Tonight's Special: Wilted Spider in Vinaigrette
Most writers keep files of random ideas and snippets of stories that come to them. I don't. No, my memory isn't superior to other authors. I just never look at notes after I write them down. And, frankly, my notes aren't very good—in quality or content.
Case and point: I came across a file full of random little bits of "stuff" as I was trying to figure out what to blog about this week. The last time I touched the file was six years ago. Included in this Word .doc:
My grandmother always told me that only simpletons believed in fairy tales.
Your favorite phrase growing up was probably “I’m telling.”
There was nothing she hated more, except maybe tuna fish that wasn’t dolphin-safe.
It's amazing how freshly waxed legs change your outlook on life.
Tonight's Special: Wilted Spider in Vinaigrette
Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone.
Yeah, I'm wondering what I was thinking when I wrote that last line too.
What's the point of this blog? God knows.
Okay, I'll be honest with you. My mind is on the book I'm working on, currently titled Secret Project X, or The Novel that Broke Kate's Back. I'd rather be writing my next chapter but the blog got in the way.
I really would rather be writing it. This is a new feeling for me. Usually, I like having written, not the actual process of doing it. Writing is hard. Sometimes writing is akin to being poked under your nails with bamboo.
Not this time. Don't get me wrong—it's still hard, and I feel like I'm recklessly careening along, writing whatever comes to mind, without rhyme or reason. But I'm having all sorts of revelations while I'm careening out of control. Unfortunately I can't tell you what those revelations are, since my project is super secret. You'll just have to trust me.
So...
Tell me about you. What's your favorite song right now? If you could have anything to eat, what would it be? Do you favor France or Italy?
Plot With Me
I have a valid reason for not wanting to write this danged post today: I want to work on the synopsis for a new book idea.
JB Lynn's FIRST VICTIM is out! I'm looking forward to reading it, not only because she's an awesome person but because the book's received kick-ass reviews. If you're into suspense, I'd encourage you to check it out too.
Crazy, I know—on several levels. One: that I want to play hookey from work to work. Two: that I write fairly detailed synopses before I start on a new book. The former is inexplicable—I don't understand why I'd rather work than frolic on the beach or eat cupcakes either. But writing a synopsis first is how I roll. I like to have structure and know (generally) where I'm going. Plus, most of the time I sell on proposal, which requires a detailed story plan.
But I'm fairly brilliant (modestly speaking), so I'm going to work on my synopsis here. With you.
Whoa whoa whoa, Kate, you exclaim, hands in the air. I don't know a thing about plotting.
Nice try, but I don't believe that. Everyone's a little bit of a plotter on the inside. And I'm going to make it painless for you. Just hear me out.
I have most of my synopsis done, actually—there are just a few holes in one of the secondary stories I'm weaving through. Specifically, I need to occupy my heroine's cousin (who is searching for her) for a few weeks while the heroine is getting to know the hero.
The setting: picture something in the realm of Games of Thrones, a medieval society. The cousin is a warrior woman whose goal is to find the man who killed her husband. My problem: I don't want a whole lot of "walking" scenes. I'd like to get the cousin to the walled city where her cousin is holed up with the hero right away, but I don't want her steal her cousin away.
Go. Shoot me some ideas.
Your Turn
I was sitting here, thinking about what to blog about, when I started to wonder why I should be the one to write this blog all the time. Yeah, I know it's my blog, if you want to get technical about it. But don't I deserve a break sometimes? And if there were ever a week I needed a break, it'd be this one.
So it's your turn to do this.
Got your pens typing fingers out? Because here's how we're rolling: I'm posting a picture, and you're going to write about it. A story, an essay, a sentence—whatever you want.
Here's your picture:
The best entry gets something special from moi. Seriously. So get to it.
La Misteriosa
He's late. Again.
Annoyed, she leans forward on her tiptoes. No man has ever dared to keep her waiting. No man until him.
She searches for him amongst the hordes of adorers at her feet. She sees Tomás, who pledged to bring her a finch for every kiss she bestowed on him. True to his word, he has one in a cage, at the ready. She wrinkles her nose. After two she decided they were too messy—the birds and his kisses.
There's Ramón with his notebook and pen, scribbling. As always. She would give him a fond smile if she weren't so peeved. Ramón and his sweet imagination, writing poetry to her beauty. A man of words, but not so much of action. And she definitely likes action.
Ah—dark, brooding Carlos, partially hidden in a corner, separate from the rest. He watches her with that gaze that used to make her shiver in anticipation. But that was all he did: watch, smoldering in her general direction.
In the center, there's José Christian, with his paintbrush and steady hand. She can tell that he paints another fileteado sign dedicated to her, like the one she stands over. She remembers one time when he used her body as the canvas. He still claims that was his masterpiece.
But of him for whom she waits? No sign.
She exhales, expelling her irritation. How many times has he kept her waiting? Three? Eleven? Twenty-seven? Once is too many. What will he bring this time to make up for his inattention? A trinket? A shiny bauble to dangle from her neck? She has plenty of things. What she wants is intangible and much more precious. Is he the one to give it to her?
She has doubts.
But still she waits, because the doubts are entwined with hope. And for hope, she can be patient—at least for a few moments longer.
Wanted
They say she's a thief.
They say she steals hearts.
She would disagree. She'd say that she didn't take anything that didn't want to be taken. She'd say those hearts were given to her, free and clear. Then she'd give you her wide-eyed, innocent look, and you'd eagerly agree that "they" must be delusional.
She's a creature of the night, but never in the shadows. She's sweet. She's crafty. Beguiling and bewitching. When she struts onto the dance floor, you know she owns it. She crooks her finger and her chosen partner comes running, desperate to lead her, even if it's just for one song. Her attitude captivates, her grace mesmerizes. One song, and you're lost.
How do I know? I've been there. One song, and she had me. She knew it too. She graced me with that little smile—the one that feels like it's aimed right at your heart—and I haven't been the same since.
Then the song was over and, with a flick of her saucy heel, she walked on, leaving me alone in the crowd, helplessly watching her select her next victim.
If you see her, be wary.
If you see her, tell her I miss her.