Viva Las Vegas!

I should have started packing earlier. My maps are not together, my equipment is still charging, the laundry is taking forever to dry, and it’s going to be 110 degrees in Las Vegas tomorrow!

I really, really don’t want to go.

But that’s where Sammy’s headed (I’ve just about got her on a plane…it wasn’t easy!) and I have to go do what Sammy’s going to go and do or how can I write about it?

No fancy casinos for me.

Gotta hit the seedy side of town.

Well, there are a lot of those in Las Vegas, but you know.

And I’ve got to go to one of those tacky wedding chapels.

And see an Elvis impersonator in action.

And get back stage.

And on the roof.

I don’t know of what, but of something!

Sammy always winds up on the roof.

Then there’s the jail.

I’ve really got to go to jail.

No, I’m not giving away the plot. You think you’ve got this figured out, but uh-uh-uh! How can you? I don’t even know what that girl is going to get into!

But the roof?

And jail?

Foregone conclusions.

Maybe Elvis will bail her out.

You know who I’m talking about!

And if you don’t you’ve picked the wrong week to check out this blog.

I’m packing.

I’ve got no time to explain.

Viva Las Vegas!

Book It!

I've been thinking about deadlines. They're everywhere, in one form or another. Bills, taxes, getting your car smogged, the morning bell at school, getting to work on time...

Then there are the things in life we want to do, and because we want to do them, we don't associate them with deadlines. For one thing, there's that word dead inside it. The word has an ominous feel. It just doesn't fit with the notion of enjoyable things. For another, if we want to do it, it's probably something that can wait...or is entirely optional.

The result is, those enjoyable things get pushed to the bottom of our list because, of course, the items with deadlines are more pressing.

I've been saying for years that I need to learn some more cover songs to round out our set of original songs. Not only would it be good for me, it would be fun and would allow our band to play out more. But that's one of those After-such-and-such things...it's something that can wait until other deadlines are met.

Trouble is, the deadlines of everyday living are never all met.

There will always be more chores, more bills, more taxes.

Pretty soon you're having to smog your car again.

Pretty soon you're dead.

So Mark decided that what we needed was a deadline--a way to make what we want to do as pressing as things we have to do.

So he booked us a bar gig.

"You did what?" I squeaked when he told me.

"We've got five weeks to learn twenty more songs."

It took me two days to truly comprehend that a) he wasn't kidding, and b) he wasn't cancelling.

Now, for Mark this is no big deal. He's played drums in professional bands his whole life. He knows his way around hundreds of songs, and if he doesn't know a song he can totally fake it. And the boys are young and energetic with sponge-like brains and don't have bills to pay and laundry to fold. Nothing is more important to them than music, so they are all over this new deadline.

Me? I've mostly stuck to writing and playing original songs. I'm comfortable with them. You understand a song if you write it. You know the chords and when to come in and how it's arranged...it's yours. Plus you wrote it for a reason--it means something to you.

But outside of that? Well, for starters, I'm rhythmically challenged.

 Hello? Wasn't that the one?

Mark is so patient.

And then I have to remember all the words.

Words are important!

But half the time they don't make any sense.

"It's rock and roll, Wendelin, get over it."

Sigh.

Anyway, we've been woodshedding in the studio, and to my great surprise, I actually can sing songs like "Helter Skelter", and "Life is Beautiful" (Sixx AM). I've always thought maybe I could and that someday I'd try, but this deadline has forced me to get over my nerves and doubts and belt it out.

It's also been great therapy. This has been one stressful summer with zero vacation time, so being forced to do something I really love is probably the best thing Mark could have done for me.

So my little advice to you is to give yourself a deadline to do something you've been wanting to do but haven't made time for. Book yourself a gig. Or a poetry reading. Or a lunch date. Or a 10K.

What is it you wish you had time for?

Pick a date, a venue, a race, and book it!

Ka-Pow!

I loved all the input last week about the new Sammy Keyes title. Some of the suggestions were really good. I just wish they fit with the story! The word that still goes best with the story--or theme--is "Power"--it just doesn't sound as good as some of the other words.

Mark's sick to death of me talking about it -- a first, by the way. He's usually patient and will continue to think until the skinny lady sings, but after literally months of this he's done. And who can blame him?

I did hear back from Nancy...something along the lines of "I give up! You can have Power!" I think that may have to do with how the word goes well with the preliminary art sketch. Justice Jack dominates the center of the cover and instead of the usual diagonal or straight-edged icon sections, Jack's in a jagged KA-POW! type segment. Pretty cool! 

But rather than take her concession and run with it, I told her I was still thinking about it.

And I have been.

Only now I'm distracted by having started on Sammy 16.

This is totally unfair, isn't it? Night of Skulls hasn't even come out yet, I've been talking for months about Justice Jack, and now I'm starting on...do you trust me with a title?

You shouldn't.

But Mark's calling it Sammy Keyes and the Wayward Parents.

Just so you know.

I actually think it's a funny title, although I'm stickin' with Sammy 16 for now (or Sammy Next-to-Next-to-Last), but the point is, the developing story has sort of usurped my mental chugging regarding Sammy Keyes and the Whatever of Justice Jack.

So it'll probably be Power.

Unless I have a bolt of inspiration. Maybe in the middle of the night. Or, if I get sick, while my fever is breaking like what happened when I was pregnant and wanting to name our baby Jagger. But that's another story. And unfortunately for the title, I don't expect to be running a fever in the coming week. If a bolt strikes from elsewhere, however, I'll be sure to let you know!

Meanwhile I just want to say that I had a blast reading (and considering) each suggestion made. What a great group!

See you next week!  

The Ballad, Call, Power, Legend, and Curse of the Title

Nothing’s done ‘til it’s done, and then you may wish it was undone.

Aaagh!

Sometimes titles are so easy. Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen—poof! There it was and everyone loved it. Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy—how can you argue with a song that keeps looping through your brain? Confessions of a Serial Kisser—everyone was in stitches.

But this one?

The one with the kinda loser guy who turned out to be super funny and uses the moniker Justice Jack?

Ay-ay-ay.

The title has to start with ‘Sammy Keyes and the’—the ‘the’ has to be there. The first four Sammys were named with a ‘the’ and after that it just seemed weird not to have one. You can’t go and switch it up. Sammy Keyes and Justice Jack sounds lame. Like, what are they? Going out?

The ‘the’ has to be there.

And I’m kinda very stuck on having ‘Justice Jack’ in the title.

I just like it.

Nancy (my editor, for you newbies) isn’t as invested in including Jack in the cover.

She’s sorta partial to ‘Masked Maniac.’

Which would work very nicely with a simple ‘the,’ it’s true.

But I’m kinda very stuck on ‘Justice Jack.’

I’ve gone through SO many variations trying to find the perfect fit to capture the essence of this story. It’s been like naming Moustache Mary. I couldn’t figure out what word went best with it. I was partial to Sammy Keyes and the Spirit of Moustache Mary, but Nancy thought it sounded like an airplane. When I finally struck on “Curse” I felt this enormous sense of relief. Like, yes. That is the perfect word.

After that was settled we went round and round about the spelling of mustache. I really wanted the ‘o’.

I just liked it, okay?

Who knew titles were such battle grounds, huh?

Anyway, part of the challenge with both ‘the Curse of Moustache Mary’ and ‘the ______ of Justice Jack' is working with the space constraints. The word that fits in the blank cannot take up much room because of the design of the jacket.

I had settled on ‘Power’ but there’s something about it that Nancy isn’t keen on. And I do have ‘Power Potion’ and ‘the Greatest Power’ in the Gecko & Sticky titles.

That’s a different series, but it does influence my decision. Like, maybe ‘Power’ isn’t the best choice after all. I know I wouldn’t name another book with ‘Run’ in it – I have Runaway, The Running Dream, and Sammy Keyes and the Runaway Elf. I’m done with running. So maybe I should be done with ‘Power,’ too.

Then I came up with ‘Call’ as a nice substitute.

Nancy's reception to the change was cool at best.

Sigh.

Now, you’d think that an author could just say, This is the title of my book and you keep your mitts off! And if this had been one of those love-it-from-the-get-go titles, well, Nancy would have probably loved it from the get-go, too and we wouldn’t be swimming around in title stew.

But we need to decide!

Like, yesterday!

So I brainstormed some more with Mark and we’re now liking ‘Legend’ as the fill-in-the-blank word. Physically it’s a little long, but only one more letter than Power, which is the same length as Curse, which we know fits.

We actually like ‘Ballad’ but there is no song in the story (silly me!) so it would make no sense. Too bad.

Anyway, I sent the new title to Nancy on Monday and her reaction?

I haven’t heard a peep.

Which means that she’s still wanting Masked Maniac.

(After 25 books with her I’ve learned to interpret the silence.)

And of course you have no idea what this story is about (except that it’s about a kinda loser guy who is very funny and goes by the name of Justice Jack) so you can’t help me!

Maybe next week I’ll have an official title for you.

(But don’t hold your breath!)

Random Tidbits

Random updates and tidbits this week!

This round of rewriting Sammy Keyes and the Power of Justice Jack is done. I know I'll see it again when the copy editor takes a crack at it, but for now, off it goes.

Oh. Those of you who are into the business of writing may be interested in payment structure. It used to be you received 50% of your advance upon signing, and then 50% upon "acceptance"...acceptance being at the stage where your editor says "cool beans" and passes the manuscript off to the copy editor.

In other words, now.

(Assuming, of course, that she says "cool beans" which, by the way, is an expression I adopted from her.)

But with "the economy" there's been a restructuring of payment so now it's 1/3 on signing, 1/3 on acceptance, and 1/3 on publication.

Next tidbit:

I'm "training" for a new marathon. It's more like slogging out the miles. Those of you who have followed along here know that every  marathon I run I swear is my last. And I really thought the last one was.

But then my son said he was thinking he'd like to train this summer for his first marathon.

And then my other son said he'd do it, too.

So the 4 of us are doing a "family marathon" where we'll all run together for Exercise the Right to Read with the goal of crossing the finish line together.

But my younger son is having second (third and fourth) thoughts. So getting him up in the morning to do our runs has been...challenging.

After all, it's summer and, more to the point, he's a teenager.

Today our training chart called for a 12 miler -- the furthest distance yet. So I mapped a route that I thought might help keep our reluctant runner trucking along...including a detour to his girlfriend's house. I'm happy to report that it went fairly well and that we can check off the 12 mi in the box on the refrigerator.

(Don't tell my son, but I'm sore and tired and wondering why in the world I'm doing this again.)

Next tidbit:

Risky Whippet (family rock band!) played at a party this week--just a handful of songs but it was loud and raucous and fun.

Next:
My sons have been having a "do you remember" summer and decided they wanted to watch The Sword & the Stone VHS video from their childhood.

Uh...oops.

I donated that to Goodwill.

"What about our other videos?"

"Uh...donated. We could get your favorites on DVD?"

"No! It's not the same!"

Talk about being in the dog house. But this week I got my hands on 10 old VHS Disney movies from a girl who was having a yard sale.

Yes!

So I'm mostly out of the dog house. For now, anyway.

(I wonder if they'll get nostalgic over their Beanie Babies...)

Finally:

Every day I tell myself I've got to respond to the comments from the last few weeks. Some of them are so good! And every night I fall into bed telling myself I'll respond tomorrow. I will! soon, promise! Meanwhile, know I always appreciate that you visit me here and send me comments.

All for now. Good night!

Bloodied and Blind

It’s rewrite time!

Already.

Sammy Keyes and the Power of Justice Jack returned to my doorstep this week with a two and a half page letter from Nancy attached.

I once received a 15 page editorial letter from Nancy. (That was for Sammy Keyes and the Curse of Moustache Mary when I had a full time job teaching, my kids were tiny, and I was seriously frayed from trying to keep it all together.) So I know—a two-and-a-half page editorial letter isn’t bad.

Besides, I don’t read the letter right away.

It’s full of work, and I know it.

Instead, I go straight to the manuscript and flip through it page by page, ignoring all the little red marks that do not say HA! or NICE! or GREAT!

I live from HA! to HA! if you must know. It’s what keeps me going through the daunting process of analyzing three hundred pages of edits, especially after spending the past six months re-writing the same manuscript into what I hoped was a state of perfection.

Well, near perfection, anyway.

But now here it is, back on my desk, bloodied.

Actually. the pencil she used may be red, but it’s a faint red. I’m not sure if her glasses have gotten stronger of if I just need a pair myself, but some places the writing is so small and faint that I can’t help but wonder if she was on her bed, recovering from a nasty flu, or perhaps a migraine that stress from tardy manuscripts has been known to trigger.

Regardless, I don’t want to read the faint stuff at first anyway, so at this stage I’m perfectly fine with not being able to see it. I focus on only the HAs and NICEs and GREATs in their glorious swoopy red circles so I can gather into my psyche the strength needed to lift a magnifying glass and face all the scribbled suggestions.

But after I’ve soaked in all the good stuff, I still don’t read the letter.

I boycott it.

I'm not yet ready to face what’s wrong with what I’ve written.

So I shove the letter along with the manuscript inside a desk drawer and let the good stuff settle in for a day or two.

It needs time to get securely attached.

Really, it does.

And then, finally, when the good stuff is settled and secure (and can claim squatter’s rights on my emotional state), I pull open the drawer and face the work.

First I read the letter.

Then I let out a big sigh of relief.

Not so bad.

Then I re-read the letter, this time making notes about broad-picture corrections and needed additions (or adjustments in tone).

Then I take a deep breath, roll up my sleeves, and start on page one of the manuscript, grateful that I’ve got an editor who is still willing to show such attention to detail and give me such astute feedback—even on the 15th book in a series.

Crazed and Confused

Years ago when we moved into our house, Mark’s parents gave us an old “petticoat table” as a house warming present. It was an antique and looked like it had been banging around in garages for the last hundred years. The finish was crazed, the marble dull and cracked, and although it had claw feet which I liked, it was not something I was wild about having in the entry hall of our new house.

Now, I knew from early in our relationship that Mark’s parents were into antiques.

I was not.

I couldn’t get past the smell. The four of us would go check out some barn full of antiques somewhere, and the minute we walked in I’d want to leave. Maybe it’s because antiques are just old and have been stored in the basement and the attic and the shed and the garage (because, hey, nobody really wants them in their house!) Or maybe it’s because antique furniture was stuffed with horse hair and hundred year old horse hair can’t smell anything but bad. (What is horse hair anyway? From the tails? What are they thinking, stuffing furniture with horsey tails. Giddy up?)

Anyway, the point is, antique “warehouses” smell, and then there’s the issue of springs. Do not sit on antique furniture. If it doesn’t crumble underneath you, it fights back.

Boing!

The seats are full of perilously bound springs. You have to worry about placing your bottom down carefully and just so, or risk getting goosed by an old rusty spring (wrapped in stinky horse hair).

Now, I might have appreciated the wood and the unique carvings on some of the furniture if it wasn’t for the fact that antique collectors insist that you can’t remove the “patina.” (Also known as crazing.) Crazing is a combination of dust, decay, and wood finish. It’s like the shellac (which, by the way, is made from a secretion of the female lac bug) in a state of cloudy decay makes the piece more valuable than if it’s stripped and newly finished. After all, it would be a crime to get rid of all that history of neglect and garage storage.

So, yeah, the last thing I wanted in my brand new house was a crazed old petticoat table.

And besides, a petticoat table?

What the heck'sa petticoat table?

And who’s wearing petticoats around here?

(Just so I don’t leave these questions unanswered, 1) the table is about three and a half feet tall, four feet wide, and two feet deep with a mirror against its back wall which dainty ladies could use to check their petticoats before leaving the house. 2) Nobody.)

So no, I didn’t want the senseless, ugly, crazed, outdated, smelly thing in my house.

But my in-laws are awesome and I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.

After all, in their view they were giving us a family heirloom.

A rare and wondrous treasure.

One with valuable patina.

Anyway, Mark, being Mark, saw the potential in this piece of firewood and decided to commit a cardinal sin:

He stripped the thing and refinished it.

Weeks later what emerged from our garage was a breathtaking piece of furniture. (The picture doesn't even begin to do it justice.) It with beautiful, matching grain, stunning feet, and a finely polished (but still historically weathered) marble top.

For the first time I found myself really appreciated wood.

It wasn’t just for building fires!

You could do more with it than frame a house!

You could create furniture that was truly art.

That was our first piece of furniture and now our house is full of antiques. We’ve collected “firewood” furniture which Mark (and a really great upholsterer who’s happy to get rid of horsehair) have brought back to life. Not only is the reworked furniture beautiful, but I like the thought that the people who put such care and artistry into creating it have their work appreciated all over again.

I’ve been told that I make, uh, off beat connections, and I confess that the reason I’m babbling about petticoat tables and stripping antiques is because I realize that I myself am “crazed.” The petticoat table is a good reminder that sometimes you have to let go of the past to really shine in the present.

Underneath the crazing there’s life.