I hate Mother's Day

 I was going to say that I always hated Mother's Day, but I realized that wasn't true. When I was a new mom, I needed that once a year card to reassure me that what I was doing was noticed and worthwhile. Especially from the man who had given me this precious gift and was able to sleep through the night and then go off to play with his friends. Okay, so he really went to work, but when I was confined to the house for several hours each day without adult companionship, it felt like he had the better deal. And later I have to say there's nothing like being given a handmade card or gift from a sweet little face glowing with pride and love.

It's only after the kids were grown that I learned to hate the day. It's so commercial and frankly embarrassing. All the tributes to mothers everywhere leave me feeling slightly nauseous and somehow guilty. I wasn't a perfect mother, but I loved my kids from the moment they were conceived. I'm very proud of the way they have turned out. They don't owe me anything, certainly not gratitude. Let me just state for the record that I know I'm missing some female genes, the ones that cause women to love shopping, handicrafts and crying. I rarely cry and never seek out opportunities to do so. It leaves me blotchy and exhausted.

My complaint is that the retail industry has created a day where everyone feels obligated to phone home or buy sappy cards to prove that they love their mothers, whether or not they really do. Mothers then feel slighted or neglected if any of her children fail to do so.

 I am giving my children permission this year to ignore the day altogether. All of them have shown their love and made me a part of their lives all year, and if they hadn't, one lousy card or phone call isn't going to make up for it.

Oh, by the way, if you forget my birthday, I'll hunt you down and slap you with the kind of guilt, only a mother can wield.

I Don't Want To BeThe Grownup. I Want My Mommy

Lately, my mom has been in and out of the hospital. After a difficult month, she is now in a rehab facility trying to get back some strength. At eighty-six, it's not easy, but she is doing remarkably well. Much to her relief, I've taken over her finances. I spent several hours changing the address on bills so they would come directly to me and then spent four frustrating hours trying to straighten out her checkbook, only to find out there was nothing wrong with it. The check book didn't jive with the bank because she forgot to tell me that she has a couple of bills that are automatically deducted from her account. Often her explanations are confusing because she can't always come up with the right words.

She took care of my father during his lengthy battle with Alzheimer's. However, since his death nearly ten years ago, my mom began relying on me to give her advice and help her make decisions. This role reversal is not only difficult, but heart wrenching. It's bad enough to watch as the years have taken their toll. Her back is bent and she walks with a cane. Her beautiful face is creased and her skin is thin and fragile and heals very slowly, if at all. The slightest pressure causes agony, bruising and sometimes scars. Still, even the physical changes aren't at difficult to accept as watching her loss of confidence in herself.

She was my rock. As a teenager, I fought her tooth and nail. We rarely agreed, yet I valued her opinion (not that I ever let her know that.). She taught me that as a woman I could do or be anything I wanted to be. She loved my father, but even having been raised in an era when many women considered themselves reliant on and sometimes subservient to men, my parents operated as a unit, with equal say in all decisions. They fought as passionately as they loved.

Now she hesitates to make a decision without consulting me. Thankfully, most of the time her mind is clear, even when she tells me that her insurance is paid by her credit card when it is really paid directly from her checking account. She knows what she means.

Who needs a Platform

According to the experts, every new writer needs a platform. From what I've read, I'd sum up a platform as defining the writer's expertise. Or in other words, what qualifies you to write this story. I can see why that would be important for a non-fiction writer. If I'm going to take advise from someone or lend credibility to their point of view, I'd certainly want to know their background in the subject. As a fiction writer, coming up with a platform is a little more difficult.

 If you're a veteran writing war stories, a history professor who writes historical romance, or a mystery writer with experience as a lawyer, policeman or coroner, the theory is that people will be more likely to buy your books. However, what do you do if you write science fiction or fantasy?

Frankly, as a reader,I don't care about an author's expertise and rarely read the back of the book jacket when perusing the bookstore. All I care about is how well they write. With the availability of the Internet any author can research all the facts he or she needs to make the plot believable. Some of my favorite authors have never been anything but writers. Additionally, a list of awards for poetry or short stories won't convince me someone can write a novel. I look for a great jacket synopsis and a riveting first chapter. If I get to the end of the story and can't wait to read more, I'll research and buy every thing the author has ever written. If I get bored half way through, I'll avoid that author, even if they have a list of best selling novels to their credit.

In my opinion, the only reason for a fiction writer to struggle writing a platform is to sell your manuscript to a publisher. They are the only ones who care.

Just in case not every reader agrees with me, I was a Director of Human Resources for a Las Vegas strip hotel just like my heroine in Double Down and Jealousy.

Unbelievable Characters

Authors create characters sometimes based on people they've known and sometimes out of their imagination. During the course of the story the reader learns not only what they look like, but some of their background, likes, dislikes and motivations. It drives me crazy when I get to the end of the book and I have to ask myself why that character chose an illogical course of action.

I just finished reading a romantic suspense by a popular author. One of the main characters was a totally selfish woman who slept with her sister's boyfriend,stole other women's husbands and was so totally focused on her career as TV personality that she staged a kidnapping just to up her ratings. When another women is killed, her only concern is how it will affect her. Okay, I buy all that. Then somewhere near the end the author throws in that years ago the woman became pregnant, went somewhere to have the baby and gave it away because a child would be a detriment to her career. I have to ask myself, why didn't she have an abortion? It's not like this woman valued life. Someone obsessed with her physical ability to attract men wouldn't go through nine months of pregnancy. The author gives us no reason, no explanation for this.

The only thing I can come up with is that the author threw it in to make the story go where she wanted. It isn't the first time I've noticed an author sacrifice the believability of a character for the plot line.  Isn't this something the story editor should catch?

Authors, if you have one of your characters do something alien to the motivations you've created, at least give us a plausible reason, some temporary change of heart or possibly a fragment of back story to explain their actions.

More Information Than I Need

I read a lot, three or four books a week. I like the escapism of fiction. I enjoy learning about other places and things as long as it's woven into the story line. I've noticed recently that more and more authors are filling pages by telling me everything they've researched on a particular topic, or describing in detail a place that has no particular relevance to the story.

Now if I'm reading science fiction or fantasy and the author has created a whole new world, then the description is necessary. However, if I'm reading a mystery, I don't need to know what the police station or autopsy room look like other than in general terms as the characters move about. I don't need  to know exactly how the autopsy is conducted or the detailed scientific analysis that went in to determining the information derived from those procedures. Tell me the outcomes and skip the long mind numbing scientific explanations.

I also don't need a history lesson on the buildings or city the characters are in unless it's important to the story.  More and more I find myself skipping several pages of irrelevant information just to get back to the action.

It's got me wondering whether it's me. Have I've just gotten impatient as I've grown older or have readers changed, insisting that every book have something of substance in them to be worth their time?

Here's to a Great New Year.

Story update: Neither of my Christmas stories made the Las Vegas Review Journal.

Moving on to 2013. There's no way I'm rehashing 2012. While I had a number of successes (all three of my books are now in print, I started three new novels and I lost thirty pounds) I see no point in reviewing the things I didn't do. I don't even like reading or listening to the news outlets do the year in review.

First  2013 goal: Turn all three of my novels into audio books. My husband bought me a microphone headset for Christmas and today I downloaded some free software. Now I have to learn how to use it. As with everything else I've tried, it isn't as easy as they make it sound. While recording the prologue to The Crystal's Curse, I stumbled over words, mispronounced names and had gaps where there shouldn't be gaps. In addition, you could hear the dog barking outside in the background. I could rerecord it, but instead I am using it to learn how to edit an audio file. 

Why you may ask would I want to make audio books? Certainly not because I expect to make money from them. No, the real reason is simply because it's a challenge, something I haven't done before. If I happen to sell a few, that's just icing on the cake. Also, my son told me the reason he hasn't read the manuscript I gave them is because most of his reading is done by listening to audio books while driving his truck on the job. With four small children at home, he simply doesn't have time in his off hours. So, when I present him with a CD he will have no excuse. By now you'd think he'd know better than to try and thwart his mother.

Second 2013 goal: Finish writing the three books I started this year. I've already written eight chapters on the new mystery again featuring Valerie and Detective Delgado. I have also got two chapters written on a sequel to The Crystal's Curse and three chapters of a paranormal romance.

There are several other things I'd like to do, like lose another twenty pounds, but since I'm having enough trouble keeping the thirty off, I think it's highly unlikely. I'd like to take another trip to Europe. However, unless there's a surge in the economy which causes my stocks to add money to my dwindling 401K, it isn't going to happen. I don't think I'll hold my breath. So I'll stick with the only two that have a reasonable chance of success.

Story Contest

Okay here's another story for the RJ contest. Let me know which one you like best. Remember, they have to be under 300 words, so you have to leave some things to the imagination.

Christmas Memories

 

As a single person without family, I found the Christmas season depressing. Spending it in Las Vegas this year seemed like the perfect solution, no snow, incessant Christmas music, or bell-ringing Santas. I sighed in relief as I stepped out of the terminal into brilliant sunshine.

 However, as I walked down the strip, I realized that even here there was no escape. Holiday displays decorated every hotel. One had an animated scene with a jolly Santa filling stockings while his reindeer pranced nearby, another a depiction of the Twelve Days of Christmas, including a singing partridge, and lords a leaping. Even outside street performers dressed as Dickens characters sang, while a man yelled humbug.

 I sank down on a bus stop bench, put my head in my hands, and quietly sobbed. Memories I kept at bay most of the year overwhelmed me, Christmas the year Dani turned four, how her eyes sparkled when we lit the tree and how she grinned when Joe lifted her up to place the star on top. She’d laughed when Joe grabbed a handful of tinsel and threw it. Later he’d kissed me under the mistletoe. Now she and Joe were gone and I had nothing left but painful memories.

  I felt a small hand pat my knee. “Don’t be sad,” said a curly-headed boy, not more than three or four.

 A good-looking man rushed over and scooped up the child. “Joshua, you scared me.” He looked at me. “I know you. I’ve seen you in Starbucks.”

 “And you sit in the corner with the batman logo laptop.”

 “She’s sad, Dad, she needs chocolate. Dad says chocolate makes everything better.”

 For the first time in months, I laughed. “Your father is a very wise man.”

 Joshua’s father held out his hand. “Join us.”