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Your Mantra for 2024

January 15, 2024 by Renae Wrich in category Writing tagged as 2024, Break Through, Mantra, purpose, strength

So I was recently doomscrolling and came across one of those ridiculous copy/paste things that people post on their social media feeds. I normally keep mindlessly scrolling when I see those, “find the penguin…only 1/10 people can find it” posts on social media, because literally everyone in the comments has found the not-so-elusive penguin. But for whatever reason this post captured my attention.

It was a word search with the title, “The first 4 words you see will be your mantra for 2024” and I thought, “Oh, what the heck… why not?”

My first four words were: “Break Through“, Purpose“, “Family“, “Strength“.

I was extremely caught off guard by the way these four words resonated with me. 2023 was a rough year in many ways. I faced numerous challenges in my day job including, but not limited to, changes to my hybrid work schedule, complex and difficult projects, layoff, reorganization, and losing the best boss I know I’ll ever have. It really zapped a lot of my energy and forced me to think more longterm about my goals – My purpose. At the same time, it was a break through and stark reminder that not all of my fulfillment comes from the job that provides my paycheck. My fulfillment comes from so many other areas – My family, my friends, my faith, writing, reading, walking my dog, sunshine, coffee, chocolate, Target, and so on. Granted, some of those things are suuuper dependent on my paycheck, like Target. It’s all about balance, right? 🙂

Hoping I have the strength and discipline in 2024 to truly pursue and prioritize the things that give me fulfillment.

Happy New Year!
Renae

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‘Sisters At War’ and writing the sequel ‘Sisters of the Resistance’ can be maddening by Jina Bacarr

January 11, 2024 by Jina Bacarr in category historical, Jina’s Book Chat, Paris, sexual assault, sexual violence, World War 2, Writing tagged as historcal, Paris, sequel, sexual assault, sexual violence, sisters, women, World War 2

It’s called ‘development hell’.

That writing path that causes you to wish for a coffee pot that’s always full of hot java, when connecting the dots in your story drives you crazy, how they jump around in your mind like impish video game icons, taking you down one path then another, then golloping up our words in a big gulp and we start again.

I first came across this phrase when I was writing for TV — kids’ cartoons, daytime drama, kids’ musical show, cable. You submit an idea to the producers, they love it, then spend three hours telling you how to change it.

You rewrite it.

They love it. Then more notes.

You rewrite it…. well, you get the idea. As a king in a famous musical comedy once said, ‘Etc. Etc. Etc.’

Writing the sequel to ‘Sisters At War’ (Paris WW2 — the story of two sisters and how sexual assault on a sister by the SS affects both their lives), is maddening. If I were writing a TV drama and continuing the story from the following week, you put together a recap: ‘Previously on [name of show]’ and you show clips that give the viewer enough of the story so they can jump right in and enjoy the episode.

Try doing that in a WW2 historical novel set in Paris.

Mon Dieu…

I’ve written the opening chapters several times — the goal? Add enough backstory so the reader continuing the story enjoys revisiting ‘Sisters At War’, while the new reader gets enough information so they’re excited about reading the sequel while… here’s the kicker… you KEEP THE ACTION GOING.

You can’t stop the story in midstream with nothing happening but ‘backstory’ in the opening chapters of the sequel. For example, that’s like the heroine sitting on a raft in a river and watching the clouds roll by.

Boring. You need action.

Let’s try this:

A rainstorm with hail pelting her in the face… her baby sister in a big basket crying… then a north wind blowing and the raft nearly capsizes… causing the heroine to nearly fall into the river and a hungry alligator, jaw wide open, swims toward her… while a river bandit shoots at her with a repeating rifle. Then the raft falls apart and dumps the heroine into the river while her baby sister in the basket is about to go over the waterfall…

Oh, my.

There’s a lot going on and it could work, but only if the reader is invested in the heroine. If they care. Why is she on the raft? Is she running away from an abusive father? Is her baby sister sick with the colic? Does she have an important letter to deliver that will change their lives? Is she praying she’ll survive so she can tell the man she loves ‘yes’, she’ll marry him?

So many possibilities.

Blending together backstory and action is the challenge I faced while writing the sequel ‘Sisters of the Resistance’. Keeping my facts straight, talking about what happened when the Nazis occupied Paris, foreshadow where the story is going. And most important, up the stakes on the dynamics between the two sisters who are not only at war with the Nazis, but each other.

SISTERS OF THE RESISTANCE is available for Pre-Order **Amazon:**

I’m happy to say I’ve climbed out of the hole, that the story is humming, rolling along with a lot of action and character development and scenes ‘that make you cry’.

Now to finish it… thank God there was a sale on Starbucks coffee at my market.

Thanks for listening! And I’ll be back next month with my progress…

Sisters At War:

US https://a.co/d/eZ25gZb

UK https://amzn.eu/d/0LEWy2z

Who are the Beaufort Sisters?

They’re beautiful

They’re smart

They’re dangerous

They’re at war with the Nazis… and each other.

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And they lived…ever after

January 10, 2024 by Tari Jewett in category Writing tagged as genre, grandsons, romcom

My fourteen-year-old grandson, Isaac, writes movie scripts. He’s been reading voraciously since he learned to read, and I think it was a natural progression for him to write. I’m thrilled that we have these things in common, and even more, that he shares his work with me. I recently asked him what genre his latest story fit into, expecting him to say superhero or fantasy because those are the genres of movies and books that he most often enjoys.

But, he responded, “Dark comedy romcom.”

Hmmm, first of all I was surprised that he would write a romcom. But the preceding ‘dark comedy’ made me take a step back and think. Is there such a thing as a dark comedy romcom? What would that look like? I think of a romcom is a light, funny, feel good romance with a Happily Ever After. Of course, the heroine and hero have to overcome a lot of challenges to get to that Happily Ever After, but even the challenges are generally light in nature.

I write romcom. I’ve rewritten sections and subplots in my stories on more than one occasion when I saw that they were taking a darker or more serious turn.

But does that mean you can’t write a dark comedy/romcom?

So, we talked about genre, and the elements of certain genres. Where does his story fit? Honestly, I don’t think his script is a true romance, the story arc isn’t so much about the couple, and it doesn’t have a happily ever after, or even a happily for now. I’d probably categorize it action/adventure. I’m not surprised, he’s a fourteen-year-old boy, the only romcoms he’s read are the ones his grandmother writes, and yes, I feel more than honored that he’s read my books.

So back to dark comedy romcom. Does it exist? I’m currently seeking out books and movies that might fit into such a category. And while there are ‘rules’ for genres, there are always exceptions and crossovers.

When I first started writing fiction, I never considered the genre of my story. I just wrote. Publishing wasn’t my goal, I wrote for my own entertainment. Isaac plans to write movies. He attends an arts high school that with a film program, and he reads books on the subject. He watches movies and reads as a critic, rather than for entertainment. Which can make watching a movie with him an interesting experience, lol. But I’m impressed with his seriousness, and I think he’s got natural talent.

So, I guess my question is, have you watched a movie or read a book that you’d consider a dark comedy romcom? (If yes, please share titles!) Or, do you think this is even a genre? How do you feel when a book or movie is labeled as one genre, but after reading or watching, you don’t believe it was right? Do you feel misled? Cheated? Or does it matter at all?

I’m going to continue searching for dark comedy romcoms, while writing my light romcoms and darker women’s fiction. And I’ll let you all know when Isaac’s first movie releases. I plan to be at the premier.

Tell me what you think…and next week I’ll be giving away a free short romcom with my newsletter. If you’d like to receive a copy of #DumpsterFireLove, sign up here.

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Creating a Community on Ream by Kitty Bucholtz

January 9, 2024 by Kitty Bucholtz in category It's Worth It by Kitty Bucholtz, Writing tagged as building community, It's Worth It, Kitty Bucholtz, Ream, subscriptions

Have you heard of Ream yet? It started in May 2023 as an alternative to Patreon especially built for fiction writers. It’s kind of a combination of a membership and a Facebook group and a blog, a way to bring your fans together and get them chatting about your books.

When it first started, I looked into it and decided it wasn’t for me yet. But it has grown a lot in the last seven months, with all kinds of features that I’m excited about. And — just a few days ago — they launched a new look for their home page that is a step closer to the discoverability we’re all craving. Keep in mind, one of the founders, Emilia Rose, writes (very) steamy romance and so right now, the site seems to be mostly authors and stories who haven’t been able to find a place on Amazon. Not Safe For Work (NSFW) content. So maybe don’t go wandering around there on your lunch hour. Haha!

Even though I’m a “clean” romance author (not a great word, as if other romance is unclean – haha! – but it’s the word used), and I’m not sure how many like me are on Ream yet, I’m super excited about the possibilities there! It will allow a free/public tier that you can use to get more followers, and then additional paid levels like on Patreon. You can offer early access to your work in progress, exclusive bonuses that you can’t get anywhere else, Zoom calls and book clubs (for your books or for others you’re reading in your genre), autographed paperbacks — really, anything your creative brain can come up with! And you’ll have the email addresses of your paid subscribers so you can stay in touch with them.

I don’t know about you, but I can get really lonely writing away in my office, wondering if anyone is reading my books and what they think of them. (Yes, I can tell if people are buying my books, but is anyone enjoying my books?) So I’m excited about the feature that allows subscribers to comment publicly on the WIP story they’re reading, and for everyone to read everyone else’s comments. This is a great way to have a big beta reader group and could help you create better books as you write.

There are so many things about Ream that I’m excited about! I’ll be launching my page later this week (and continuing to tweak it as I learn more), so check out reamstories.com/kittybucholtz in a few days. I’m meeting with half a dozen writer friends a few times a month to discuss what we’re learning from the podcast, the Facebook group, and the help center so we can share and make changes to our plans. Several of our pages should go live in January and we’ll immediately be able to connect with fans at the free level. We’re all really excited about building a community. And it doesn’t hurt that over time we’ll also be creating another revenue stream. 😀

I’ll let you know next month how my first month has gone. Meanwhile, you can learn more about Ream here on their LinkTree. Let me know if you have questions, and I’ll try to answer them for next month!

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A Winter’s Tale

December 30, 2023 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as Christmas tree, holidays, Memoir, snowstorm, writing

One memory from this time of year that’s still as crisp in detail as the night it happened was when I was eleven. That was more than thirty years ago, a time before cell phones or Taylor Swift. A time when I hadn’t yet left the magic of childhood.

My Uncle Charles picked me up several days before Christmas to buy a tree. It was our annual outing, just he and I. My family celebrated the holiday, but my parents didn’t care whether our tree was live or fake. In fact, I’m told we had a fake silver tree decorated with glossy red balls for the first few years of my life. I have no memory of that.

At some point, my uncle stepped in, insisting that we have a fresh-cut tree even if he had to foot the bill. And, he said, I was to be his yearly assistant; my Aunt Ruth was too busy to join us on our search for the perfect tree.

The year that’s so vivid has the late afternoon sky spitting snow when my uncle stopped by for me. I grew up in a suburban Bucks County neighborhood, but Uncle Charles wasn’t interested in buying a tree from one of the tree lots that sprang up at the area malls. He drove me out to the Springtown Holiday Tree Farm, which covered acres and acres of Pennsylvania countryside with Douglas fir lined up in neat rows.

He and I shared a game each year: As we walked up and down the lanes of trees, we pretended we were judges, intent on selecting that season’s winner. Once we had our top three picks, the tree that ranked first was the one he bought. In addition, he always purchased a second tree for himself and Aunt Ruth, even if it wasn’t as lovely or full, even if it had a few less-than-perfect branches.

That year, with a light snow dusting our hair and shoulders, we cast our ballots. My favorite, and his, was a tree that stood a good head taller than my towering uncle. Without fail each year, we picked the identical tree as the “winner.” Looking back now, I think that my uncle only pretended to vote; he ultimately ceded the decision to me.

After paying for the two trees, he expertly sawed each down. I’ve always wondered at his skill with the saw. My father—his brother—had no affinity for sharp tools—or any tools, for that matter.

My uncle gently placed the trees in the back of his pickup and tied them down carefully so they wouldn’t be damaged on the journey home, a good forty-five minutes away.

By the time we were ready to head out, the snow had increased in intensity. Thick flakes now blanketed the fields, and the long farm drive had maybe three inches on it.

I was nervous about the weather. My mother hated driving in snow, so I must have inherited that autonomic fear from her.

“Don’t you worry, Elf,” my uncle said, using his nickname for me as he started down the drive toward the main road. “It’s just a little snow.”

But once we were on the two-lane highway, the snow worsened into a squall. Switching the wipers and defroster to high, my uncle slowed his speed to a crawl. It was difficult to see the road ahead, and the rear window was iced over. No one else seemed to be out, not even the plows. In that time before cell phones, we couldn’t call my parents to let them know we would be later than we’d hoped.

On one sharp curve, the tires on the truck slipped, and we skidded toward the edge of the road. The brakes were useless, and although my uncle tried, he could not keep the truck from sliding into the ditch.

He cursed softly, but immediately checked on me. We were both unharmed, yet the vehicle was mired in the snow. He fought his way out the driver’s side door to make sure the tailpipe wasn’t buried, and then turned the engine back on to keep us warm.

One hour became two, became three. Uncle Charles switched the engine off every so often. The slender self I was at eleven got cold even with the heater on intermittently, and Uncle Charles dug out a thick Carhartt coat from behind the seat to snuggle around me. He also discovered a few wrapped chocolates and a stale package of crackers in the glove box, and we shared that scant dinner.

While we waited, he told stories of his own childhood. I learned things about my father’s family no one had ever mentioned: Uncle Charles and Dad had had a sister who died of the measles at age three. My uncle thought the world of Dad, although Dad always seemed to resent him.

Even in the darkness that surrounded us on that silent stretch of roadway, the cab was illuminated with a glow and a warmth I can’t explain. I must have drifted off.

When I awoke, I was riding in the jump seat of a tow truck. Uncle Charles was in the front seat with the driver. The pickup was trailing behind us as a tow.

“Almost home, Elf,” my uncle said. He handed me a paper cup of hot chocolate. The snow had stopped, and the sky was lightening toward dawn. The plows had cleared the road, and we made good time.

My mother remembers it differently. She says that we were not stuck in the snow for nine hours, but only for about two. That I was home and in bed by midnight. That my uncle had more personal problems than I was told about at age eleven.

But I know what I recall: It was the night my uncle saved my life. Unfortunately, he passed away several days afterward, having succumbed to a bad case of the flu.

And the tree we brought home? I still have a photo of it, ablaze with extra lights from Aunt Ruth, and glittering with tinsel and glossy cellophane candy canes. Decorated with love.

I take the photo out every year and prop it on my mantel. To remind me.