characters, but chronic pain in the real world can keep us from entering those in our imaginations. If we concentrate on taking care of our bodies, we can be assured of keeping that comfy chair at our desks for years to come.

Carpel Tunnel Treatment

Ode to Spell Check...

Ode to the Spell Check

Eye halve a spelling chequer
It cam with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.

Eye strike a key and type a word
And weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me strait a weigh.

As soon as a mist ache is maid
It nose bee fore two long
And eye can put the error rite
Its rare lea ever wrong.

Eye have run this poem threw it
I am shore your pleased two no
Its letter perfect awl the weigh
My chequer tolled me sew!

Credit for this cute poem: Here

Interview With Michael Snyder

Mike Snyder is very possibly one of the nicest guys you’re likely to meet. An award-winning author of “neurotica” (his self-coined term for his philosophical, humorous novels about making sense of life, love, and faith), he’s still never too busy to pass a little advice or encouragement along to his fellow scribes—experienced and novice alike. After wowing readers last year with his debut novel My Name Is Russell Fink, he nailed a three-book deal with Zondervan, the second of which was released this summer. Mike’s graciously offered a free copy of this new book, Return Policy, to one random commenter. The winner will be announced September 2nd.

AC: How long have you been writing?

MS: Now is probably as good a time as any to disclaim how very lame my memory is. This is not exaggerated for effect (just ask my wife, my editor, and at least one other person I can’t think of right now). I’m pretty sure it was around 2002 that I turned to my wife in the van and feebly admitted that I’d been thinking about writing a novel. She jumped all over the idea and hasn’t stopped encouraging me since.

AC: When people look at the body of your work, what do you hope they’ll see most clearly?

MS: I hope they see quality, truth, my passion for storytelling, shades of the gospel, something they might want to read again or tell their best friend about…but maybe not in that order. I really want to create work that resonates beyond the final paragraph. Whether I ever achieve that will have to be up to the readers.

AC: You’ve said you believe it’s vital to write for yourself, instead of an audience. Can you explain that?

MS: I absolutely believe that, for both pragmatic and artistic reasons. For one thing I don’t have the time (or frankly, the desire) to predict what readers want. No one can really do that anyway, which I’m sure drives marketing people crazy. Plus, I think our art suffers when we try to pander to certain groups of readers. If I’m focusing on trying to impress any target market—be they high-minded literary types or a particular publisher or even a specific niche of, say, recently deputized garbage collectors with fallen arches—then I’m not focusing on getting to know my characters, creating story worlds, or trying to wrestle a plot onto the page. I like to think I’m a fairly regular guy with a decent sense of humor and story sensibilities. Thus, if I’m amused there’s a reasonable chance that other regular people may be amused as well. And that’s enough, really.

AC: In Return Policy, Willie Finneran, the main character, is a lapsed mystery writer, who dreams about writing a “serious” novel. What was it like writing about a writer?

MS: The hardest part was exercising restraint. Since I am a writer and love writing, the temptation was to delve too deeply into the solitary world of the author. The trick for me was to remember that not only did Willy’s occupation inform his neurosis, but that it was primarily there to move the story forward.

AC: In many ways, Willie is very similar to you. He lives in Tennessee, writes novels, plays the guitar, loves reading Flannery O’Connor and John Irving. Did you base him off yourself?

MS: I’m afraid all my characters are more like me than I’d like to admit. But no, I didn’t really try to make him me (or vice versa). Those occupations and interests really did seem organic to the story. And of course I’d be remiss if I didn’t cop to my abject dislike for research!

AC: I’m always impressed with how all the details in your stories come together so perfectly in the end. Is that something you plan, something that just happens, or do you write what comes out and then tie up the loose ends afterwards?

MS: Thank you! I think you nailed it with the last part of your question. I’m a terrible planner, plotter, synopsizer, or anything else that requires a lot of thinking on the front end. I’m one of those oddballs that really likes the blank page. So if my endings do end up being successful, it’s probably a direct result of fear and loathing on my part. The truth is, I generally dislike the endings of most every book I read or movie I watch. Having said all that, I do end up working really hard to honor my “recipe” for good story endings—namely, a bit of surprise, large chunks of inevitability, and nary a trace of cheese. As a novelist, you want the reader to experience two conflicting yet simultaneous reactions at once. They should be saying… “Wow, I never saw that coming” and “Of course, sure, yeah, it had to work that way, didn’t it?”

AC: Can you tell us about your current project?

MS: The novel I’m working on now is about a struggling security guard/stand-up comedian in Nashville. I’ve referred to it as: “the classic tale of girl meets boy… boy catches girl stealing.” It poses to answer the question: What if a stand-up comedian resolved to only tell the truth in his act, no matter who gets hurt? It’s about acceptance of self and of others. Hopefully, it will have some funny parts and a really big heart as well.

AC: When and where do you write?

MS: I write every night from about 10 p.m. to 1 a.m. The secret ingredient to make this work is having an amazing wife who encourages me to exercise my primary spiritual gift of napping. (Sometimes my lovely wife uses a cattle prod, both for the “encouraging” and when waking me from my naps.) I would love to try my hand at writing in the morning and finishing in the middle of the afternoon. But I’m going to have to sell a lot more books first. And yes, that was a hint. (Okay, it was more of a gentle nudge, but I did have my wife’s cattle prod sitting right here and all…)

AC: What do you consider the most important elements of storytelling?

MS: Telling the truth. To yourself and to your readers. Telling the truth about the world as you see it, as well as how your characters see it. I really believe it’s incumbent upon the writer to actually love their characters. And oftentimes that includes tough love. And of course there’s conflict as well. Without conflict there really is no story.

AC: Where do stories begin for you? Plot? Character?

MS: The good ones start with character. Always character. The really hard ones start with a story idea or plot. For me, the character always informs the story, gives it direction and hopefully resonance.

AC: What’s the hardest part of the writing process? Easiest?

MS: Hmmm… I would honestly have to say it varies from day to day. Obviously, I’d rather write than market. I prefer writing dialog than description. I’d rather hang out with a character than sculpt a magnificent plot. But it all has to be done. And I’m the one who gets to do it. In the end, the fact that I have a bit of talent and that anyone wants to read what I write is a tremendous honor. So I try to be thankful for the hard parts and grateful for the easy parts. Most times though, it’s hard to tell the difference!

AC: Who would you cite as your greatest influences?

MS: Wow, that would be tough to narrow down. And here’s why…I consider every conversation I’ve ever had, as well as every interaction with every song, story, poem, nightmare, daydream, teacher, family member (you get the idea) to be story fodder. And not just ideas for characters or scenes, but as bona fide influences on the way I see the real world, which obviously informs the ones I make up.

Literary influences (in chronological order, not the severity of their impact on me) include: my fourth grade teacher who read us The Jack Tales, Richard Chase (the author of the aforementioned), my mother who loved to read, a handful of teachers who saw writing potential and encouraged me in spite of my ignorant lack of enthusiasm… then a bunch of genre writers (the usual suspects like King and Clancy and Grisham)… then my list of favorite writers… Nick Hornby, Richard Russo, John Irving, Douglas Coupland, Anne Tyler, Lorrie Moore, Tony Early, Flannery O’Connor, Graham Greene, and Steve Martin (yes, that Steve Martin!).

AC: How did you break into publishing?

MS: Ignorance. That’s the simple (and truthful) answer. I spent years trying to make a career in music. But I knew too much. The obstacles loomed a little larger every day as I learned more about the inner workings of the industry. But with writing, I just wrote. When it came time to formally engage with the industry, I was already in my 30s. I didn’t have to be afraid of the process because I didn’t even know what the process was. So I started going to writer’s conferences. Conventional wisdom sort of dictated what happens there—meet this editor and tell them your story, meet that agent and tell them your story…rinse, repeat. So I didn’t bring a lot of baggage to the process. I just tried to have fun with it, to deal with the industry bigwigs as people and not entities. I typically put friends and strangers at ease by making them laugh a little. So I did that in meetings with agents and authors and publishers. I never tried to be pushy and just let the work speak for itself.

AC: What one piece of advice would you give a young writer?

MS: Work hard, write a lot, read even more, and ignore the naysayers and rule-mongers. At some point, you’ll likely find your voice…and when you do…your job is to keep it, nurture it, treat it like one of your kids. What I mean by that is this: don’t let people disrespect it or try to change it into something it’s not and was never meant to be. Your unique voice will be your greatest asset, no matter how much you publish or how much money you make. In the end, that stuff doesn’t matter as much as we think it does.

Lastly, thank you for letting me come over to your blog and play today! You guys rock, and I’m honored to be here!

AC Writers' Contest: First Place--Liberty Speidel!

Liberty Speidel is one of the friendliest, most encouraging people I know, and I’m just plum tickled that she’s the winner of the AC Writer’s Contest!

As first place winner, Liberty wins a copy of Donald Maass's The Fire in Fiction, as well as a showcase post both here and in 777 Peppermint Place.

Liberty says her mother forced Nancy Drew on her–-just the first. Afterward, she became a fan and an avid reader. Writing since she was a teenager, she has a degree
in journalism and now squeezes her work time into the precious few moments allowed by baby naps and outings with daddy. Although she's not yet published, she enjoys writing mysteries, political thrillers, and science fiction adventure stories. Her blog, Word Wanderings, reflects both her writing skills and her writing philosophy. Pay her a visit sometime. But first, here's her award winning short story!

Prompt from Archetype's Plot Scenario Generator: The story starts when your protagonist is forced into a car at gunpoint. Another character is someone your protagonist dated who believes s/he is from another galaxy.

At Gunpoint
by Liberty Speidel

"Hurry up, get in the car." Derrick Santiago prodded me with the business end of the Colt .45 he held. "We're gonna be late."

"Derrick, you don't want to do this." I hovered near the driver's door of my Jetta. "Kidnapping someone at gunpoint can get you ten to twenty in the big house."

"We gotta go. You're gonna make me late."

Something in his eyes made me think my former boyfriend wasn't playing with a full deck today. But I couldn't put my finger on that something.

"Late for what? If you needed a ride, you just had to say so. You don't have to kidnap me."

"Will you get in the car or not?" He glanced around the parking lot to my apartment complex, then back at me. "Hurry up!"

I sighed, decided to humor him for a few minutes, and got behind the wheel. Derrick refused to drive. Said driving a vehicle so slow made his nerves vibrate.

Still holding the gun on me, my ex went around the car and slid into the passenger seat. He kept the gun low as I buckled my safety belt, adjusted the mirrors since my current boyfriend, Mark, had driven my Jetta last, and turned over the diesel engine. It rumbled to life, and I took off.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Landing site. South of town. Gotta be there in twenty minutes. They're coming for me."

Who, the men in the little white lab coats?

During the course of our relationship, Derrick had gotten more and more bizarre. Two weeks into dating him, Derrick told me he came from another galaxy. Though now thinking he'd completely lost his marbles, we continued dating for another five weeks. I called it quits when he insisted he'd come from another galaxy and had gotten lost on a working vacation, landing outside of Lincoln, Nebraska. His space ship promptly disintegrated when exposed to a corn field as corn was toxic to the metals of the ship. This was too much, even for me. So much for bio-fuels.

"Where south of town?" I prompted. I'd play along, but I knew that if I wasn't at home in thirty minutes when Mark showed up, he'd track me down.

"Near Roca. There's a landing spot there."

Okay, this would take more than thirty minutes. "Derrick, maybe you should consider going to the hospital. I think you've been hitting the happy drugs too hard again. The doctors can help you."

"Don't need doctors. Need to get back to Bracania." He squawked like a parrot. He'd done this before when talking of Bracania, so I had to think this was some sort of 'word' he'd created to try to convince me of the fact he was an alien. I just thought him bizarre. Mark was sane. Derrick really needed those men in white lab coats.

"You know there's no such things as aliens, right? You're delusional." Perhaps not the smartest thing to say when dealing with someone holding a gun on you, but I honestly believed he'd forgotten he held the Colt. Probably thought it an 'inferior' weapon anyway.

"You'll see. You'll all see! I'll go back to Bracania." He squawked. "Then you'll believe me."

If he did get back to Bracania, hopefully they'd put him in a mental hospital. That's certainly where he needed to be, human, Bracanian or whatever he was.

"Hurry up. Gonna be late. The captain doesn't appreciate lateness."

I sighed. "What's the captain's name?"

He made a noise I couldn't explain. "There's no translation into your language." Naturally.

"Nice. So, if you're really from another planet—"

"Galaxy. Bracania is not in your galaxy."

"Right. So, if you're from another galaxy, why would you want to stop here if there's plants here that can destroy your metals?"

"We're explorers. We did not know what this corn was or its hazardous qualities."

"You could have picked a better place to land than Nebraska then."

"Yes."

I continued to humor him. Maybe he'd put the Colt down and I could swipe it, then head back to town. "Is your captain on a tight schedule?"

Derrick nodded. "Very tight. He must make the outer rim within seven of your days."

I blinked, unable to fathom how far that would actually be and the speed at which one would have to travel to make it that far. "That's impossible!"

"Not for Bracanians. Our technology is far more advanced than anything you could dream of." Derrick glanced ahead as we reached Roca Road. "Turn left. Yes, left. Landing sight is about three kilometers ahead."

"Miles. We use miles in America."

He didn't seem to notice. There was an airport near there, but mostly corn fields and a few residential developments. Hoped the captain's ship was reinforced 'cause if it wasn't... Well, we'd have more crazy Bracanians in the mental hospital in Lincoln!

Dusk encroached as I pulled up to the airport, where Derrick indicated me to stop. He had me get out, and together, we walked towards the runway. "This is ridiculous, Derrick."

He didn't pay attention to me. "Captain is late. He will be here shortly." He must be getting messages from somewhere, but I couldn't tell where. Maybe it was the voices in his head.

A plane buzzed over, landing gear down. I ducked. "Are you insane?" I screamed as the plane touched down about fifty feet further down the runway. "You're going to get us killed! I'm going back to Lincoln!" I stood back up and turned towards where I'd parked.

"Wait! Landing imminent. Thirty seconds!"

I rolled my eyes. "You're insane, Derrick. I'm leaving. Find your own way back to town! I don't want to ever see you again!"

He grabbed my arm. "Stay! You must see! I'm not insane as you think."

"This had better be good." I folded my arms and waited.

Ten seconds passed, then someone yelled from the small building where I figured the control tower was. "Hey, you crazy people! Get away from the runway! You're gonna get yourself killed!"

Thank you! I wanted to scream, but a glance towards the stars had me opening my mouth in amazement.

A circular object with blue, yellow, red, and green lights flashed. It spanned at least forty feet and descended on a hiss, touching down gracefully on the asphalt. When fully down, it stood about twenty feet high. What on God's green Earth...? It was... beautiful, in a foreign sort of way. I blinked once, twice, just to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks.

A small hatch opened on the section that faced us. A mostly human-looking figure stood at the top of a staircase extending to the ground.

"Ladre, we must go," the figure stated. His skin looked waxier and more purple than a human's, but other than that, he looked human.

"Yes. Coming, Captain." Derrick/Ladre turned to me. "Thank you, Cecelia. I know you thought me insane, but you have been a kind friend. I doubt I shall see you again." He handed me the weapon, then kissed my cheek.

All I could do was stare, mouth agape, as Ladre entered the ship, then turned and waved to me. A moment later, the hatch closed, and the craft silently lifted toward the heavens.

I stared after the ship, well after it had disappeared among the stars. When I regained my composure, I drove back to town. Mark greeted me at my apartment, curious eyes wondering where I'd been. I told him a friend needed a ride home.

The Only Right Way to Plot Your Storyline!

First, the winner of my book from the post on

the 10th has been drawn!

Congrats to Janalyn! I'll get the book

sent out to you right away. :)

Now to the subject at hand. Let's face it; no matter how great of a fiction writer you are, the work will amount to nothing more than a hill of beans unless you have a great storyline.

You can write prose that causes angels to sing; you can describe a bar-fight so perfectly that the reader feels the stabbing pain as your hero gets his nose broken; you can write an intense romantic kiss that skyrockets the heart rate of your readers, but unless you have a good storyline to go with that talent the book will, most likely, fall flat.

There are any number of ways to plot a storyline - and I have GOOD NEWS! :) There is one right way for you to do that! Just the way that works for you, might not work for Suzy down the block, or Kirk across the country.

Let's take a minute to look at several different methods that can be used for plotting a storyline.

First, there is the METICULOUS OUTLINER: The Meticulous Outliner lays their entire story out ahead of time. They plan all the pitfalls their characters will fall into and determine which chapter that will best happen in. They do their research and know all the intricate details of whatever it is they need to know intricate details on. And by the time they get done outlining they know exactly how their story is going to unfold. Pretty much, their outline is a road-map for them and they just follow the map as they write their story.

On the other end of the spectrum from the Meticulous Outliner is the SEAT OF THE PANTS WRITER: The Seat of the Pants Writer takes a fly-by-night approach to writing. Sit down in front of the keyboard, set your fingers on the keys, close your eyes and just let the story flow down from your brain, out your fingers and on into the computer. Often a SOTP writer is surprised by things their characters come up with, or directions their story turns. But in the end there is a cohesive storyline just as surely as if they had planned the thing from the beginning.

Somewhere in between these two ends of the spectrum fall several other methods of plotting - but generally those other methods utilize parts of either the MO or the SOTP method.

Some people write by the SOTP until about 1/3 of the way into the book and then they stop and do an outline. Another method is to put your scenes onto index cards and then move your scenes around until you have them in a good order to give you a nice story arc. (Story arc is a topic for another time. :)) I recently spoke to one writer who writes SOTP until the 6th or 7th chapter of a novel and then utilizes the index card method of writing several scenes they know will be in the book and then moving them around and filling in details by putting in other scenes.

So, here is my advice to you. Ready? It's going to be mind-boggling! :D

Find the method that works for YOU and that is the absolutely, only, right way to plot your storyline!

I'm sure there are numerous ways to plot that I have not mentioned here. How do you plot your stories? Personally, I'm a SOTP writer but so far I've used historical events to keep my work on track.

AC Contest: Joyce Lansky, Second Place Winner!

Our first writing contest had so many entries I had a hard time narrowing down the top two. Thank you everyone who played along with us and submitted a short story.

Difficult though it was, I did manage to pick the first and second place winners. In second place is this imaginative story by Joyce Lansky (joycelansky on Twitter). Joyce took the time away from her own writing to participate in our contest. If you get a chance, take a peek at her sample chapter of her novel Being Bompsie Carleffa on her weblog, Catch My Words.

Here's her short story. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did.


Prompt from Archetype's Plot Senario Generator: The story starts when your protagonist opens a package intended for someone else. Another character is an activist who is developing a new weapon.


The Madseu
Joyce Paull Lansky



Our doorbell rang followed by a loud pounding. Mom and I had moved into our dumpy home last month and hadn’t had visitors. I didn’t even know the bell worked and hadn’t seen teenage guys like me hanging around this old Colorado town. I drummed my fingers on the peeling paint trim and opened our door a crack to see a huge UPS guy tramp down our walkway and slip into his truck.

A brown envelope with our address scribbled across the front leaned against the house—no name, no return address. I picked it up, shut the door and carried it to our tacky flowered couch that Mom had bought at a garage sale after we moved here. It just goes to prove that one man’s trash is still crap.

“What do you have, Ryan?” Mom wrapped a thick bang behind her ear. A red-jewel earring hung from her lobe and matched her checkered blouse. She crossed her arms and shivered. No surprise in our freezing house.

“Don’t know. A UPS guy delivered it.” I plopped on the couch causing its springs to give a tired squeak as I sank into a faded tulip and dug my nails into the seam of the package. The envelope split open and white popcorn packing pieces showered my lap, so I brushed them off and got a pissed look from Mom.

I reached into the envelope and pulled out a quarter-sized metal square. Five thin wires popped out of it as if they were bug legs. I flipped the thing on its side to find a weird squiggly symbol scratched into the metal. “What’s this?” I asked Mom.

“Looks like junk.” She took off her heels and rubbed her foot. Mom called something junk? She’s the biggest packrat I know. “If you want to keep it, go ahead, but I’d toss it.”

“Yeah.” I bounced the square in my hand, carried it to my room and laid it on my desk next to my computer then went to the kitchen for Mom’s yummy fried chicken. Miracle I’m not fat with all her cooking. Must be my teenage boy metabolism: snarf a breast, back, two wings, and four drumsticks, give a burp then start all over again.

After lunch, I opened the door to my room and glanced at my desk. Where’s the thing? The spot on my desk was empty so I searched the floor then jumped when a beep came from my computer. The little square had sunk its spiny claws into the plugs on my computer and a series of black numbers spat across the screen. I hit the escape button—nothing, so I grabbed the metal piece.

“Ouch!” A shock zoomed through my body and threw me three feet into the air. My head smacked the hardwood floor, and I stared at the gray ceiling. My hand tingled and a red, swirl pattern covered my fingertips where I’d touched the thing. I shook my fingers and sucked on them to deal with the throbbing pain and burnt smell.

As my fingers touched my lips, the ceiling changed into a city scene with twenty-foot leaps of fire licking a night sky. Sweat rolled down my forehead and I ripped off my sweatshirt. What happened to our drafty house?

“Ryan!” A raspy voice called from my computer. “You’ve intercepted a Madseu. You must return it at once or the New York scene on your ceiling will be real.”

From the floor, I stared at my computer as numbers repeatedly filled the screen. I must’ve bonked my head hard with the fall. I rubbed it. “I don’t understand. Who are you? How do I return a, what did you call it?”

The numbers faded as if melting and a gray-bearded man with a ruddy face and deep-set eyes filled my screen. His nerdy tie clashed with a colorful Hawaiian shirt. “I’m Norm, the inventor of a government weapon designed to destroy American enemies. Undisclosed troops intercepted the Madseu hooked to your machine and reprogrammed it to use your computer against our government. You must bring the Madseu to Denver this afternoon.”

“You’re crazy. I’m not touching that thing again.” I used my bed to lift myself off the floor and stared into the computer.

“You have no choice. Terrorists are downloading military codes! They’ll launch weapons against us if you don’t cooperate.” His eyes glared out of the screen as if the fate of the entire world depended on my sixteen-year-old self. “Use aluminum foil to retrieve the Madseu. Pull it off your computer and put it in a freezer. After one hour, remove it with foil and place in ice. I’ll meet you at Beau Jos on Colorado Boulevard, 2:00.”

“What, are we going for pizza?” I chuckled as the computer screen faded then darted into the kitchen pantry and yanked out a shiny piece of foil. Racing back to my room, I covered the creature with an aluminum coat. What do I have to lose? The thing is creepy and I want it gone.

As I pulled the Madseu off my computer, it gave a deafening shriek, so I squeezed its silver body. The metal wiggled in my hand enough to make it hard to balance when headed to the kitchen. I bumped into three walls and bruised my hip before falling onto the fridge and opening its door. A blast of cold air shot into my face as I threw the thing next to a half-gallon of chocolate ice cream and shut the door.

“You hungry?” Mom called from the den. Although she doesn’t hear half of what I say, she has super-sonic hearing zoomed into the opening and closing of our fridge.

“Just getting a drink.” I said.

My golden retriever Prince growled at the freezer door then lunged forward and back. I reached under his collar and yanked him backwards before sinking into a kitchen chair. Prince’s nose twitched as he continually pulled toward the fridge.

I checked my watch: 12:45. I hoped Prince wouldn’t growl for the full hour. I started for the kitchen door when the fridge wobbled side to side then pounded the back wall. Boom! Boom!

“What’re you doing in there, Ryan?” Mom entered the kitchen and screamed. She backed into the wall with her hands over her mouth and eyes wide enough to fall out.

“Remember that thing in the package?” I said. “It’s in the freezer.”

Mom grabbed her purse and frantically tore her fingers through it until she pulled out her cell. “I’m calling the police,” she said.

“No, Mom.” I put my hand on top of hers. “I’m taking care of this. I must freeze it then take it to Denver.”

Mom tilted her head to the side as the usual you’re-nuts-forehead-wrinkles popped up. “Sure Ryan, why don’t you take the whole fridge while you’re at it?”

I cringed then folded my arms across my chest. “I’m taking it out at 1:30 and a guy’s going to meet me at Beau Jos at 2:00.”

“I’m coming too.” Mom sat at the table and stared at the fridge for forty-five minutes while it rocked in its own hissy fit. It started to slow then stopped at 1:20. Ten minutes later, I threw ice into a chest and dumped the foil wrapped metal square into a freezing bed and closed the lid.

Mom helped lift the chest into the back of our brown pickup truck, and we eased down a mountainous path to nearby Denver. The radio blasted Mom’s eighties music all the way to the highway. I wish she wasn’t tagging along, but there was no escaping Mom once she’d made her mind up.

As I pulled into The Beau Jo’s lot a yummy pizza smell filled the air. The inventor stood by the door, gave me a friendly wave and headed toward us. My heart sped. Can I trust him?

“You’ve got the Madseu?” He asked.

“Uh, yes, but…” I eyed the fellow. He wore the same gaudy shirt as before along with short shorts and sturdy hiking boots peaking
over sick-green socks.

The man smiled and pulled an FBI badge out of his pocket. I don’t know much about feds, but his ID looked real.

“Sorry about your troubles.” He handed me a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills and easily took the ice chest off my hands. “There’s ten grand. Thanks for saving the world.” He winked then hopped into a red jag. As he drove off, images of the same fire scene from my room spat out of his tailpipe. A gigantic chalkboard eraser shot out of the car’s antenna and swept the fire out of the sky.

I glanced at Mom. “I think we got someone else’s package.”

Review of Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes

Every once in a while a book will come along and absolutely stun me with its beauty. Frances Mayes’s Under the Tuscan Sun: At Home in Italy is one such book. A memoir of Mayes’s adventures purchasing and renovating the Italian manor Bramasole (roughly translated “to long for the sun”), the book takes a languid stroll through an Italian village lost in time.

The subject matter—escaping the harried lifestyle of a San Fransican college professor and making a new life amid the beautiful tranquility and foreign antiquity of Cortona, Italy—is more than fascinating in itself. Who wouldn’t want to run away to a summer home that’s been lost in history? But it is Mayes’s brilliant grasp of details that rockets her prose past the merely interesting to the stunningly unforgettable.

I see our olive trees, some stunted or dead from the famous freeze of 1985, others flourishing, flashing silver and green. I count three figs with their large improbable leaves, visualizing yellow lilies beneath them. I can rest here marveling over the hummocky hills, cypress-lined road, cerulean skies with big baroque clouds that look as if cherubs could peer from behind them, distant stone houses barely brushed in, neat (will ours ever look like that?) terraces of olive and grape. (pg. 44)

My idea of heaven is a two-hour lunch with Ed. I believe he must have been Italian in another life. He has begun to gesture and wave his hands, which I’ve never seen him do. He likes to cook at home but simply throws himself into it here. For a lunch he prepares, he gathers parmigiano, fresh mozzarella, some pecorino from the mountains, red peppers, just-picked lettuces, the local salami with fennel, loaves of pane con sale (the bread that isn’t strictly traditional here since it has salt), prosciutto, a glorious bag of tomatoes. For dessert, peaches, plums, and, my favorite, a local watermelon… He piles the bread board with our cheeses, salami, peppers, and on our plates arranges our first course, the classic caprese: sliced tomatoes, basil, mozzarella, and a drizzle of oil. (pg. 120)

We get up at five and go to the hot waterfall near Saturnia. No one is there at that hour, although the hotel manager warned us of crowds later in the day. Pale blue but clear water cascades over tufa, which the falls have hollowed out in many places, forming perfect places to sit down and let the warm water flow over and around you. When I first heard of the falls, I thought we might emerge smelling like old Easter eggs, but the sulphur is mild. The current has enough force that you feel massaged, not enough to sweep you away. Bliss. (pg. 168)

Her passages drip with lyricism, her word choices beat with a pulse all their own, and her food descriptions are best avoided entirely if one happens to be on a diet! This is one of those books that begs to be read aloud (and, in fact, I first discovered it in the form of the author-narrated audio version). It’s a book that opens the vista of the possibilities that so many authors never approach with their prose. And, at the end, it is one of those bittersweet books that leave an ache somewhere in the pit of your stomach, like the one you get when saying goodbye to a friend you may not see again for years.

Do You Enjoy Christian Historical Romance? If So, Read On...

Linda and Katie graciously allowed me this

slot today to announce the super exciting news that

Rocky Mountain Oasis is NOW AVAILABLE!

The journey to this spot in the life of Rocky Mountain Oasis has been long. But what joy to finally be able to hold a copy in my hands. I pray the Lord will use it as He sees fit.

I just want to take a moment to encourage those of you who are still trying to get your book accepted, whether with an agent or a publishing house. (Or maybe you are still in the process of writing and you wonder if you will ever get done.) Your day will come, if you are a willing learner. And while it sounds cliche - God's timing can not be discounted. As I look back on the journey RMO has taken, I can see "God's timing" all over it. So hang in there. Keep persevering. Press onward. Go rewrite that section one more time. :) It will pay off in the end.

Below is the synopsis of Rocky Mountain Oasis followed by some links to sites where you can buy it if you so desire.

She’s been living in a desert all her life.
Suddenly she’s come upon an oasis.
But is it just a mirage?


Idaho Territory, 1885


Brooke Marie Baker, eighteen, has been sent west as a mail-order bride. As the stage nears Greer’s Ferry, where she is to meet the man she’s pledged to marry, she tries to swallow the lump of nervousness in her throat. Can it be any worse than living with Uncle Jackson…or Hank? she wonders. All men are the same, aren’t they? But with her parents and sister dead, she has no choice.


Sky Jordan, a rancher, holds a single, yellow daisy in his hand as he watches the ferry cross the river. Ever since he’d found out his surly cousin, Jason, had sent for a mail-order bride, his mind and heart had been ill at ease. No woman deserves to be left with the likes of Jason. But now he questions his own plans to claim the bride for himself. Why am I drawn to this woman I don’t even know?


A wounded heart. Desperate choices. Unfathomable love.
Set in the adventure and danger of the Wild West.

Rocky Mountain Oasis is available at:

Amazon

CBD

and several other online retailers.

Or you can get Autographed Copies from my Website

I'd also like to give away an electronic copy of the book to one commenter on today's post. So please leave a comment and I will do the drawing on August, 17th and post the winner here. :)

Oh and today is my baby boy's birthday!

Happy Birthday, Ty!

Fabulously Fun Friday: Writers on Writing

Marketing and Promoting Books: Resources

I promised in my post, "Set Your Goals" (July 29, 2009), I'd keep everyone apprised of my progress reaching my dream to get Give the Lady a Ride published. My goal for the first week of July was to research agents, which I did. Since then, I have assembled my submission packets and sent them out to every agent on my list (I've already received four rejections--bless them for their speed in responding--and one "Let me see the first three chapters"--Yea!). I've also submitted to a few publishers who don't require agents. Now that the submissions are done, it's out of my hands. There's nothing to do but wait.

Wait and research even more.

Aside from starting the sequel, Roping Venus, I need to be researching how to promote my first book once it's accepted and published. Katie and Lynnette are way ahead of me on this--I'm still trying to assimilate what I'm learning. I can't even write a cohesive article about promotions and marketing, but I can share with you some great resources I've found so far. So, here's my "so-far" list:


The Book Marketing Maven -- Tips, Tools and Techniques for promoting your book.

Chris Brogan -- Chris seems to deal mostly with business, but his site has great tips.

Market My Novel -- Blog with tips, etc. Take a good look at the blog roll.

Pump Up Your Book Promotions -- This one is a PR Agency for those of us too technophobic to do things ourselves. Worth a look even if you're not a phobie.

The Creative Penn -- Joann Penn is also a PR agent, and again, her site is worth checking out for the free tips.

Author Care -- Yes, indeed, another PR agent. Karen Villanueva has a great resource list.

Marketing Tips for Authors -- a blog with useful info.

ProBlogger -- information for keeping your blog professional and effective. Blogging is part of promoting!

We Can! -- Gail Gaymer Martin and crew give tips on book marketing.

The Blythe Daniel Agency -- an all-in-one agency for representation, editing and promoting.


I'm just beginning my lessons on promotions and marketing. Aside from what Lynnette and Katie have provided here in AuthorCulture, there are hundreds of sites with thousands of tips. Each blog has an impressive blogroll. Each website has an incredible resource list. It's all overwhelming. Most of the agents want to know what your marketing plans are, and absorbing what I can about this is my goal for this month.

One thing I can tell you for sure: being connected matters. Facebook and Twitter provide you with a name recognition and web presence you won't get without them. Associations like Women Writing the West, Romance Writers of America, Christian Writers and American Christian Fiction Writers--and so many others (including ones that fit your gender and genre!)--provide you with resources and opportunities and shortcuts you couldn't get otherwise. Some of the promo sites listed above have resource links to different organizations. Be sure to check into some of them. Not all of them are free. Out of my list, only Christian Writers is. Pick one you feel will best benefit you, and which you feel you can contribute to, and join!

Now, how 'bout the rest of you? Anyone take the "Set Your Goals" challenge? How are you doing making your goals and reaching for your stars?

Contest Deadline Coming Up!

Keep in mind, the deadline for AuthorCulture's writing contest is tonight at midnight. You can still enter if you write fast!

The Winner of ...And Night Falls by Tommie Lyn is...

Liberty Speidel!

Congratulations, Liberty! Tommie Lyn will be contacting you for an address so she can mail you a book! You are one lucky duck! Because I know you are REALLY going to enjoy this book!

Blessings on your week, everyone! :)