The Perfect Workspace

I am reading a book about how to write your first novel, umm, after I wrote my first novel. Logic, well, I was seeing if there is something I could use to make it better. It can always be a better first novel. So, far it’s a lot of pretty words describing the craft. Inspirational – yes, making me rewrite the storyline – no.

One of the things I read was about setting up the workspace you will use when you write. A nice quiet area, free from distractions, with all the necessary tools. When it is time to write, put a sign on the door “Author at work.”

I thought of this today while I was bunkered down in my parked car in the seven story parking garage at my office space. A notebook propped lovingly on the steering wheel, with a pen in my hand that died three times. The tranquil sounds of cars tearing ass as they leave for lunch. The delicate perfume of car exhaust. The luxurious backdrop of concrete and steel.

Ahh, my muse!

I’m kind of thinking, if you want to write, just pick up a pen and write.

One Step Closer

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Last night, I pulled all of the chapters out of their manila envelopes; three-hole punched them, and placed them in a binder. My eyes couldn’t help but tear up. Sitting on my bed was a blue three-ring binder filled with my words. An actual book. The thickness of the stacked paper sprinkled with black twelve point font caused the tears to spill over.

So many times along the road, I questioned if I would see it through. And staring back at me was proof that I would.

There is much work to still be done. A complete set of revisions and formatting it into manuscript form. But the story has been told. Felicity and Blake and all the wonderful characters that have been living inside my head have told their story. Now it’s up to me to polish it, and prepare it for its journey.

This is merely the beginning.

Tasty Vamp Blood

When I began this novel, I knew that there would be research. I just never realized how involved it could get. I’ve done crime scene investigation, area research, MIA protocol, wild game in particular area, house and land hunting, flight information. Mmm… Oh yeah, how much blood loss a person could sustain, what does chloroform smell like, how does it feel, how to do a make shift blood transfusion. Bet your wondering what in the world I write about huh? She must be twisted. MWA-HA-HA!!

I have taken future readers intelligence into consideration. I’m not saying that I was right 100% of the time, but I made a very conscious effort to be realistic. I like a little reality in my fantasy, so that’s how I wrote the book.

If by now you are not aware, there a few vampires in my story. They are a key part of the novel even though they remain in the shadow for a large portion of the book. It’s the knowledge of their existence that adds fear into Felicity’s life (among other things). But unlike some novels, their existence is to be kept secret.

But it was a simple question that led me to the most involved research. I had no idea that I would become a freaking chemist. Because all of the details will not be revealed in the book, I thought it would be cool to talk about it here.

GEEK ALERT! (You have been warned)

Towards the end of the novel, I had to answer the question of what vampire blood would taste like. I knew that I wanted it to be different from human blood. As it should be, or why would vamps not feed on other vamps. So first, I had to look at human blood. Its metallic scent comes from the large quantity of Iron in our hemoglobin. Let’s pause for a second…Now, do you get the title? Iron Obsession – vampires, blood, iron? Anyway.

So, I wanted to look at what metal or element would work well with Iron. Something that would transform it, possibly make it stronger. It took a while, but zinc came to mind. Zinc is an illustrious metal that is a very pale blue, almost white. Ahh, that works. Keep the vamps pale. It is already found in plants and animals. In fact, animals that are zinc deficient require 50% more sustenance than those that have adequate amounts. So that works with a very strict diet. Plating thin layers of zinc onto iron is known as galvanizing and helps protect iron from corrosion. My logic is blood is drained, and then the victim drinks the vamp blood. It makes the remaining iron in the victim’s blood stronger and protects it. Also drinking blood makes them stronger. Zinc plays a key role in sexual maturation. Vampires are sexy devils so they should be full of zinc and really sexually mature. Translation = HOT!

So, I decided to use zinc as the key element in vampire blood. I like the idea of having traces of mercury to help explain the decreased body temperature. Its poisonous nature was also key. Then, I started to look at what would be in their blood to cause the weakness in sunlight. I started playing with silver oxide and then thought of increasing the amount of collagen. Collagen works because it is what keeps your skin looking all young and sexy. Again = HOT!

After I had nearly had the composition makeup of vampire plasma, I remembered that my original question was- what does it taste like? Back to zinc. Smelled it, tasted it, and researched it more on the internet and came up with that it is very sour.

Then I needed to know what ingesting high quantities of vamp blood would do. You know like if one wanted to bring a human over. Well based on my made up version of vamp blood, I needed to know what a zinc overdose would feel like. And more research is born. The answer to that IS in the book.

And so on and so on. Any of you guys actual chemists? If so, I’d be interested in hearing any ideas and thoughts. I tried to read a peer reviewed paper on the reaction between mercury and zinc. It could have been in Swahili and made more sense.

Now, I am off to find a tiny body of water in the middle of nowhere. The answer to that… will also be in the book. J

The House that Margaret Built

My husband and I recently had the opportunity to tour the Margaret Mitchell house, cleverly marketed as the birthplace of Gone with the Wind. I’m not sure what I expected when I walked in there, but whatever it was, I was wrong.

We paid the twelve bucks each to take the tour. I did not read the brochure before, so I was unaware that although the building was three story highs we would be seeing three rooms on the first floor. The large gift shop was about the size of half the space that we would be touring. About six of us lined up while a magenta haired woman took center stage.

She begins the tour by telling us who saved the building, which was once apartment buildings, from destruction, about multiple fires, and how the tile floor is the original tile floor. I would quickly learn that would be one of the only things that was original. Well, except for a toilet, but don’t get excited, it wasn’t Margaret’s toilet. No chance of sitting down and channeling greatness. It belonged to an apartment on the third floor.

She then complained in great detail because the keys were not numbered while searching for the one that would open Apartment Number One. My mood quickly shifted for the worst. The tour was of the apartment where she lived while writing the book. The walls, I think were even new. A living room, bed room, kitchen (smaller than most closets), and a bathroom with the third floor toilet. All filled with antique furniture purchased to give the appearance of what it would have looked like.

It wasn’t the short tour that aggravated me. It was the woman. I’m not sure that she has even read GWTW. She seemed so uneducated. She walked from room to room speculating and making weird comments about the photos. I was none too happy with my trusty tour guide.

When we excited, I finally went off on my own. I walked over to a plaque on the wall and began to read. And this was the place where everything changed. Margaret Mitchell’s first fiancé went to war, but never came home. Her first husband was a drunk and very abusive. She married a second time. She said that before she wrote GWTW, she read up everything she could get her hands on and feeling frustrated she started her own book. Her famous quote was “In a weak moment, I have written a book. “ (My closest friends will understand that.) And lastly, when she finished chapters she would put them in manila envelopes and send them to a friend who would read them. By the time I finished reading this plaque, my face was soaked. Tears involuntarily flowing down my face. My husband, who was reading along with me, says, “Wow, ya’ll have a lot in common.” And here, I thought I was nuts.

We walked over to the movie memorabilia part of the house. I turned to my husband and said, “If I ever make it big, let’s systematically burn and destroy every house we have ever lived in.” He laughed. He thought I was kidding.

But then Ann saved the day. I was standing in the gift shop holding a cookbook titled “Gone with the Grits” with complete disgust, when a southern woman’s twang filled the air. It was time for the 3:30 tour. Her humor and knowledge struck me. We took the tour again. She knew so much about the petite author, you would have thought they were old friends. She gave us gossip, and was full of laughs. A real tribute to the personality and quirkiness of Margaret Mitchell. By the end of the tour, I wanted to hug her neck.

I then went home and smiled at my own pile of manila envelopes filled with chapters.

Thanks Tour Guide Ann!

Sleepless in Atlanta

I apologize in advance. This is much more of a stream of consciousness than what I normally write, but it’s kind of how I feel today. So, I’m just going to go with it.

One of the huge downsides to how my day is structured is that I don’t sit down to write until late at night. I work 8 to 4, come home make dinner or at least help, play with the kiddos until bedtime, tuck them back in a second time, and then tie them to their beds the third. (Kidding. No children were harmed in the making of this book.) With all of that, my house doesn’t get quiet until a little after nine o’clock. This is when I crack open the laptop and sit down and try to let my brain focus on the task at hand.

What normally ends up happening is I play on the internet reading other writer’s or agent’s blogs because my own personal well is dry. Then about thirty minutes later I turn to my projects trying to pick up where I left off from the night before. I look up and the clock has magically hit midnight. For fear of turning into a pumpkin, I shut it down and try to make myself go to sleep. Hey, I relate to Cinderella. I don’t want a prince or a castle or anything. Just the singing, dancing mice to do my dishes and laundry. Wait, I think I had a point that I was getting to. Umm… right. Trying to go to sleep.

Completely wound up because I don’t write slow moving, lullaby type stories, I lay in the dark trying to force my eyelids to stay shut. Within five minutes, they pop open like a jack-in-the-box. I think there should really be another character in the fight scene. I need someone driving the car later for the rest of the scene to really work. Reach over write it down in my handy-dandy notebook and roll over. A few more minutes pass…Oh my god! I have it. The key story line in the next book. No need for notebook. I won’t forget that one. Notice the OMG. Ok. Enough work tonight. Seriously, go to sleep!

And so it continues. Last night alone, I came up with the character concept complete with name for a book idea which is a complete departure from my current project, the outline for the follow up to Iron Obsession (oooo, and it’s juicy), and a short story concept to submit to the Scratch contest. I didn’t fall asleep until after 3 am. Which is still a great Matchbox 20 song. I’m just sayin. I’m not complaining, because the ideas are coming. I won’t be so selfish as to say – not now, it’s not convenient for me. I just find it humorous the way the brain works.

Thank heavens I have found Turkish coffee. If that stuff doesn’t wake you up, you have no business on your feet.

Self doubt: A writer’s true worst enemy

When you sit down in front of your computer, you have your thoughts, your ideas, and your beliefs. You do your very best to deliver these hatchlings to others, and have to have faith that what you have to say is both vital and entertaining. Faith, such an easily swayed concept. The clay that we leave out on the shelf allowing life to mold and change at its will.

It baffles me how I can read through a chapter and feel proud of what I just accomplished, and then later read the exact same words and want to wear out the delete key. It’s the way of the human psyche. We do it with our mirrors, our jobs, and every other aspect of our lives. Why should writing be any different?

Yesterday, while exploring the Fernbank Museum I ran across something that made me question the way that I designed a character in my novel. Something that I had put tons of research into and months working out the kinks. This one little thought made me question all the hard work that I had done. This then left me doubting if I should even waste my time writing all of this because it will never see the light of day. And in a weak moment, I nearly destroyed a book.

Self-doubt is a viscous cruel tool that the brain will use to help us take easy roads. To not start that art project, to not say hello to the nice stranger, to not submit the resume. If we allow it to, it will let us remain on the couch and watch the successes of others. While we, wait for someone else to tell us that “we can do it”.

I ignored this voice in my head. I made notes of my questions and then went back to my research. It may be crap, but I will give it a chance to defend itself. I put the self doubt on the bench, and I took my place at bat. Self doubt will have to sit this one out while I will swing. I may miss, but at least I tried.