Looking forward… (plus a contest)

This is a repost from the Blaze Authors Blog from Thursday, in case any of the Super Lucky #1 Fun Blog's visitors might like a chance to win a book.

Hey, everyone! Happy… Dear God, mid-November? When did that happen?

I know it's a bit premature, but I've been thinking about goals for the new year. Goals have been on my mind all through 2011, since I've been doing all those ridiculous monthly Lent experiments, and while I don't want to do anything as intensive and constant as Discipline Year again any time soon, I am still very much pro-goal. So what to aim for, in 2012? Some aims are obvious; write and sell as many books as I can. Stay healthy. Learn when to step away from the keyboard. And between July (no sugar) and this month, alcohol-free Novembooze, I'm eager to keep eliminating sugar from my diet (if anyone else shares that mission, I can't recommend this lecture enough as motivation). But here are some more measurable, targeted goals I've been kicking around:

1. Read more. I'd like to read one hundred books in 2012. That's two a week, and I know to some of you voracious types, that's laughable. You could read a hundred books by April, I bet! But in the past few years, since becoming a writer, my fiction-reading skills have taken a battering. Every book I open up turns into a lesson. Not drudgery, not homework, but I'm so semi-consciously preoccupied with seeing how other authors put their words and stories together, it takes me ages to read, now. I'd love to relearn how to read quickly, nuts to turning the act into a learning experience. So, a hundred books in a year. That's my first goal.

2. Cook new things. My vegetarian month, Meat-Free May, and our participation in a farm-share program (we get a box of fresh, local, seasonal vegetables every week) have reminded how much fun it is to try new recipes. I'd like to try a new recipe once a week in the new year, to keep my modest culinary repertoire expanding…and to make grocery shopping a bit more adventurous.

3. Run ten miles. I used to hate running. But in the last decade it's gone from torture to chore to routine to something I even look forward to, some days. But I've yet to run farther than five and a half miles without stopping, and most days I go about three. I'd love to be able to say I ran ten miles, even just once, just to know I can do it. I'm going to aim to reach that goal by my birthday (May 2), with a little help from a renewed YMCA membership once the weather here turns inhospitable. Which could be any second now. [checks watch]

4. Land an agent. I really need to get off my butt and do this! It's a scary goal, because of all the ones I've listed, it's the one whose success is ultimately out of my hands. I can try and try and try, but I could still fall short. But that's a stupid reason to not try, so come January, I'm an author on a mission!

So those are my goals. I think 2012 is going to be an exciting year! I'll be attending my first Romantic Times Booklovers' Convention in April, and those folks actually just nominated Caught on Camera for an RT Reviewers' Choice Award, for best series debut. Pretty cool. So cool, in fact, let's do a contest! Tell me a goal you have in mind for the new year, and I'll pick a commenter [from the original post's comments] at random to win a paperback copy of Caught on Camera (or if you've already read it and you're patient, I promise I'll mail you a copy of my next Blaze, once it's published). I'll even make the contest international, so go ahead—tell me what you hope to accomplish in 2012! I'll pick a winner on Sunday, around noon, EST, and announce it in the Blaze Authors Blog comments.

Take care! Can’t wait to hear what your goals are.

Meg

Six Sentence Sunday #11

Got some cool and completely unexpected news this week that my first Blaze, Caught on Camera, was nominated for a Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice Award for best series romance debut. So to celebrate, I'll let it take over Six Sunday. Here's the basic premise—Ty is a television survival show host (think Man vs. Wild or Survivorman) and Kate is his personal assistant, best friend, handler, pretty much everything but lover. As the book starts, they're busy taping a show in snowy Saskatchewan…

She rounded the bend at the edge of the woods and discovered why Ty wasn’t shouting back—sitting splay-legged on a fallen tree, he had one of the other cameras perched on his broad shoulder, its lens trained on Kate, red light blinking. As she neared she heard him narrating for his own amusement, a raised whisper in the Australian accent that earned them at least a quarter of their ratings.

“… the natural habitat of the Kate Somersby. We can see from her stance that this approach is one of postured aggression, though the look in the female’s eye suggests that mating may be on her mind. Let’s wait and see what she’s after.” Ty abandoned the voice-over as Kate pushed her boot against the front of his vest, toppling him harmlessly backward into the wet snow.

Thanks for swinging by, everyone! Now head here to check out all the other Six Sentence Sunday excerpts this week.

Om nom nomination!

Well, the official list of nominees is out, so I can quit being such a cagey pessimist—looks like I'm up for a Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice Award, for best series romance debut! Pretty cool. I was nominated for my first Blaze, Caught on Camera, which came out last April. I'll be sure to celebrate by excerpting it for Six Sentence Sunday this weekend.

Thanks to everyone who tweeted warm congrats this week…especially my NEC-RWA chaptermate and fellow Harlequin author Barbara Wallace, who told me I must be on the list, before she'd even seen said list. Your faith humbles me, Barb! Congratulations on your own nomination, for Best Harlequin Romance!

Spotted in its natural habitat!

Yesss! It's the very first sighting of Caught on Camera in the wild! Big thanks to my Twitter buddy @EmilyCale. I don't suspect I'll ever fail to be excited by this, so if anyone else spots it, do feel free to e-mail me the evidence.

A thousand days later…

I won't ramble on and on, but I wanted to share that it's my very first [official] romance release day! Caught on Camera is out from Harlequin Blaze today. It's actually been out for a couple of weeks on eHarlequin, but now it's available everywhere as both a paperback and e-book, such as Amazon and Barnes & Noble, and maybe even in bookstores (not sure—haven't gone out to hunt for it in the wild yet).

I haven't popped champagne for a release day since my first erotica release in February 2010… But I think today I'll relax my what's-woot-worthy policy and celebrate. After all, this is a day I've been dreaming about for exactly 995 days—since I first opened a blank Word doc and began to write my very first romance. Wow, from zero-to-mass-market-published in just under a thousand days! That's kind of cool.

I'll be cracking open the champs around four this afternoon, and also cracking open my iPad and celebrating with some Angry Birds Rio. A big thanks to everyone who made this day happen—my husband, my beta readers Jen and Amy, Blaze editors Laura Barth and Brenda Chin, my RWA New England chaptermates (I utlimately sold the story based on a two-sentence pitch at our 2009 conference), Les Stroud and Bear Grylls, and all my awesomely supportive family and friends, both tangible and digital!

Quick additonal note—I was recently invited to guest post on the RT Book Reviews blog, so I'm over there today, chatting about my personality disorder. Er, my writing.

EASY STREET CLOSED

Please Use the Long and Less Deluded Detour 
Through Realityville →

When you are an aspiring author, you're taught to crave one moment of the writer's journey above all others:

The Call.

The first sale, the toiling unpubbed writer's ultimate drool-covered lust object. Oh, how things will change when you get The Call! Stress, to be sure, but exciting stress. You'll have an editor or an agent or both, professional deadlines like the big girls and boys, to be followed by cover art, perhaps an advance, a release day, fame and praise and endless, glowing reviews as everyone finally discovers your humble but undeniable genius!

Or not. I don't assume anyone apart from a true narcissist believes that it will quite so easy. And as we all know, authors are only selectively narcissistic. Most of the time we're quivering, shell-less masses of goo, cowering as we await the sticks that are surely poised at all times to poke our delicate viscera.

I decided to write this post to dispel some myths. Chiefly, that everything falls into place when you get that oft long-awaited call from a Being on High (your agent or editor). When we start out, The Call seems like the finish line—sprint or jog or crawl, it doesn't matter, but if you progress forward long enough, you'll break through the ribbon, triumphant.

I won't pretend I'm much of an authority on the industry. I still consider myself a newbie, having only begun writing two and a half years ago, and had titles available to readers for a little over one year now. I'm no seasoned veteran. Most of the time, I have no idea what I'm doing or how it is I've tricked someone into buying my work. But during my short journey, I have enjoyed more than one "call" of my own:

November 2009, an e-mail telling me Ellora's Cave wanted to buy an erotic novella I'd submitted to the slush pile, sans agent. I'm published! I'm published!

March 2010, a call letting me know I'd finaled in the Golden Heart—a contest some view as a shortcut to Easy Street, which turns all your queries to gold.

June 2010, an e-mail telling me that my Golden Heart manuscript was in fact going to sell to the progressive digital-first publisher Samhain—my first choice for the shorter-length romance, which wouldn't fly at a traditional print house looking for a longer single-title. Yes! Now I'd be published under two genres!

July 2010, an out-of-the-blue call from Harlequin Blaze, informing me they'd like to see revisions for a book I'd submitted fifteen months prior, before I'd even written any of the half dozen erotic novellas I'd since sold. I'd long ago given up on that book (only the second manuscript I'd ever completed), assuming it was so bad they'd burned it and blacklisted me. But no, they're just very busy people. Not long after the revision request, another call informed me that they liked my changes and wanted to buy the book. And by the way, where do we send your advance to?

And those four "calls"—though none of them what we think of as the BIG BREAK holy grail of selling a single-title to a huge New York house via an agent—when lumped together sort of imply that I've arrived. I made it to the party, and I didn't even have to sneak through an unlocked basement window! And many days I do feel as though I've arrived…but I won't for a single second tell you there's any such thing as Easy Street.

Nine months after selling to Harlequin, I'm still looking to land an agent to represent my two 90,000-word single-titles. Although I've made some efforts, they've so far been fruitless, met with a couple nibbles but no bites. Acquaintances say, "Oh, you should beating the agents off with a stick! You write for Harlequin!" But I'm sad to report that the offers, they are not busting my door down. This could be for all sorts of reasons, all of them legit… Agents are cagey about signing new authors when publishing is in the midst of such whopping-great flux, its future unclear. The book I'm hoping to sell doesn't have the wow-factor (in fact I suspect it does not—it's quirky and engaging, but not especially commercial or easy to boil down into a snappy, high concept pitch). Perhaps none of my shortlisted dream agents are intrigued by the premise, for the simple reason that it's not their personal cup of tea. Perhaps they got their purse stolen or their heart broken in New Zealand and don't want to read a book set there. Maybe all of those factors. Either way, my agent-beating stick is presently collecting dust.

Here's another myth—once you have an editor, you're in! They will buy everything you send them! I've been very fortunate with both Ellora's Cave and Samhain, in that they have yet to turn down any of my subsequent submissions. Their digital-first publishing models allow them to take chances on wonky-shaped pegs like me. Harlequin, however…that's an entirely differently ball game.

Cocky, freshly Harlequin'd newbie that I was, I expected that I had it made when I sold to Blaze. Part of this delusion came from the fact that my first sale to them—the first book I'd indeed ever written to target the line—sold. And in fact, the way in which I was invited to submit the full manuscript was very flukey, one of those right-place-right-time, make-your-own-luck strokes of good fortune you often hear about as an aspiring writer. Though I worked very hard to ultimately make the sale, in many ways the opportunity fell into my lap. Well, if I could sell to Blaze that [relatively] easily, I must be a natural! Surely I will go on to grace international bookstore shelves alongside my fellow Blaze Babes, in perpetuity, until I die peacefully of old age, swaddled in the glittering robes of my myriad successes! Well, I will share those shelves, as of April 1. But there may be crickets for some time after that.

My path to penning a winning Blaze proposal since Caught on Camera sold has been as daunting as the initial sale was "easy", and not for lack of trying. I've been rejected three times (once before Caught on Camera was accepted and twice on proposal, post-sale). My latest proposal is currently with my benevolent editor, and my fingers are crossed so tight they're turning gangrenous.

There is a certain trick to writing series romance, and it requires you to understand your line intuitively. I fear I'm still learning the nuances of my line and my audience. It doesn't come merely from reading every Blaze that comes out, or absorbing every scrap of advice my patient editor has generously offered. It is a skill that many authors possess, but I do not rank among them. This was a very disheartening hunk of reality to stumble over, and after two rejected proposals I began to think my first flukey sale was just that—a fluke. I'd never crack the code and sell another Blaze ever again. But goddamn, I'll keep trying until my editor files a restraining order.

After a series of calm, professional conversations with said benevolent editor (followed always by bouts of private, hysterical sobbing once I'd hung up) I came to accept that precocious or not, I was not a magical wunderkind, shat from the heavens in a gilded gown and anointed with immunity to the trials of publishing. The reasons for my rejections were gently and frankly tendered—this story was too dark for the imprint, this other one just didn't have a solid enough "sexy hook", the required DNA of a successful Blaze.

Dag, I needed help. It's been offered most kindly from the same mouth that's rejected me. Because my editor wants me to be successful, she has very patiently allowed me to submit multiple Blaze premises to her for her opinions before I begin writing the actual proposals, as it's coming up with the right Blaze-y hook that's most challenging to my woefully non-commercial, marketing-inept brain. But I want to sell more Blazes and I believe I could be good at the job, and so I must train myself to understand the line the way my editor and my fellow authors do, much the same way I taught myself to self-edit for all those new-writer foibles when I began this whole journey. If that requires a bit of hand-holding in the beginning (or anywhere else along the way), I'm no longer too proud to ask for it. And I count myself very lucky to have a editor (a very busy editor) willing to offer it.

I have discovered something intensely important during this painful process—I am not a natural at every aspect of writerdom. But I do have the drive and the willingness to take criticism and wring all the pain out of it (after a few days of healthy sniffling) and use it to make my next attempt more likely to hit the bulls eye. Or at least the dartboard.

Later this week, I have a call scheduled to discuss my latest Blaze proposal with my editor. Gone are my illusions that I'm the second coming and my expectations that all I squeeze from my noggin and into a Word doc will be ready to publish. But I hope to hear that my story has promise, and with tweaks could be accepted. I've adjusted my assumptions and my definition of success. I'm also about to send an agent query out into the world, to precede me before I meet with said agent at a conference next month. She may reward me with nothing more than a handshake and a polite "pass", but should more heartening news be in store…well, I'll never know if I don't print the pages out and stick them in the mailbox.

I hope it's clear that this is not a woe-is-me post. Nor is it a slap in the face to aspiring authors, some bitter old crone looking to take the shine off that glorious moment they'll likely one day experience, if they're patient and ambitious—The Call. The Call is wondrous, no matter what form it takes, and you should wallow in it when it arrives. Wallow and gloat and toast, just don't expect that feeling to last forever. It can't, and it won't, and even if it did, you'd be too high on it to appreciate the next bit of good news.

What I'm trying to say, I suppose, is that writers, no matter what stage they're at, are equal beings. Perhaps not so tidily, according to the numbers on their paychecks or their Amazon ranking, but no matter what stage we're each at, we have the struggle in common. We share the struggle, along with triumphs both small and large, hopes for new successes in the coming weeks or months or years, and thrilling news to share with those who care about us and have watched us struggle and get knocked to the mat only to stand up again and invite the next punch en route to victory.

I better cut this off before the boxing metaphors get much worse. Fingers crossed for myself for my queries and phone calls, and crossed for all of you, for whatever your own goals may be, no matter how modest or lofty, looming or distant.

My book, you knows you wants it.

Quick note—it's my day to post on the Blaze Authors Blog, and as it's St. Patrick's Day, a holiday all about luck, I'm giving away a paperback copy (or perhaps two) of my Blaze debut, Caught on Camera (out in bookstores next month). Head over HERE for a chance to win!

Don't you judge me, Tex.

Gasp! Caught on Camera, caught on camera! My beloved beta reader sent me this photo over the weekend. She'd lent my book to a friend, and while she and said friend were out for drinks, her friend received this picture plus a text from her fiancé reading, "Tex and I both want to know what the fuck this is about." Apparently, steamy romance novels are not something commonly left lying around their house, incriminating absent parties. I won't lie—it is just a bit thrilling to traumatize another woman's fiancé and pet.

"Someone already hates your book."

No amount of philosophy can ever prevent the screaming. 

Those are my husband's grim words of wisdom on the topic of reviews. They sound harsh, but he means them philosophically. As many writers will agree, we live our lives in cycles of pain and joy, fear and delight. I'm now entering the pre-release phase on two books, my first two romances. I already know from my experience publishing erotica that book pre-release is a time of jitters, of both the happy and terrified varieties. Excitement for the world to finally have access to my work, and fear that it will disappoint them. Greater fear that it will disappoint them and they will share their displeasure with the internet and shave away a little sliver of my self-worth. (Luckily, self-worth regenerates, much like a starfish's appendages.)

I'm at a funky, unnerving point this week. Advanced review copies of my two romances are circulating, and the paperback and ebook versions of my April Blaze seem to already be available to buy from eHarlequin.

Reviews and ratings are already trickling in for both stories. Positive ones. Out of the blue I discovered that Caught on Camera (the Blaze) had earned four-and-a-half stars from Andrew Shaffer at Romantic Times (you need a subscription to view the review for the time being, but the highlights are on my books page). The story also received glowing praise from Penelope's Romance Reviews—Penny and I are RWA chaptermates, and she told me up front in her charmingly blunt way that if she hated it, she'd be diplomatic enough not to post her opinions. She doesn't mince words or kiss asses, so I was relieved as well as surprised when I earned a lovely write-up from her this morning. Also today, I Twitter-stumbled (twumbled?) across this review from a self-described Harlequin aficionado. Colored me flattered!

So I'm on cloud nine, right? Dear God, no! I'm terrified.

I've never owned a new car, but I have to imagine this is what it feels like, right after you've been handed the papers and keys to your dream ride. At this moment in time, it's perfect. Unmarred by scratches and mud and spilled drinks. The second it leaves the lot, the danger begins. You almost beg for a dent, just to get it out of the way, so that you may give up the suffocating dream of perfection and the pressure that comes with it. That's where I am now, waiting for the first inevitable ding. Practically praying for one, so I can breathe and move on in glorious, dignified imperfection.

When I reach this phase and become nervous and self-doubtful and sometimes downright paranoid, my husband likes to lay that line on me. "Someone already hates your book." What he means is, no matter how great a job a writer did, somebody, somewhere, won't like it. Quite possibly, many somebodies won't like it. It's a scientific fact. When he says that to me, he does so hoping to set me free from my own expectations. It pretty much works, at least in theory.

This job comes patterned in alternating stripes of relief and fear. Relief at the hands of a satisfied reviewer, fear that the next one that won't be so kind or impressed. Relief to have finished a book, sold a book, seen its cover, smelled its pages. Fear of what will happen to it, thrust out into the world and the interwebs. For each book, this pattern has a peak, and the descent down the other side eventually smooths out as my release day [or week, or month] high fades and my focus shifts to the next story. I'm not there yet, though. With a double romance debut ahead of me in the next month, the white-knuckling is just beginning. I am making the jerky, clunky ascent to the zenith of the roller coaster's highest drop, awaiting free fall, twists and turns before I'm deposited sweaty but safe back on the ground. And wouldn't you know it? The second I am, I'm already counting my tickets and scouting for the next ride.

Box-o-Awesome!

Waaaaahhhhhh!

Woo hoo! Went down to start a load of laundry and found the best box ever waiting on the back steps—a slew of my very first author copies from Harlequin! I really underestimated how thrilling this would be. Like Christmas. Actually, no…Christmas morning hasn't excited me this deeply since 1989, the year my brother and I got our Nintendo (with Power Pad). This was Christmas, but as a kid again.

I also went onto Goodreads this morning to update the blurb for Caught on Camera, and discovered it's already been rated! Wow, that was quick, considering it's not out for another month. Then I realized the rating came from a Twitter acquaintance who writes book reviews for RT, among other things, which filled me with spastic, hopeful excitement. Hoo…I need some lunch. Can't be safe to get this overstimulated on an empty stomach.

Baby's First Romance Cover

Finally! I can share the cover for The Reluctant Nude, my first romance title with Samhain, due out this April. I've been getting taunting e-mails from my editor for the past few weeks, asking for my authorly input on various versions, and left to salivate while I wait for the green light to share. Now the wait's over! Behold!

Huge thanks to the artist, Kanaxa. It's my aim to keep this blog as light on the book promo as possible, but if you want more details about the story, you can head to the books page of my website.

Oh and since this post is borderline self-pimpy already, I may as well mention that I also just found out my debut April Blaze, Caught on Camera, is available for preorder on Amazon. Surreal.

Greetings from Minnesota!

Quick post. I'm in Minnesota for a few days visiting one of my old penguin-wrangling cohorts from my aquarium days. We're way out in the boonies in her charming little village, which is basically run by her mom and stepdad. The beating heart of town is the BP gas station, where I'll shortly be grabbing a coffee (16 ounces for 95¢!) before we take a walk.

This is my third and final day here, and may I just say, Minnesota rocks. Garrison Keillor always had me believing it, but now I know for sure. We're out in farm country, and so far I've met guinea hens, regular chickens, a rooster, several cows dressed as Oreos, a gazillion barn cats, four horses, a half dozen dogs, three turkeys, and who-knows-how-many no-see-ums. I got to take a guided tour of my friend's childhood, and see where she was crowned Butter Queen. It's also homecoming week so the town is very bustley and excitable, plus the fall foliage is putting on a good show.

Yesterday I got to shoot skeet for the first time ever. Despite growing up in Maine, I was never a hunting gal, but I'd done target shooting before, with both a rifle and a hand gun. The shotgun was heavier than anything I'd held before, and I tucked the butt against my armpit, not my shoulder, for the first couple shots, so I now have a lovely black bruise as a souvenir. But on the bright side, I hit two of the dozen or so pigeons I took aim at, which I think is pretty respectable for a first attempt.

We later got burgers at a place called Guenther's (delicious) and went bowling in the MSU student center. I was hoping to break a hundred, but I think I only got 94…though I did get to do my strike dance. I used the hot-pink wussy ball, and the end of my thumb nail came off. Still, it was nice to do some proper bowling for a change, as I live in Massachusetts where candlepin is mistaken for "real" bowling. Sorry, Mass, but you're just wrong on that one.

Today we're planning on doing a little mini-golfing, so I'm getting to indulge in all sorts of awesome non-sports. I'm later meeting some more of my friend's relatives, some of which have a whole house full of animals, including, it has been alleged, some button quails in the basement. Not sure if a basement is the best place to raise quails, but I'm curious to get my hands on them if the opportunity presents itself. After that we're swinging by the town's bar to buy a six-pack, then it's off to a bonfire.

This morning, post BP coffee, I'm recording my part of a podcast for Harlequin. Ooh, my first audio interview! I'll be chatting about how I got into writing, and about my first Blaze book, Caught on Camera. Two other new Harlequin authors will also be taking part, and the podcast will be out next month. I'm wretched at public speaking, but luckily this will be more like a casual conversation, so I think I'll do just fine.

Better get some Cheerios in me. Minnesota waits for no woman.

WIP crack!

So, did everybody solve the Sunday Puzzle from yesterday's post? I did! In bed, late at night, though after I got the answers I did have to check the periodic table to be sure—I was a bit rusty with elemental abbreviations. I spent a lot of time assuming one of the solutions was Ireland / Iceland, but wouldn't you know it, there's no element with the initial R. Wasted some smug hope on Nigeria / Algeria as well.*

Can you tell there's not much point to today's post? Can you tell I'm procrastinating? Today is one of just a couple I have left to put the polish on Caught on Camera before it goes off to line edits. My super-sharp Blaze editor Laura Barth's revision notes are great and I think the characters are more real now because of her insights. It's amazing the stuff you overlook when you're busy writing the damn story. You forget that although the book is like a vivid movie playing in your head and you know everything about your character's past and motivations, the reader has to like, be told about all the stuff. But don't infodump! That is a damn narrow tightrope to walk.

Anyhow, today goes like this: make a French press of coffee (Trader Joe's French Roast decaf, which I'm convinced isn't especially decaffeinated—seems to make me just as punchy as the hard stuff), sit down on the couch with Padsy and my little bluetooth keyboard and plug through the final day of a three-day screen-read, doing all my niggly little rewordings and making sure the revisions' seams don't show. At some point I slog through the rain to the post office to mail my pen pal in New Zealand his woefully overdue birthday cookies and mix CD. Then home for more self-editing. If my brain's relatively anxiety-free, it could be a relaxing day—rain pitter-pattering on the skylight above my head, endless cups of coffee, NPR droning softly from the kitchen. If the brain forecast is anxious with a chance of distraction, add to that a lot of tugging on my hair and the temptation to escape the drudgery by checking in on Twitter every five minutes. Actually, if you see me on Twitter today, yell at me. Use all caps.

Okay, time to work. Enjoy your Mondays!

*Addendum / retraction: without giving too much away, I jumped to a false conclusion in this paragraph.

Reset Button

I'm in Maine for a few days, hanging out with my kick-ass parents (and before you run off to burgle my house, it's only fair to tell you my husband's home). I come from a very calm and low-maintenance family, and going home for me just means a two-hour drive, some vigorous hugging, and a flurry of catching-up chit-chat over a) Gennessee or b) Reuinite. The rest of the time we're very laissez-faire. We have a few rituals, including the dinnertime viewing of an hour's worth of taped court TV shows, sometimes Jeopardy! if I nag loud enough.

Whoa, Rambles McNoPoint! Can you tell I'm in vacation mode? I did have a point, though, and it's about the value of the Reset Button. I've got a lot of things on my plate, leading up to an actual vacation (don't bother burgling my house then, either—it's a third story walk-up on a lively street with plenty of neighbors and locked doors. Plus we don't own anything. So not worth your trouble.) Some of the items on my to-do-before-vaca list are big—second revisions for my first Blaze book, Caught on Camera (COC—snicker snicker snicker) and a new proposal to submit [check]. Other items are small, such as my evil conjoined erotica-writing twin's blogging and promo obligations, finishing my RWA chapter's newsletter, calling to demand some explanations for the new monthly fee that's appeared on my checking account…

[Unrelated aside, my parents' sociopathic cockatiel is trying to burrow into the wedge-shaped cavern created by my folded-over iPad case as I type this.]

So all these deadlines, big and small, have been swirling around in my head for the past couple weeks, and it's put me in a state of scattered distraction, a state I do not thrive in. For the first time ever, I found myself putting off fairly simple edits because they seemed utterly daunting. My head was cluttered and I passed a whole week during which writing felt like pulling teeth, and I was starting to despair. Luckily I've been mired in plenty of similar funks before over the course of my moody thirty-one years, so I knew a change of scenery might snap me back into productivity mode. Hence the three days in Maine, virtually a no-charge, no-frills writers retreat for one. Just being in a different environment, away from my desk and my housewifely duties, I feel reset. I'm typing on a different bit of hardware, in a different room, drinking slightly different coffee, surrounded by different ambient noises (and a screeching, sociopathic cockatiel). I'm reading my manuscript on a different platform, so the words seem fresher than before, and the rewrites feel easy and insightful—and exciting! I feel like a TV that was on the fritz until someone gave me a good thump and all the static went away.

That's all I really wanted to say. No grand revelations, just wanted to share that I kicked the writing-day-job blues with a quickie trip. No fancy spa weekend required, and no time off required either, really. I'm working as hard here as I would be back in Boston, but it doesn't feel like a slog. It feels new again and pleasurable, thanks to a firm poke of the old reset button. Okay, back I go to put the polish on COC. Snicker snicker snicker.