Reluctantly playing along.

Total Number Books I Own: No. Freakin’. Clue. Seriously, I have 20′ of new bookshelves completely filled. Why on earth was I ever worried I wouldn’t be able to fill the shelves in our addition??? And that doesn’t count the ones upstairs in my bedroom, or on the bookshelves upstairs, or in the boxes in the attic. *sigh* Way too many to count.

Last Book Read: Undercover Babies by Alice Sharpe

Book Sitting On My Coffee Table I’m Planning To Read: Vanishing Acts by Jodi Picoult

Five Books That Mean A Lot to Me:

1. Gone With The Wind – Margaret Mitchell
2. The Lord of The Rings – Tolkein
3. The Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe – C.S. Lewis
4. Anne of Green Gables Series – L.M. Montgomery
5. Perfect - Judith McNaught

And finally…my tags:
1. Piper Lee
2. Paty Jager
3. Danita Shattuck
4. Bethany Cunningham
5. Christine Keach

A sweltry breeze blew the sheer curtains at the open window. Moonlight splashed across the room, casting shadows on the floor. In the corner, a fan rotated, the rhythmic whup, whup of the blade creating a white noise that drown out the night sounds.

Somewhere in the house, a muffled sob.

“Daddy, help!”

He sat straight up. Blinking, he tried to focus through the dim light. The clock read 4:40 AM. He glanced down at the side of the bed, his eyes focusing on a strange, dark shadow. Good God, what was that? His eyes narrowed. It looked like…blood.

He flipped on the bedside lamp. Next to him, a bloody handprint on the crisp white sheets. Recoiling, he pressed back into the pillows. His gaze swept over the side of the bed, and he saw more blood – this time droplets creating a trail in the plush, cream-colored carpet.

Swinging unstead legs over the side of the bed, he followed the trail, needing to know what was happening in his quiet house.

He paused to listen. Another sob. But where was it coming from?

Needing answers, he moved down the hallway toward the chidren’s bedroom, following the path of blood. His heart pounded furiously. Was one of them hurt? Why was there so much blood in the middle of the night?

The door was open, and he stepped forward, peering into the room. Light from across the hall illuminated his son sleeping in the bottom bunk. Relief washed over him when he heard the slow, rhythmic breathing, as he watched the steady rise and fall of his son’s tiny chest. But that sense of peace was short lived as he took in the rest of the room.

Narrowing his eyes, he focused on the blood splatters leading up the railing of the bunkbed. Cautiously, he peaked over the side. The top bunk was empty. In it, only a blood-soaked pillow, sheets and blankets saturated, glowing red in the dim light.

He swallowed, hard, a thousand questions running through his mind.

When he heard the muffled sob again, he turned and streaked down the hall toward the master bathroom.

And then he saw her. Lying in a pool of blood, his daughter.

Good God, what had happened?

Blood oozed through tiny fingers pressed up to her face. Her white nightgown was soaked and red, streaks of blood trickling down her legs, blotchy, dried stains across her feet. Around her on the linoleum, more puddles.

Murder images flashed in his mind, violent attacks he’d watched in movies and on TV. But this wasn’t make-believe, this wasn’t trapped in a screen. This was real.

His eyes widened as he took in the scene, glancing down at his six-year-old.

Oh, no. This wasn’t a murder…

“Daddy, my nose won’t stop running!”

…it was the mother of all nose-bleeds!!!!

Great. Just great. An odd sense of relief and irritation coursed through him.

He grabbed tissues and helped her press them to her face. “It’s okay, honey. Here. Hold this.”

Where on earth was his wife? Shaking his head in wonder, he rose and walked back into the master bedroom. He knew exactly where he’d find her.

Of course. There she was. Sound asleep – not a care in the world. No wonder the kids went to his side of the bed when they woke in the middle of the night. The woman could sleep through anything, and usually did.

But not tonight. Tonight he wouldn’t let her.

(And she’s a crab today because of it.)

Excitement, doubt demons and motivation. That’s what’s on my mind. Or not on my mind as the case may be.

Two full requests on MB in two days from two RWA approved agents. One would think that would excite me, eh? Not so. I’ve had requests for fulls before, and have gotten my hopes up, only to be sucked down by the doubt demons when it turns out to be nothing (or when I just don’t hear back). When these requests came in, I wasn’t excited in the least. Does that mean I’m becoming jaded? Realistic? Just don’t care anymore? Not sure.

I DO care, don’t get me wrong. I DO want an agent to swoop in and grab me, I DO think my writing is good enough to sell. I DO want to snag an agent before Nationals. Do I think it’s going to happen from these requests, though? No clue.

My psychically connected CP says I’m turning toward the dark and pessimistic side. That’s not my M.O. I’m generally a “glass is half full” kinda gal. But being honest about what’s happening and not getting excited about something that may not pan out, seems like the best idea to me at the moment.

My DH on the other hand tells me I need to think positively. That positive enegry negates positive actions. This from the most conservative man on the planet. Go figure. Of course, he did grow up in Eugene, so maybe some of that hippy new-age crap did rub off on him at one time or another (don’t tell his parents.) He gets upset with me if I don’t BELIEVE I’m going to sell this year. Just like he gets upset with me when I laugh at the lottery tickets he buys. “You have to think like a winner, babe.” That’s what I hear all the time. Sorry, honey, we didn’t win the big jackpot last weekend. What does that say about all our positive energy?

So all of this – excitement, doubt demons, pessimism – brings me to the real problem I’m having right now, which is motivation. Since finishing my rewrite on WFM, I have no motivation to jump back into my wip. I can see the scenes, my characters are talking to me, and I “feel” the story, I just have no desire to write it. I thought I needed a few down days…not so. It’s been a week and now I’m wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Did the workshop I went to last weekend help? Not really. Learned a lot of great things, but it didn’t do a thing to make me want to haul my ass back to the grindstone.

I need a swift kick in the pants, people. Anyone want to take a shot?

(Don’t answer that one, Becky.)

My six-year-old daughter was grounded yesterday. Why you might ask? Because the night before she threw a complete temper tantrum at bedtime. She was absolutely convinced there were mice in her bedroom (it’s on the second floor) and that they were going to “get” her. Now, I can understand childhood fears, but I commisserated with her, explained there were no mice in our house, and then lost it when she wouldn’t stop screaming. It’s one thing to cry and be upset, it’s another to FREAK OUT. At any other time I would have just shut the door and left her alone, but she got her three-year-old brother started, and that was the end of my patience.

So…grounded. A full day. Can’t get in control even when I tell you the truth? So be it.

Fast forward to today…

After a full morning of working, I went out to the refrigerator in the garage to get myself a diet Dr. Pepper (needed a caffeine boost). And as I’m walking back across the garage (in my bare feet even!) what do I feel? A FREAKIN’ MOUSE! The little bastard ran right across my foot and darted into a pile of shoes.

Do you remember those episodes of Tom and Jerry where the mistress of the house sees a mouse, screams and jumps on a table, then dances all around? Oh yeah, that was me. I screamed bloody murder, ran into the house, locked the door (please…like a tiny mouse can open a door!), and refused to go back into the garage the rest of the day. When my big, brave husband came home, I sent him to find the darn thing and KILL IT!.

Of course, now my conscience is getting the best of me. I’m really in a pickle.

*biting lip here*

Darling daughter was at school when this happened, so she didn’t witness her mother FREAK OUT. The little devil on my shoulder is telling me not to say a word – what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I am the adult here after all, aren’t I? But that damn angel on the other side is yelling “hypocrite” loudly in my ear.

What to do…what to do…

The ironic truth is…if I thought there were mice in my bedroom…you couldn’t pay me money to stay in that room.

Linda and I have decided to become literary agents. She can rep. me, I’ll rep. her, and we’ll still make money off other writers. How does that sound???

Seriously, how hard can it be? She’s got the background in Literature, I have a master’s degree . . . in . . . something. We’re two highly educated, bright women. We should be able to make this fly.

The scary part is, we think way too much alike, so not sure how things would go. If I wasn’t absolutely sure I wasn’t a twin, I’d think we were separated at birth.

Got that canister of whipped cream, Linda? I’m off to find one…

What inspires you to get those words down on paper? Is it blogging? That steady stream of consciousness, that writing exercise to pump up your brain and flex your fingers? Is it that jolt of caffeine in the morning, awakening your mind? Is it a quiet house…a good run…a shot of tequila? What exhilerates you?

For me, generally, it’s music. As I sit here listening to my favorite songs downloaded off that wonderful web world of Napster, I can listen to whatever I want and let my mind wander. More than one novel has been spawned by songs that touch my heart. Among them:

Marina’s Bane - Obviously, Maren had a thing for the Boss, or so you who have read her story know. “Paradise” played a big part in that book and helped inspire the setting. When Thad and Maren meet back up together in the South Pacific, and they’re standing on the beach, Sarah McLachlan’s “I Will Remember You” echoed in the background. The words could have been ripped right from the story. And the end of the book popped into my head while listening to my daughter’s Shrek 2 CD. I could hear Jennifer Saunders singing “Holding Out for a Hero” while Maren was running through the jungle, Declan close behind on her heels.

Wait For Me was inspired by one song, years ago. Originally a Bruce Springsteen single, “If I Should Fall Behind” was rerecorded by Faith Hill a few years back. Other songs that helped that book come to fruition: “You’re Missing” by the Boss, “The Promise” by Tracy Chapman, and “Matters of the Heart” by Michael McDonald. (*sigh* I love that song. Can so see Ryan in it.)

Science of Silence (my WIP) has roots in Kenny Chesney’s “I Go Back”, and Make Me Believe – the next in the long line of books to be written – was inspired by Martina McBride’s “How Far”.

Without music, I don’t know where I’d be. My most favorite plotting time comes when I’m listening to my MP3 and going for a run in the early morning. The scent of fresh rain just after dawn, the fatigue in my muscles while exercising, and the inspirational words and tunes filtering through my mind. Works for me every time.

And then there are those moments when I’m driving in the car and I turn up the volume to drown out the sounds of my arguing children. That always works too…

“Quiet time, kids. Mommy needs to think.”

I got my Daphne contest results today in the mail. Surprisingly, I tied for sixth place. The top five final and get their work in front of a Berkley/Jove editor and an agent at Trident. *sigh* So close…and yet so far…

On the plus side, all three judges said they’d like to read the complete book and that they would recommend it if it were published. That’s encouraging. And they all had very positive things to say…”fantastic voice, excellent sense of place, excellent characterization, pacing kept me turning pages, excellent use of senses…overall, beautiful.” So that’s nice.

As for the comments that have me shaking my head…

One judge marked me down because my heroine is only 20 in the first half of the book and therefore, “she’d lack emotional depth…that would make her less interesting.” Well, she’s supposed to be immature. The events of the first half of the book shape her into what she is in the second half of the book. However, in the entry I sent, she shows no indication of being in any way, immature. So I’ll just chalk that up to judge bias.

This same judge also marked me down because the hero wasn’t introduced in the first 20 pages. Now, this is ST, not cat. so the hero/heroine don’t necessarily have to meet in the first chapter. So again, I’ll just consider that judge bias.

Another judge marked me down because my setting was off:

“If your characters are looking for a Mayan artifact its highly unlikely they’d be looking in the western or Northwestern part of Mexico where the desert is.“

Um, well, I guess she didn’t read the synopsis because they’re looking for an AZTEC artifact. And anyone who has studied history in high school knows, the Aztecs were centered around what is now Mexico City. So, it’s highly likely an Aztec artifact could be found in the desert regions of Mexico.

All in all I’m pleased. A little disappointed I didn’t final, but happy with the results. At least I know it doesn’t suck.

Let’s see. At this point, my agent search stands like this:

Marina’s Bane:
18 unanswered queries (2 from November I never expect to hear back on)
4 Partials out (one to dream agent)
1 Full out

Wait For Me:
1 Partial out (to another dream agent)

No rejections in the mail today. That’s always a plus.

Sweeter words were never typed.

WFM is done. Now I get the fun of going back through and editing/layering.

Is a story ever really finished? That’s a topic for another blog.

Are. Emotionally. Draining.

I feel like I’ve been through the wringer. Better yet, I feel like I just broke up with my husband, lost my best friend, was told I have 30 days to live, and oh yeah, my dog was hit by a car. That’s what the big black moment is to me today.

For Ryan and Kate in Wait For Me, it goes like this:

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Kneeling in front of her, he placed trembling hands on her thighs. Anguish clawed at his heart. “Believe in me. Believe in us. I love you. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”

“Don’t you get it, Ryan?” she whispered. “You did hurt me. In the worst possible way.” When she dropped her hands, tortured emotions brewed in the depths of her emerald green eyes. “You made me fall in love with you, then you took away the very trust that love was built on. How am I ever supposed to believe anything you say?”

A heavy weight pressed down on his chest. The air clogged in his throat. She loved him. Her revelation was exactly what he’d wanted to hear since the day she walked back into his life, but never in a thousand years did he expect her to say it wasn’t enough.

On a breath, she pushed his hands aside and rose.

Fear and heartache clawed at his soul. She was backing away. He was going to lose her if he didn’t do something to make this right. Rising, he fought back the tears stinging his eyes. “Katie, please.”

Her head shook, and she wiped at her cheeks. “I can’t. I don’t even know you.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “You do know me. You know everything that matters.” She turned for the door. His voice hitched. “Please. I can’t lose you a second time.”

Her feet paused on the deck, and her head turned, but her eyes never met his. “Don’t you understand, Ryan? You already did.”