A new home (and perhaps regular updates)

I’ve neglected this poor blog for so long. Sigh. I suppose if they existed, Blog Protection Services would be on my doorstep right about now.

See, I’ve been juggling another online identity of mine, and I thought it was high time that I combined the two. In another online life, I draw furry art, and I’m in the process of writing some short furry humor stories. All clean, believe it or not. I know the fandom has a rather seedy reputation, especially among those who’ve only heard stories and would prefer to think the absolute worst of fandoms other than your own. (Like your Firefly fandom is all-loving and all-accepting and all-clean.)

Oh, yes, I’ve seen some pretty awful things. Even with safety filters on some sites, I still catch a glimpse of some things I’d rather unsee, like… ugh… diaperfurs. But that hasn’t deterred me from venturing on. I’ve found a lot of fun, creative artists, and I’m being inspired to improve my own art style.

That said, I wouldn’t mind contributing to the more adult side of the fandom.

Settle down, all right? I’m not planning on writing stories about wolves that like to hump machine guns. (Although I’m sure you can find such a story if you use the right terms in your favorite search engine.) I’ll still write my human-based romances and erotica. There are some stories that I can’t see being populated with anthropomorphic critters, such as the one I’m drafting now. Believe me, I tried replacing the humans with anthros. I even made the repulsive bookstore owner a toad (and I feel guilty for insulting toads everywhere). Just can’t work. I’ve got to have my tail-less monkeys back.

But there are some that would be a welcome challenge with said critters, especially when it comes to different species. Think of the trials an herbivore would have with a carnivore. A reptile with a mammal. Think of the societal rules and expectations in place. The possibilities are limitless. (Within reason, of course. I just don’t think a shrimp/capybara story would ever work.)

Now, will I draw furry erotica? I’m still undecided on that, and it’s still too early to give an answer. But if I do, it won’t be under my clean furry name, it’ll be under Sabrina Winters. Even though I’m combining the two names, I’m keeping them separate. Think of an author who uses her real name for romances, but uses a pen name for mysteries. It’s just a nice way to keep everything categorized.

So let me direct you to my new home on the web, which I’ll be sharing with my other name: Winterfern.com. All posts relating to romance/erotica will be tagged #sabrinawinters.

Location x 3: Lake Keowee

(I didn’t feel like typing out “location” three times for a post title. Hey, it’s my first day off work. I have a right to be a little lazy.)

I have this urge to write short stories. I want to complete another project before the year is out. But I know better than to set aside one project and hop on to another, especially if the first project is a novel. That’s not wise, and it leaves a trail of unfinished work. And it makes for an unhappy writer.

So I’m patiently scouring the internet for resources, giving myself little treats in the form of photos. Building up a location is one of the best aspects of planning a story. I’ve always enjoyed looking for photos of the places I want to use as settings, especially if they’re familiar and dear to my heart. Lake Keowee is one of those places.

I have family in what real estate pros like to call the Golden Corner of South Carolina. The Corner is a haven for the rich and wealthy. But for common people like my extended family, it’s been home for generations.

Lake Keowee is a popular summer destination. For years, my relatives have used it for camping, cookouts, and late-night get-togethers. Lining the edges of the distant shores are some of the most luxurious houses and mansions I’d ever seen.

(The following pictures are copyright to their respective owners. I intend no harm in using them for inspiration. They won’t be appearing in my novel.)

(The Reserve at Lake Keowee)

(The Reserve at Lake Keowee)

(Design Elite Architecture)

(Stoneledge Lake Keowee Waterfront Homes)

The last photo is what I have in mind for my hero and heroine’s homes, only the buildings won’t be so close together. Just close enough for someone to accidentally catch someone in the window. *wink wink*

The other photos might serve as inspiration for a clubhouse or lodge. My story takes place from summer to winter, and I can see a giant gathering place in the main building being decorated for harvest and Christmas.

Should I divulge the novel’s title? I think I should, even though the book is probably a year away from being finished. All right, ready? Here we go: The Naked Author.

Have fun wondering what the plot is about!

A long break can do wonders

One of the downsides to writing stories is that it doesn’t really leave a lot of time for writing other things. Shopping lists and to-do lists, sure. I can spit those out in moments (and with little actual spit). But blog posts?

Yeah, I’ve come to realize and accept that I’m not much of a blogger. Should I turn in my writer’s license or something? Golly, but everyone is saying that writers must blog and all that. What about the writing that I really want to do?

But, you know, I haven’t done any “real” writing as of late, either. I did pick a project out of the pile of ideas I’d been conjuring for the past year. I made a to-do list for the planning phase of said project (character bios and motivations, main plotline, subplot #1, subplot #2, and so on). But when it came down to actually crossing off those items, it didn’t happen.

Nothing happened until a week ago.

I can’t say that life got in the way. Life is always there; I exist in it, it’s the reason why I’m here on this plane of existence, so I can’t really say that it got in the way. (I will use the old “life got in the way” excuse if I find it valid. Hypocrisy, thy name is Sabs.) I have to work for a paycheck so I can afford food, lest I resort to digging through trash cans for pizza cheese-encrusted boxes; I must keep up my social life, or I’ll devolve into a Gollum-like creature and take to a damp cave somewhere; and I absolutely need to do chores or the home will turn into a pile even messier than the ideas one.

But once I sat down to generate ideas for all the separate components of the outline (main plot, subplot #1, and so on again), everything came out in a nice, steady spill. I wasn’t struggling or regretting pulling out this project. Something was getting done.

I guess it just took a long break to get the wheels rolling again.

Sweet, Spicy, Steamy

I’ve made my debut. Sweet, Spicy, Steamy is on Smashwords for the wallet-crushing price of $0.99. (Why did keyboards do away with the cent sign? Or did they never have that key?)

Of course, Smashwords had to make the whole process a grating headache, so I ended up uploading (what I thought were) corrected versions. Eight in all, although it feels like thirty. But finally, I uploaded a version that didn’t receive the dreaded auto-vetter errors! message. And now that I have a working template, maybe I won’t get the error again when I upload another story.

That’s why I’m a bit late with announcing the publication. That, and work has been kicking my tushie. (Back when I was a student, I hated back-to-school sales because they meant the inevitable end of summer break. Now I hate them because of all the back-breaking work that goes with moving all that merchandise around. Not to mention we keep getting more of it…)

This has certainly been a learning experience. It wasn’t as painful as I’d feared, and people are interested in reading my first stories. Very encouraging. In fact, I’m going to get to work on my next story very soon.

I know I said it in my Final Thoughts and Thanks page in the book, but I have to say it again: Thanks and love to all those who supported me and allowed me to pursue my dream. I’m richer for it in so many ways.

Get this sucker out already

A year after penning three short stories in a small collection, I’m ready to publish them. I can feel it. It’s time to let them go, to let the world read them and make an opinion on my first offering in the erotica genre.

It’s funny. I’ve spent months editing and polishing these pieces. (Short stories, mind you. I’d hate to see how much time I spend on novels.) I’m almost sick of them, yet I’m afraid that I’ve left in an error or two. What if my beta readers didn’t point out yet another impossible sex move? What if, what if, what if.

I have to trust that these are absolutely polished. These stories need to get out, or I’ll be looking over them forever. There are other stories that I want to write; I have at least 13  (hey, that’s a good number!) other ideas that I want to flesh out, and at least two of them I can complete before 2013 is done.

I’ve downloaded a text-to-audio software called NaturalReader, which has been nothing short of wonderful. My beta readers could record themselves reading the stories out loud, but they’d already done a great job on finding errors. An unfeeling voice that didn’t attempt to make the story come alive through acting was the perfect choice… and it’s incredibly hilarious with the raunchier parts.

So here’s the plan: 1) Finish up initial read-through with NaturalReader. 2) FINAL read-through with NaturalReader. 3) Finish formatting for Smashwords. 4) Publish (and make sure Smashwords’s Meatgrinder didn’t botch anything). 5) Advertise, advertise, advertise, and keep doing it. 6) Move on to another project.

Man, it’s going to feel good to get things rolling.

Editing the Trio (plus a preview)

(I could have used “Threesome” in the post title, but I didn’t feel like making an obvious pun.)

My tiny collection of three stories (can it really be called an anthology?) is coming along nicely, much to my surprise. I was of two opinions when it came to revisiting these pieces. On the one hand, it would be great to see how much I’ve improved as a writer and an editor, and to overhaul a project and finally get my writing career started. On the other hand, I was going to revisit some potentially atrocious stories.

Looking over old material is almost never pleasant. But you know something? The stories weren’t as terrible as I’d thought they would be. Turning them into better stories wasn’t the insurmountable challenge I’d feared. I’d heard about writers slaving over projects that turned out to be not worth the time or effort, and I’ve suffered through the same thing many times. It’s a relief to know that the first book I plan on releasing won’t meet the same fate.

Despite this small victory, Sweet, Spicy, Steamy won’t be published in May like I’d originally intended. Not only is there editing to be done, I have to prepare the manuscript for Smashwords’s Meatgrinder. (Trust me, it’s a bigger headache than it sounds.) I’m not even quite done with editing but I’m already researching on how to format for the dreaded process.

In the meantime, here’s a sample from the third story, Under the Trees. Out of all the three, this one is my favorite, probably because I spent more time with Freddi and I can relate to her on so many levels. (Nah, she’s not a self-insert. For example, Freddi’s got groovy curves while I have a bothersome muffin top. Okay, Freddi has one, too, but she can rock hers.)

This is the second edit of the story, so there are bound to be a few errors or redundant phrases. The third edit is coming around shortly, so you guys will be getting a more improved version. For now, please enjoy!

All text is copyright 2013 Sabrina Winters. All rights reserved.

Being sick of a lifetime of being shy and safe, Freddi Smythe decided that she was going to tear out of her comfort zone and do something outrageous. After some careful thinking, she decided that she was going to do five outrageous things before the year was over.

Quiet Freddi never got in trouble. She was a model student, always getting excellent grades and reporting trouble whenever she spotted it. It made her unpopular with most classmates, but the awards and accolades she received from teachers and faculty more than made up for it. At least, that’s what she told herself.

Her parents kept her safe. Strict curfews and bedtimes were the norm until the age of 18. She didn’t get her driver’s license until she was 20; she had her mother drive her to college until then. She didn’t get her first job until 23. Her first kiss came soon after—as did her first time with a guy, a coworker at a boutique on the Virginia Beach Oceanfront. Having a job afforded her the freedom she’d craved all her life.

But all the while, she watched her friends date, get jobs, and move out long before she ever did. She was a late bloomer in the social and emotional sense. The only advantage she had over them was that her body matured faster. But big curves at the age of 15 couldn’t make up for the nights she spent alone in her room while her buddies went wild on the town. Their memories would be exciting and worth telling; hers were worth burying and forgetting altogether.

She was smart, though. Without a real social life to speak of, Freddi had few outlets through which to spend her money. While her friends crashed into debt with credit cards and loans, she was funneling most of her earnings into savings accounts. She was almost afraid to let go of a single cent, and so the money sat mostly untouched for a few years.

At the age of 28, she used most of those funds to buy her first house. She was moving out of her parents’ home in Chesapeake, far away from their influence. Never again would they dictate her lifestyle or criticize every little choice she made. She was going to grow up and make up for lost time.

She ended up buying a very modest home in Virginia Beach, which was right next to Chesapeake. Still, it was her own place. It had to count.

Her new job at a distribution center also counted as part of the maturing process. It was her first real job; she worked full time and received benefits, something the crappy retail jobs never offered. But like at the other jobs she’d had, she was a hard worker. She never caused trouble or gossiped—which earned her the distrust of many female coworkers.

Freddi ignored them. She didn’t come to make friends. She came to earn money so she’d never have to go back to her parents’ place.

Working in inventory gave Freddi plenty of time to think. It was during one of these mind-numbing shifts that she got the idea to perform five outrageous things before the year was over. At the age of 30, it felt like she hadn’t lived yet. There was still so much catching up to do. Five big things throughout the year seemed like a perfect start.

Parasailing at Virginia Beach Oceanfront was the first task. Takeoff had left her with skinned knees and sand where she really didn’t want it, but soaring at penthouse heights above the water took her mind off the discomforts. Her long hair obscured most of her vision, but she considered it a plus.

Next up was riding a motorcycle, which definitely took her out of her comfort zone. Being atop a roaring piece of machinery without the benefit of seatbelt, airbags, or heavy metal sides made her realize just how fragile her body really was, and she held onto the instructor for dear life. It was a small accomplishment—and feeling the guy’s amazing abs was a definite plus. She’d expand that moment into a different kind of fantasy on lonely nights.

The third thing was difficult. She thought she could brainstorm an entire list of outrageous things, but one look at her paycheck and schedule told her that she needed to file down the options. Some things she also didn’t have the nerve for. There was no way she could afford a trip down the Grand Canyon on a burro. Forget parachuting. Roller coasters had the tendency to make her vomit everything she’d eaten... the day before.

That left free mic night at the Smiley Punk Comedy Club. She had plenty of material from her job at the distribution center, but preserving her dignity was more important. So she entered a baking contest. Her coffee marshmallows didn’t win, but she did get a mention in the article that ran in the Virginian-Pilot. Not quite outrageous. Just brave enough to count, though.

Now the fourth thing. Finding out what that was proved to be harder than she’d imagined. Her list had already been purged of ideas that were too time-consuming, pricey, or super outrageous. She was really going to need some imagination this time around.

Inspiration came in the unlikeliest of places. Working as an inventory clerk at the distribution center for Fellman, Inc. offered occasional surprises, like a rat or a bird that had found its way indoors, the alcoholic custodian found slumped over a crate, or various romance books or questionable magazines.

The most unsavory reading material was found in the darker aisles, toward the back of the building, in a row called aisle 43. Her first discovery back there was a Teen Fit magazine which she found hidden under a printout. She didn’t think anything of it at first, but later on when she returned to scan another bin, she noticed that the magazine was missing. Which meant that whoever had it didn’t want it to be found.

Which begged the question: what was a magazine geared towards girls ages 12 to 17 doing in a part of the building populated mostly by men over the age of 40?

She hated going back there ever since. But her job required her to head back there. Besides, with no physical proof, she couldn’t report the incident.

From then on, she kept finding pages from various adult magazines. She didn’t want to entertain the reason for the pages being torn out of their original source, but she made sure that she wore gloves when back in that aisle. Naturally, the managers were lax and didn’t investigate her discoveries.

Perverts could be found anywhere. Freddi had accepted that, but she refused to accept that one could work so closely with her. She was considering transferring to another department or center altogether when the pervert gave her the inspiration.

It was an ad torn out of a magazine for swingers. She’d heard of them, but this was the first time she’d seen a publication dedicated exclusively for them.

Well, if there’s a fetish, there’s material for it, she thought.

She picked up the ad. She almost didn’t look at it this time; at this point, it was programmed into her to turn in anything unsavory to management. But the picture of tall trees covered in mist caught her eye. Always a sucker for forest scenes, she took a closer look.

Uncover the joys of nature at Misty Cloak Forest! the ad declared. There is no better place to be natural than in nature!

After reading the rest of the ad, she pocketed it. It wouldn’t be seeing any manager’s eyes.

Later at home, she visited the website from the ad. Misty Cloak Forest was a nudist resort, and a highly reputable one from the sounds of it. Indeed, all the reviews she was able to pull up claimed the resort had a professional staff, a comfortable atmosphere, and plenty of scenic views to enjoy.

There was something titillating about the prospect of being naked in front of strangers. But who would want to see her childbearing hips and heavy breasts? She’d been with only five men, and all their time in the nude was spent in dim lights or total darkness. Her excuse was that sex was more exciting in the dark.

It wasn’t like she was going to be seeing any these people again.

She Googled pictures of nudist resorts. Some of the people featured in them weren’t in the best of shape; in fact, many of them were middle-aged. She had yet to see her first wrinkle. But still, how would she deal with seeing and being around naked people? The thought terrified her.

She walked away from the laptop for a bit. Across the room was a full length mirror. She approached it, pulling up her shirt to expose her belly. The muffin top had the benefit of no stretch marks, and fortunately, it wasn’t too visible in clothing. She poked it and grimaced when her finger sank in up to the second joint.

Next up for inspection was her butt. Some guys liked a big trunk, but what a joy it would have been to be able to buy size 6 jeans. She pulled her size 12 down to glance at the light cottage cheese decorating the sides of her cheeks. Then she realized that she was clenching her buttocks, and relaxed. The dimpling went away immediately. That was promising.

She turned to get a look at her thighs. Never in her entire life had they been apart. Good thing she didn’t care for corduroy pants, or she would have been starting a fire every day.

Overall, she was a chubby gal. Not wrinkly or saggy like the middle-aged nudists. Just a bit large in a few places. If there were obese fetishists, then someone out there was bound to love her.

She returned to the laptop. The shortest package Misty Cloak offered was two days and one night, but she couldn’t justify the time and gas for that trip. The next best package was three days and two nights.

She’d found her fourth outrageous thing.

Editing, Rewriting, and Cringing

Back in late spring/early summer of 2012, I sat down at my laptop with the intention of writing 15 short erotic pieces. That number quickly dropped to three when I realized the effort and time—not to mention the incredible somersaults and switcheroos my imagination would have to perform in order to vary all the sexual acts—would drive me crazy. The results were three workable first drafts that I quickly set aside in favor of a new manuscript that I called Cheering Up Zander. That, too, was set aside as soon as I edited it and saw that it wasn’t going to be my first published piece.

So I returned earlier this month to my original three. With editing magic and a better prepared imagination, I was going to see how these stories would be transformed into worthy afternoon reads.

Wow. What a difference nearly a year makes.

Writers usually put their works away for two weeks or even a few months. The longer a writer stays away from a piece, the fresher their editing eyes. My eyes are fresher than laundry washed in spring rain, and, nyargh, what a trio of trash I made.

What’s wrong? Well, the characters are… bland. They exist for the sole purpose of having sex. If I were writing quick and dirty erotica, I wouldn’t have a problem with that. But the thing is, I’d like my characters to be people. I like them to have a couple of quirks and noticeable personality traits. Readers will only be spending maybe 5K with these three couples, but that’s still no excuse to cut out some cardboard figures, pull out Slot A and pop out Slot B, and ram them together in the hopes that someone will find them hot. (Could work if someone has a cardboard fetish…)

There also isn’t a lot of heart or connection between the characters (with the exception of the last couple, but I’m not going to spoil anything). In any kind of romance or erotica, that’s the most important element. Even if it’s a one-night stand, the characters have to be drawn to each other. They have to be saying, “You’re the one who’s going to satisfy my animal craving for this moment.” That brief connection has to matter to the story, the characters, and the reader.

I’m hoping to add that connection to each of these stories. In fact, I’m hoping to add a lot of better elements to these stories. Let the bulldozing begin.

Shorties for sale

It’s been quite a while since I last posted anything. I’ve been meaning to watch a romantic comedy (a real one, not one mistitled as such) for another review, but as usual, life stepped in with its pesky obligations. Work especially has been busy. I try to find some time in the day to work on my projects, but I’m either very tired and in need of extra rest or my husband wants to spend time with me.

Now that the holidays are over, maybe I’ll find some more time to myself and my projects. I had yesterday off work, so I was able to look through a folder of stories. I found a couple I couldn’t believe I actually wrote into existence. (Isn’t it like that with every writer, though? Good thing there are some elements I can salvage from these wrecks, so the effort put into them wasn’t a complete waste.) Then I found a few that aren’t so bad and just need some polishing before they’re safe for public consumption.

The few of these are actually a trio of stories I’d written early in 2012 in the hopes of making my own Zane-esque anthology of spicy, saucy, sweat-inducing stories. There was no way I was ever going to write 50 or more like she had for her first collection, so I narrowed it down to a manageable 15. Turns out that writing 15 erotic stories in a row is still hard work, so I narrowed it even further down to three. Three is still a nice, round number. I wouldn’t burn out so fast, and I wouldn’t use up some of my best material so early in my career. (Yes, there is a chance of coming up with the best material so early in one’s career. Ever heard of one-hit wonders?)

Sweet, Spicy, and Steamy will come out sometime this spring. (I can’t give an exact date because writing and editing don’t usually work like that.) Three short stories: one sweet and gentle for a woman guiding a young man through his first sexual encounter… one spicy for an assistant finally fulfilling a dream of sleeping with her boss… and one steamy for a random encounter at a weekend getaway in the forest.

I’m looking forward to finally releasing these stories and I hope my future readers will enjoy them. They’re quick enough for an afternoon read, but the acts described in them will surely stay with readers for a long time.

Finding joy in the journey

As I said in a previous post, I was going to set aside my finished manuscript and work on another one. Instead of closely following an outline and slightly deviating from it, I’m going to try a loose outline that allows more exploration.

This isn’t a school essay I’m writing, after all. Novels should be organic things, constantly growing or shrinking depending on need and imagination.

I’m glad to say that it’s working. I don’t feel dread like I did when beginning Cheering Up Zander. That’s not to say that I didn’t feel accomplished while writing or finished that story. And while I learned more about executing plot, I didn’t really feel like I’d grown emotionally or creatively as a writer.

But letting loose without a guide of some sort sounds like a recipe for disaster, a story with too many loose ends and too many words. Trust me, it happens. Many a time I’ve gotten a new idea, and, without thinking it through, sat down to bring the story to life… only to abandon it when it all became too overwhelming.

So I’ll have my loose outline; a general idea of what I think should happen throughout the story.

I can already see the changes that will take place as I write, but it feels safe to have an anchor. And it’ll be interesting to see how an original idea has morphed into something more tangible.

But getting back to the story itself… I’m really enjoying it. I haven’t finished the first chapter but I can tell already that hanging out with these characters and watching them fall in love as they literally create worlds is going to be a treat. In fact, I wouldn’t mind hanging around this story for a few months. Maybe even half a year, if it takes that long to write a first draft. When I’m ready to reveal them, I hope readers will also fall in love with Cecilia Dinale and Liam Fortabee.

It’ll be a long wait, but I’m sure it’ll be worth it.

The Heartache of First Drafts

Writing is a lot of work. Short story, novel, flash fiction, web copy, screenplay… whatever your project, lots of brainpower and time and effort go into it.

I spent over a month writing Cheering Up Zander. It was a simple but entertaining novel. Despite the fun I had and the effort I put into the story, I’m not pleased with it.

The dialogue needs work. The plot needs work. In fact, the whole thing needs work. Incidents that I thought were humorous fell flat. One character’s motivations were kind of blown out of proportion, and she was more cartoony than, well, menacing.

After looking over the draft and figuring out how to improve the whole thing, I came to a pretty disappointing conclusion: This might not be my first published novel.

But I’m not pounding the floor and wailing angrily over wasted time. Because, really, writing Zander wasn’t a waste of time. I learned more about plotting and pacing than I could from a simple outline. I also learned what I expect in my own work, among which are high quality dialogue and description. If I think my writing resembles the kind of writing that doesn’t excite me or make me want to open my laptop, then I’m not pleased with it.

So what’s going to happen to Zander? I’d hate to get rid of it altogether, so I’m going to let it sit for a while. That could be a couple of weeks or a couple of months. When I’m ready to revisit it, I’ll have a detailed improvement plan.

In the meantime, I’ll write more stories. Shorter ones, maybe no longer than 30K. Pieces that will be easier to edit. Pieces that won’t overwhelm me when I see the total word count and realize, “Oh, crap. I gotta look at all those words again.”

I do have an idea for a novella. A weird one with dark sci fi elements. Definitely a bizarre piece, one that I didn’t think I’d ever really want to write, but it’ll give the creative muscles a deeper stretch.

Cheering Up Zander: First Chapter Excerpt

It’s been over a month since I started this novel, and frankly, I didn’t think anything would come of it. Now I’m here, past the 41K, possibly looking at going over the 50K mark, and feeling very confident that this is going to be my first novel. In fact, I’m already planning two books after this.

I’m feeling so great about this novel that I want to share part of the first chapter with you.

But first, here’s some background: I used to work in retail, and I encountered some of the worst people imaginable. Senior citizens who tried to force me into giving them discounts without my manager’s explicit go-ahead; stay-at-home moms who threatened to sic their husbands on me if I didn’t cave in to their demands; creepy young men who would leer at me (one even asked to smell my “feets”)… you name any breed of asshole, and chances are that I met them.

That’s what I’ve written about in this sample. Let me tell you, it was kind of therapeutic. I got to take the worst out of every customer I remember, ball it up into one character, and watch the scene unfold. It’s the magic of writing.

Now keep in mind that this is from the first draft, so it’s not quite polished yet. Grammatical and spelling errors, brackets in place of better words, and general word glut may abound.

Characters and text copyright 2012 Sabrina Winters. All rights reserved.

Lore Bradshaw just wanted to go home.

She wanted to throw her shoes off her bruised feet, burn her apron, lie down in her bed, and forget she was ever desperate enough to apply to the grocery store.

Most of all, she wanted to forget all the horrible, rude customers that ever came to her register. Those who pushed aside the register blocker that indicated she was closed for the night. Those who demanded that she ring up their thirty items in her twelve items or less lane. And especially those who waited until the end of a transaction to present their savings card.

“Now you’re going to have to do it all over again!” yelled the woman who was making every effort to intimidate Lore. She leaned in with her orange-tanned face, every concealer-caked pore visible. Her burgundy dress suit didn’t help the color scheme.

“I’m sorry. I asked for your savings card at the beginning, and you said that you’d give it to me after—”

“Don’t you argue with me!” The woman slammed her fists down on the counter. All eyes were on her. “Do you have any idea what an inconvenience this is? I can’t be sitting at home counting up everything to make sure that you didn’t make a mistake! I’m a busy woman! I’m important! I’ve got things to do with my life!”

The man with her, probably her husband or boyfriend, seemed very interested in the candy. What little Lore could see of his face indicated that he wasn’t lost in childhood memories of candy stores. He was clearly just as tortured by the woman’s raging.

Ben, the daytime manager, came scurrying up. Fear filled his eyes, but he kept his voice even. “Yes, ma’am, how can we help you?”

The woman spun around and regarded with a wretched glare. “Your cashier—” She pointed a blood red fingernail at Lore “—didn’t ask for my savings card when she started to ring up my items! How do I know if I’ve been cheated?”

Lore’s stomach twisted. She wanted to run away, hide in the break room and lick her wounds until she was brave enough to face the public again. In two weeks. Or a month.

The man at the candy braved a look at the woman. Lore pegged him at thirty-five or so in maturity; the angular lines of his strong face said late twenties. The dark blazer and dress pants spoke of a corporate career; a ladder-climbing, perhaps customer-free career. His dark brown hair shone auburn in the lights, and fell around his face in a handsome shaggy cut. Contempt filled his hazel eyes when they fell on the woman.

The thought that he disliked the woman gave Lore some comfort. But in the end, what did it matter if another person thought the customer was a horrible human being? Hating customers didn’t give her an edge over them, nor did it improve her life. Getting out of retail entirely would.

Ben had been cramming the woman’s cart with her groceries. He topped off the pile with the long receipt. “If you want, ma’am I can take you over at register nine, and we can ring up everything again—”

“No. I’m going straight to customer service and have them check everything! I’m not walking out of here until I’m sure that I’ve saved every possible cent advertised in this store! Maybe if you didn’t hire community college rejects...”

Her voice faded as she stormed away to the service desk on the other end of the store. Ben sighed, threw Lore an apologetic look, and hustled after the customer.

Lore sucked in air. Customers around her whispered and shook their heads. “Bitch demon,” muttered an older woman.

The man turned to Lore with a gourmet lollipop. Watermelon flavor. Lore rang it up. She gave him the total in a small voice. She quickly coughed and said the total again.

“Do you need a bag?” she asked.

“No.”

He gave her the correct change. When she handed him the lollipop, he gently pushed back on her hand. He was warm and tender; she realized just how chilly her own skin was, and almost yanked back her hand to slip it in her pocket.

She looked up at him curiously. His hazel eyes shone with regret and understanding. She spotted the gold band on his finger. Lore felt so sorry for him.

“I apologize for her,” he said. His voice was filled with pity and... a strange sense of determination.

“It’s not your fault.” Lore fought back a sniffle.

He gestured to the lollipop. “I know it’s not much, but...” He shrugged. “When I was little, my grandma would buy me a little treat. ‘A little sweet to chase away the sour,’ she used to say.” He looked over his shoulder at the customer service desk. “It’ll take an entire continent of sugar to chase that one away.”

Just as he said that, the woman returned. She pushed the cart before her, a smug smile on her face, speaking to Ben loud enough for Lore to hear.

“... such rudeness. Customer service used to be better back in the day. That’s when people actually cared.”

“We’re sorry about this, ma’am.”

“You should be. I was totally mistreated,” the woman sniffed. “Perhaps you should consider retraining this one.”

Ben sighed. But before he could speak, the woman turned on him.

“But don’t you think that I’m going to remain a loyal customer after this.” She pulled out her savings card from her wallet. “This... is my payback.”

The woman marched around the register, grabbed a pair of scissors (bumping Lore hard in the process), and marched to the bagging end of the counter. She started cutting the savings card into pieces, her face contorting into a mask of dark glee.

Lore watched, almost detached. What was this woman trying to prove? She looked over at the man, who was shaking his head.

The card pieces sat on the counter. The woman scraped them up in one hand, brandishing the scissors in the other. Her eyes flashed with evil intent as she glared up at Lore.

“You are in customer service! You should be bending over backwards for the people you serve!” The corner of her mouth twitched. “Don’t be surprised if I never shop here again!”

Lore shielded herself as the woman threw the card pieces at her. She had just lowered her arms when the scissors came flying. They ricocheted around the register and counter before clattering at her feet.

Reveling in the imagined victory, the woman turned to the man. “Come along, Zander.”

The man quickly turned to Lore. “Are you all right? Did you get cut?”

Lore was almost afraid to put her arms down and look. “I don’t know.”

She felt his warm hands on her arms. “Let me check—”

“Zander,” came the warning.

Lore looked down and saw the man’s hands turning her arms around. He smiled and let her pull them back to her body.

“Sorry. I just had to see if you were okay.”

“Zander...”

His mouth moved as if he were going to curse at the woman, but he restrained himself. He offered a sympathetic look to Lore.

“You take care of yourself, all right?”

She nodded, too tired and weak for words.

The woman glared at Lore one last time. Her bangle earrings shuddered. Lore realized with some terror that the woman was controlling another bout of rage—just barely. When the man had caught up to her, she raced out the grocery store, hunched over the cart like a deformed monster.

Lore held in her emotions. She had to while she rang up the last three customers in her line. Ben had closed her lane with the wall, and was patiently waiting for the last customer to leave.

That last customer was the old lady with the walker. She didn’t have a savings card and said she didn’t need one, not for the groceries she usually bought. Before she strolled off, she glanced at the doors through with the customer from hell had disappeared.

“I bet you anything that battle-ax was spoiled something awful by her father.”

Lore smiled for the first time in several minutes. She couldn’t openly agree with her, not with Ben standing right there, but the smile was enough.

The woman took her bag of kiwi fruit. “Enjoy your lollipop, sweetie. I hope more sweet things come your way.”

“Thank you,” Lore said softly.

When the customer was gone, she turned to Ben. “I quit. I can’t do this anymore.” She untied the apron ribbons at her neck.

“Lore, you’ve dealt with worse—”

“I’ve never had a customer throw sharp objects at me!” Her voice almost broke. She gave herself a few seconds before continuing. “I do everything you tell me. I do everything the customers tell me. I’m nice, I’m courteous, and it’s still not enough for anyone.”

“You can’t help what people do—”

She pointed a finger at him. “And you didn’t stand up for me. You knew I was in the right. You knew she was crazy. Any other manager would have stepped in to protect his employee.”

Ben held up his hands. “N-now, Lore, let’s not... let’s not...”

Lore shook her head and groaned. “It’s not worth it.”

She threw the apron down on the conveyor belt and stormed off to the break room to collect her purse. She heard the murmurs of horrified coworkers and a few requests to have the police called and track down the woman. Clutching the lollipop in one hand, she remembered the man and his kind eyes.

It was little consolation for Lore.

Movie Review: Romantic Comedy

One of the best pieces of advice I got when I expressed an interest in writing was this: You can learn a lot from a bad book as much as a good book.

In learning how romances were shaped, I’ve read a great deal of romance novels. When I got tired of flipping the pages and wishing I could have a somewhat less interactive (read: lazy) way of absorbing a romance, I turned to movies.

Scouring Netflix, I came across a movie simply titled Romantic Comedy. The name was simple, to the point. The copy was very promising:

Two thoroughly compatible writing partners -- a man and a woman-- spend 15 years together and share everything in their lives ... except a bed.

Hey, this sounds like a good time! I thought. I’m absolutely charmed by the description alone. I bet there’s going to be some sharp dialogue, and a slew of cute and sexy moments leading up to the inevitable moment where they confess their feelings.

I’ve got to stop assuming things based on copy alone.

Before I proceed, I feel the need to issue a disclaimer. People tend to get huffy when other people say they don’t like certain things, as if this in itself is a personal insult. So I’m going to say this ONLY ONCE: It’s okay if you liked this movie and consider it to be one of your Top 10. I’m not depriving you of the ability to enjoy this movie or believe that it’s one of the greatest love stories of all time. That said, I also have a right to my opinion. So don’t get your dainties in a bunch.

ALSO, SPOILERS AHEAD! YOU’VE BEEN WARNED!

ROMANTIC COMEDY (1983)

Starring: Dudley Moore, Mary Steenburgen

Directed by: Arthur Hiller

Written by: Bernard Slade

What a charming and cute poster! I’ll admit, this was what really drew me in to the movie. I love well-done advertising almost as much as I love a story that takes place in a vibrant locale. But as you’ll soon find out, this movie poster/DVD cover is a little more true to the movie than the original and somewhat zanier version:

 

I’m not a professional graphic designer, but I do know wacky 80s movie posters when I see them, even if they’re at a low resolution and some major details aren’t clear. Wowzers, this sure looks like a gut-bustingly hilarious flick! “Only two things can screw up their relationship: He’s one. She’s the other.” Look, they even replaced various letters in “Romantic” with cah-razy symbols! Oh, boy, we’re in for some hijinks!

We begin our story with Phoebe Craddock (Steenburgen) arriving at a fancy New York City home (prime real estate, nice view of the Brooklyn Bridge) to meet her new writing partner, Jason Carmichael (Moore) for the first time. Jason is getting married to a woman I’m going to creatively call Wifey, because I couldn’t be bothered to remember extra characters’ names. He’s busy fretting and complaining in his home office while his agent dryly quips about one thing or another.

(Please don’t ask me to look up these characters’ names. I want to forget more as possible after I’m through writing this. Besides, it’s not like they really mattered.)

Jason, under an incredible amount of stress from losing his other writing partner (some bigger and better deal, I think) and getting married to a socialite, mistakes Phoebe for his masseuse. The 80s must have been a more open time, because Jason strips naked for the session. Phoebe awkwardly stands there while Jason slowly realizes that this lady isn’t here to rub him down. Phoebe leaves the office to give Jason some privacy. Jason uses this time to rave about how he just made a fool of himself in front of a woman he’s just met.

And that was the best part of the movie. That’s the extent of the wackiness we’re going to witness. It’s a ninety degree drop from here until we hit the lukewarm ending.

The two writers get to know each other briefly. Phoebe is a neophyte in this whole playwriting business, but Jason sees some promise in her. But he’s got to run along now. He’s got a ball and chain to secure to his ankle. He doesn’t say so, but you can tell by the look he gives Phoebe; it’s the look of a man who is suddenly aware of the biggest mistake he’ll ever make in his life. Of course, the audience realizes that the two characters have an instant attraction to each other, but can’t act on it because, you know, the disease of marriage and all that. I’m surprised they didn’t play a dirge while Jason exited the office.

What follows is a nine-year sexless affair between these two “compatible” playwrights. And by compatible, I’m sure the Netflix copywriter meant that they shared gentle smiles, brewing passive-aggressiveness, and tame arguments. Other than the incorrect number of years, the copy pretty deceptive. But I’m straying from the review.

Let’s get back on track. Nine years, sexless, compatible, lying copy… Jason’s marriage doesn’t immediately dissolve into nothingness like he had probably been hoping. His acidic attitude hasn’t driven Phoebe into the office of a less reptilian playwright. Why Phoebe is emotionally attached to him is a mystery.

Moreover, it’s a mystery why people are accepting of the most sufferingly boring case of the Will They Or Won’t They trop in the history of cinema. In fact, Wifey is completely all right with another woman being in love with her husband and considers Phoebe to be her best friend and a part of the family.

Here’s the best example: After the flop of their first collaboration, everyone returns to Jason’s home to lick their wounds, drink, and maybe drizzle some alcohol on said wounds (theatre critics are harsh, I hear). Jason plops down on the couch and invites Phoebe to join him—and Phoebe lays her head in his lap. Their agent merely says, “She brings out the better part of you.” (How? We didn’t see a lot of their interactions other than a writing session and watching the actors put on the play.) Wifey comes in, asks her husband if they’re drifting apart, and sits down and sets Phoebe’s feet on her lap. I presumed that this was so she wouldn’t crunch Phoebe’s lower legs like an accordion and make some room for herself, but Wifey actually starts rubbing Phoebe’s feet and comments on how they’re cold. Keep in mind, the woman is fully aware of Phoebe’s blossoming crush on her husband.

Women who aren’t involved in polyamorous or open relationships usually don’t like other women pining after their own men. Maybe I’m projecting my own feelings here, but if I learned that a woman at my husband’s workplace was in love with him, I would warn my husband to avoid her at all costs. (Because delivering bombs to government bases is illegal. Plus, I wouldn’t know where to begin with bargain shopping for napalm.)

I also want to add that later on in this long, long, long scene that Wifey tells Jason she’s pregnant with their first child. Jason reacts to this as if he’s just guzzled a whole bottle of NyQuil and been told a true account about his grandparents caught naked and humping each other’s brains out on the kitchen butcher block. Phoebe reacts the same way when Jason tells her, only she acts as though she’s taken a tablespoon of NyQuil and was told about her own grandparents making out. The characters have realized that their relationship possibly can never be because, you know, there have never been people with children who have gone on to have other relationships. It’s proof of Jason’s “solid” bond to Wifey. But, damn, if it doesn’t make Jason and Phoebe look like douches.

For that matter, Jason never really interacts with his two kids. We see them maybe a total of three times until they quietly and immediately fall into the background. Hell, way beyond that. It’s like they were written out of the movie altogether. Wifey doesn’t appear all that much, either. On top of that, she doesn’t have a nasty thought or word for the little darling. Hell, Phoebe even helps her with a Jane Fonda pregnancy workout session and is in the waiting room with Jason when the Child #1 is born.

Phoebe is the perfect Mary Sue, dammit, and I’m just now realizing it.

Well, one great play and one massive flop later, Phoebe and Jason are in a hotel room trying to figure out where they went wrong. Did they use tired old tropes? Did the couple fall in love too quickly? Speaking of falling in love quickly, Jason says he did that at an awards show—and it was with Phoebe. Golly gee, Phoebe is just all flustered and doesn’t know what to do with herself. She certainly has an idea when Jason later comes to her bedroom, blabbering something about craving affection, and mouth-molesting her. They fall on the bed, make out… and Jason falls asleep, drunk out of his skull.

That was the second best part of the movie for me.

Of course, they act as if nothing had happened. Because the only way this love story is going to continue is when both parties keep denying their feelings for each other. Jason works out his by keeping any affection from his wife and children. Phoebe pours hers into a dashing reporter guy I’m going to call Speedbump. Because his feelings are going to get run the fuck over.

Like when Jason tries to drive a wedge between them. It’s pretty apparent that Jason hates the guy. He hates anyone who has designs on Phoebe and has effectively crashed all her other relationships into the ground. He’s this close to urinating on her leg and screaming at random men, “She’s mine, damn you! Stay away from her!”

Fast-forward, I don’t know, a few years. The duo are working on another play where the actress has proven herself to be quite the prima donna. She wants her character to remain single, whereas Jason, who obviously can’t separate his feelings from any project and has painted the heroine of this play as Phoebe, wants her to get with the guy. Long argument short, the two wind up in bed.

And Phoebe is pissed.

“I thought I was working with a man of honor and integrity!” she says paraphrasingly (I’m not watching this movie again, so you’ll have to take that quote as it is.) As she storms out, Jason catches up with her and gives her a sob story about how he’s going by a different name, he never graduated college, grew up in the slums, on and on. Then he adds that he married Wifey because he couldn’t get over the fact that someone of her station would want him. Which is a perfectly reasonable excuse to marry someone. Not for love or companionship. Just the fact that you’re astounded that someone from another tax bracket finds you mildly attractive.

Phoebe isn’t having any of it. She’s going to marry Speedbump and get the hell out of Jason’s life. We’re supposed to be rooting for her, but let’s revisit an important fact. Phoebe is perfectly all right with the idea of Jason and herself getting it on, even going so far as to have a damp, emotionless makeout session before Jason passes out on top of her… and she has the absolute gall to demonize Jason for having an actual affair with another woman? What, you only accepted two women in Jason’s life? Phoebe, your relationship isn’t exactly chaste, and you were very willing to elevate it to an extremely intimate level. While Jason was indeed in the wrong, you can’t very well take yourself out of it, chicky.

Since Phoebe is a Mary Sue in the extreme sense, Wifey is shattered that she’s left the partnership. “She was in love with you!” she tells Jason. Then some time later while Jason is watching his players block on stage, she tells him that she’s divorcing him. Frankly, Wifey is the most sympathetic character. I felt so bad for her, I almost looked up her name.

Fast forward three more years in this interminable story. The duo are reunited in Jason’s now-trashed prime real estate. Phoebe has written a bestselling book called—surprise of surprises—Romantic Comedy. And she wants to have it adapted into a play.

Now it’s Jason’s turn to rip into her. It’s a pretty cathartic scene, but the asshole has the nerve to blame her for destroying his marriage. (Last we checked, Phoebe didn’t stick her non-existent dick in that actress.) The pure rage is too much for Jason and he has a heart attack.

Of course, he makes it. Like that, my hopes are dashed, and so are Speedbump’s for having Phoebe all to himself. While Phoebe wails in relief on his chest, Speedbump kind of looks off to the side, probably thinking that his wife wouldn’t shed the same tears for him. Maybe a whimper or a sniffle, but full-on open-mouthed sobbing and rivers of tears? Not for you, Speedy. Phoebe saves her real emotions for assholes.

Jason effectively sabotages Phoebe’s marriage while she cares for him. The only joy I get out of these two finally coupling is that neither of them orgasm. I think this is the first time in the history of cinema where sex without orgasm was the most satisfying. Guess all those years of pent-up frustration did diddly-squat to the equipment, huh, Jason?

But non-explosive sex aside, Jason and Phoebe get their happily ever after. And without Jason’s pesky children, too.

Phoebe was sweet, but she kind of gave off a naïve, doormat-ish vibe. Jason was an insufferable douchebag who couldn’t admit his feelings for his writing partner, and so resorted to ruining every relationship she ever had. Enduring jealousy and manipulation aren’t admirable traits in anyone. I can clearly imagine Jason forcing Phoebe from talking to any other male while they’re together.

That’s not to say that Phoebe was entirely innocent. As I mentioned before, she harbored feelings for Jason and felt no qualms about diving into an affair with him or setting fire to her own marriage and watching it burn. I didn’t root for either them, but I will say that they definitely deserve each other.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t really a comedy. You lied to me, crazy symbols!

I think I’ll watch Love Story to cheer myself up.

Short Musings: Just Good Enough

While working on my outline, I started worrying about how I was going to write the actual story. Outlining is one thing, but putting down the words that will give my story heart and soul is an entirely different matter.

I’ve read stories with high-concept ideas and pedestrian wording. I’ve read purple prose that made minimalistic writing seem downright enjoyable. I’ve compared my evolving style to those of published authors, hoping to find a happy combination of “detailed” and “but not too detailed”.

Then I realized something while reading a popular romance novelist’s recent work. (No, I’m not going reveal their name. Their fans are pretty rabid, and I’m not going to risk having my inbox catch on fire from their hate mail.) Publishable writing is simple writing.

Using the Flesch-Kincaid readability test, I analyzed several paragraphs of this author’s writing. The results? They wrote at a fourth grade reading level.

I ran the test on other popular romance writers. The lowest was third grade, and the highest was sixth grade. My own writing for a very detailed piece scored an eighth grade level, and a simple detailed passage scored a sixth grade level.

My writing doesn’t have to be a mind-blowing example of the written word’s power. As long as I can deliver the story my readers want—and as long as I can get my message across—I can be successful. I don’t have to strive to be perfect. I can be just good enough.

Let me tell you, that’s a load off my mind.

Writing Update (May 28, 2012)

Around the beginning of this month, I wrote an outline for this novel. I spent all weekend on it, inserting the right pieces in all the right places (Heroine and Heroes have buddy-buddy moment, Heroine and Hero have some naughty fun, Heroine gets into deep crud when she spies on the Big Bad, etc.).

Then I threw it all out and started over.

Better to throw out an outline than an entire manuscript, right?

But as I wrote the new outline, I started throwing in passages of prose. Snippets of dialogue that I felt needed to be written right then and there before they were lost in the ether of my mind (lost among dessert recipes and pictures of Michael Ealy). Before I knew it, I was writing the first chapter.

Then details started to pop up. Ideas I’d never thought of in the outline, like religions these people practice. It was around this time I realized that maybe I didn’t have to write a complete outline. I didn’t have to have the entire world laid out before writing; I could let it organically form through the prose. Besides, if I’d spent any more time on the outline, I might never get around to the actual writing, or the magic would have faded.

This will probably be my first book. It’s nothing groundbreaking, but it’s a sweet story with just a sprinkle of wish-fulfillment (seems to be all the rage these days) and just enough struggle to keep things interesting. Sticking to any project is the real challenge, but I’m glad I’ve stuck with this one.

Thrice upon a time

“Thrice” because it’s taken me about three attempts to think of a project to work on this year.
I did have one back in January. I fell in love with it. It was going to be a massive fantasy novel unlike anything I’d dreamed of before… but when March rolled around, I had a half-assed outline and scraps of passages I’d written while inspired.
I clearly wasn’t ready to write it. But it took a while to convince myself that I need to work on smaller projects before committing myself to something on a larger scale. It’s great to have ambitions, but it’s wise to know when to pursue them.
So I’m going to try my hand at fairy tales. Not retellings or reinventing of classics, but new ones. Bawdy ones, with some naughtiness, nudity, and… I can’t think of another word that starts with N. But short stories or novelettes should be easier and fun to write.
I hope to have a couple of stories done by the fall. I do have other projects and real life that need tending, too. What I plan on doing now is some research for these stories. And what better way than to revisit a few favorite fairy tales?
Which I’ll do in the morning. Because, great cheesely, is it late.

Magical infancy

Mind if I ramble for a bit? If you do, too bad—that’s what blogs were made for.
I always love the beginning of a writing project. Raw ideas spilling out so fast that my pen can’t keep up. Getting to know characters like they’re strangers you’ve met by chance. Piecing together a puzzle while cutting and painting the pieces. Writing is like going insane for a while—but I enjoy it.
I have a pocket-sized notebook that a friend gave me for Christmas. He didn’t know what else to give me (aside from candy penguins), and he knew it was perfect because he always sees me jotting down notes. I took it along one Saturday in January on a couples date, just so he could see that I was using it. But in reality, I wrote the first note right then and there at that booth. More than a month later, that little book is half full. It somehow gives my project life, almost as if I can see and hold the actual book itself.
But this will be an ebook. With the publishing industry as it is, it makes sense to strike out on your own and cut out all the middlemen. I think getting this story out there is more important than earning cred. In an era where industries are easily bought out by corporations and the main goal is money, the indie scene will thrive.
I wouldn’t mind being part of the “obscure and underground”. There’s an excitement to it, like we’re returning to the times when poets and writers would hand out chapbooks or self-published books.
But it is fun to imagine the finished project. A complete ebook or a hefty paperback. Downloaded or having its pages flipped by a reader who’s given herself up to my words. I do hope I have the kind of power to bring people into the worlds I’ve imagined.
Right now, I’m enjoying the power of the writing spell. Every idea is magical and so full of potential. That’s the wonder of stepping into a new project, the utter “newness” of it all. The anxiety of not knowing where it will all go, the thrill of uncovering the path that will lead you to the end. Every little note, every brainstorming session uncovers more of the path.
Yes, it is a tragedy when parts have to be cut out. A part of the story that was and will never be is lost. The book you’ve imagined is gone, replaced by something you never originally imagined. But the magic is still there. You just have to wrangle it every so often.