The 27th Annual Pennwriters Conference

So, I'm coordinating this little thing called a writer's conference. It's the 27th Annual Pennwriters Conference to be exact. And it is AWESOME! Planning is much like plotting and this is something us writers do good, I mean, well.

So, if you're not doing anything May 16th-18th and you'd like to come to Amish Country, Lancaster PA, and hang out with Kami Garcia and Meredith Mileti and 13 agents and editors and 31 speakers and me of course, then check this mutha out.

Charli Out.

How I started writing YA

Once upon a time... in a genre far far away... was a cynical newbie writer who scoffed at the Young Adult authors of the world. Yeah, that was me. I thought, who'd want to write about teens as an adult? I didn't get it as I was too wrapped up in my grown up Women's Fiction world. It bugged the crap outta me that these authors were getting all the mad props. For what? Writing about angsty teens with their mouths forever gaped open? So, I decided to read Twilight. And I loved it. Damn.

 

 

Then I became the parent of a teen. A female one. Double Damn.

Such strange creatures I tell you. With every sullen stare, heavy sigh, and roll of the eye I remembered those days where I too was an eye rolling, angst filled, temperamental bitch with zits and body image issues.

I've wanted to strangle my darling teen on more than one occasion. Always ridden with Catholic Guilt after such murderous thoughts I call my mom and tell her how sorry I am for being such a horrible teenage witch and that I love her so very much. I figure if I give a heartfelt plea for forgiveness the gods will change my fate and give me a teen who does all her chores and hugs me often.

That hasn't happened yet. God, I hope she doesn't grow up to write a tell all Mommy Dearest about me...

 

So, what did I do with all that rage filled parental woe? I plotted out a story where a mother tries to kill her kid, fails, gets self killed, and then haunts kid for the rest of her days. Yes! Revenge by pen is oh so sweet.

The more I brainstormed this macabre tale the more I liked it. The more I loved this teen with a scarred face and wounded heart. One day on the El-train I took out my handy dandy notebook and scribbled some musings. 250 words. A possible opening. I took said scribblings to a Writers Conference and read it aloud to my crew of fellow geniuses. They loved it. With all their praise and encouragement I knew I had write this tale. It took a year to flesh out the full story before writing a single word. (I did this in between writing another novel.)

I pulled together other story tid-bits I had collecting dust in my brain, ideas I thought would make good fiction one day. A haunted house reality show had this little girl who'd been haunted for years by the shadow of a man wearing a hooded sweatshirt, just hovering over her bed. Creepy. And it stuck with me. A little girl forever haunted. What if the person haunting her was her mom? Even creepier. The movie THE RING totally freaked me out. Those big eyes, gurgling sounds, and jerky body movements of that long haired thing inspired my ghost mom.

 

 

Other stray thoughts weaved their way into my tale; a friends true story of almost dying when she was ten, a local school for the blind where students worked side by side with kids who could see, and the Spielberg movies I'd grown up with -those tales of an eclectic group of kids defying the odds. Marty McFly and his oh so fly two-toned jacket. (I had to write a tale where I could have hammer pants and two toned jackets!) My inner-city Philly neighborhood is a character in itself, with its graffiti speckled skyline and the diverse people who live in it. I wanted to give it a voice and a place in the literary world.

My brother's death in the end is what truly inspired this tale. The what if factor. What if he lived? What would've been different? If I could go back would I change his fate, knowing it may and probably would forever alter my own. My annoyingly awesome teen may never have been born. Such thoughts once bombarded me. Regret and what-ifs have their place in the grieving process. But I can't play in the world of make believe with my real life. I wouldn't be me if one thing were different and I couldn't live with that. So, the what ifs I'll save for my fictional world.

The final and most awe inspiring inspiration for my tale came from the 2012 Cold Play Mylo Xyloto Concert. I need a soundtrack to write and this tale had yet to find one. The days before the concert the teen and I listened to a contest winner on the radio gushing for tickets. We both agreed how awesome it would be to go. Two days later I got an email; someone had two free tickets. Wurd to ya mutha! Squee! Woot! Now, I'm bad with song titles. I just jam in my car and on the El to work not knowing those important details. I knew very little about the tour and their current album but was stoked either way. I LOVE Coldplay. Who doesn't?

Teen and I get there and gush as they give us bracelets. How cute, a souvenir. Then we see the set and its a graffiti laden paradise, glow in the dark even. My muse perks up and feels a soundtrack coming on. I peruse the interwebz for the set list and apparently the Back To The Future theme is part of the show. Were the writing gods trying to tell me something?

 

 

Then the show starts. My hearts leaps inside my chest. It is the single most amazing show I've ever seen. Ever. And I've seen a lot of shows. The bracelets light up and are part of the concert. They blink to the beat of the music, each different color in tune with their own rhythm. And I got to share this with my kid. That teen who drives me to murderous fantasies.

A Touch In The Dark is nearly finished its first rough draft. It's my second novel and I'm plotting it out like a good girl. No pantsting for me this time around. I've wasted far too much time doing that. So, yeah, I'm writing angsty rolly eye ridden YA and loving every second of it.

Here's an amazing clip of the concert. Charlie Brown is my favorite and the first song on my soundtrack. It's where I envision Rori riding her bike through the streets of Frankford... my tale playing out like the opening scenes of a movie... Enjoy and maybe you too will be inspired.

The Power of the V... In Publishing

It’s an election year and whether you’re an Obama Mama or a Romney Mommy we cannot deny how women have influenced campaigns nationwide. The current political dialogue may teeter from the economy to health care but in the end, the focus comes back to us, or rather, our vaginas.

What does this have to do with publishing? Humor me for a sec. This diatribe about our whoohas has a point.

Here's a chat I had with the hubby recently:

 

Hubby: Are vaginas really magic?

Me: Well, yes they are. You're here, aren't you? You constantly try to do things to it; some new, some old, and some from national geographic. It also makes your jiggly bits do things, too.

 

Hubby: Oh, yeah. Can they stop things from happening from just thinking about it and stuff?

Me: Duh, of course they can. With just three Kegel Clenches, while whispering "There's no place like this V, there's no place like this V, there's no place like this V," Vaginas can prevent spontaneous combustion, calm murderous rages, simulate orgasms, and organize the hell out of a closet. We can't divulge all they can do. It's kind of a top secret thing. If everyone knew the government would weaponize them. Could you imagine Dr. Evil-esque lazer beams attached to them? The horror!

 

Watch the following commercial, “Hail to the V”, about how the most influential Women in History derived their power from a fresh clean feeling down under. Watch it. Now.
 

 

Back?

Wow, right? You totally want to run out and buy some vaginal perfume products. You could be Joan of Arc or Cleopatra with the right stuff for your stuff. But seriously, I believe that all Vs, regardless of being coiffed, fluffed, or au’natural have immense power.

And Empowerment is amazing.

So, I think I need to take the time here and empower Female Authors.

It’s hard being a writer. Rejection, self doubt, changes in the industry, and constantly honing our craft. Just finding time for ourselves, the creative side of ourselves amongst this daily thing called life is a huge challenge. You know, those things called families and such. I have a job, a kid, a hubby, pets, ailing relatives, friends, and this little thing called trying to be a published author. I haven't even had time to dye my hair. The teen, bless her heart, told me, in her, like, totally shocked, and, like, so annoyed 14 year old voice, that I, like, seriously needed to cover those grays. If she only had clue where else I have them. But that's another post.

I can't imagine being a published author, have all that pressure to succeed, and all of the above. I mean, its my goal to be there one day but it's daunting just trying to get there, with all of the above. Then to get there and not be as recognized as male authors? I have no words. Well, I do, but it's pretty filthy and one of the Nuns that taught me may read this. I push the envelope as it is already.

Anywho.

Writing is a solitary venture. But, we are not alone. We have a group of Amazing Women to draw strength from. It’s probably a group you didn’t even know existed.

Female New York Times Bestselling Authors.

Do you know that in the past ten weeks 74% of the NYT Bestselling works of Fiction have been written by women?

 

Yerp, you read that right. And I will type it again.

 

74% of the New York Times Bestelling Authors of Fiction in the top 10 for the past 10 weeks have been women.
 

For the weeks of August 5^th through October 7^th three quarters of NYT bestsellers were WOMEN. That’s combined print-hardback/paper, and combined e-books and print.
 

83% in combined print and e-book
 

64% in combined print- hardback and paperback
 

75% in total overall.
 

The power of the V.
 

Look at those numbers again? What do they tell us? E-books and print alone were a whopping 83%! Not once, in either category of Combined Print and Combined E-book and print did we ever fall beneath 50%, and we were only at fifty twice. The weeks of August 26th and September 23^rd we had 100% of combined E-books and Print in the top ten!
 

100%!!!!
 

These stats have me thinking of an article Jennifer Weiner and Jodi Picoult did a while back about how no matter how many books they sell that male authors continue to get the literary praise, all the editorial write-ups in the NYT and other prestigious papers, and especially more cash from publishers with marketing. And in case you're not putting two and two together that can mean less income for a female author. You can't market, you can't sell, you won't make as much money.

Like most other industries, women continue to make less than men. But Picoult and Weiner had the courage to start this conversation back in august of 2010 and its still going on. I cannot not thank them enough. Many have talked about it. A male author even recently stated how Weiner and Picoult are belly aching about the whole thing.

This little post is not long enough to dissect the topic. But we can at least start the conversation. Like, why do we continue to be treated as such when WE are the dominating the sales?
 

It’s a man world, so some say.
 

But we can change that by sticking together and writing great fiction. Staying in female oriented groups and empowering one another. Maybe a few of us can come together and write an article for Writer’s Digest and start the dialogue rolling in a more public venue? Maybe we can just continue to craft great stories and allow our dominance to speak for itself.

 

 

Either way, it is our time to shine with our formidable Vs.
 

The Power of our collective Vs.
 

The Vs that continue to dominate the NYT top ten bestsellers list in fiction. This is the message we need to shout from the rooftops.


When I have time, I will compile the stats for an entire year. When I have the time. Which may be never. Feel free, anyone here, to do so yourselves. Please. It would be awesome. My magic whooha needs to save its energy for other things.
 

Ha cha cha and happy writing my fellow Vs.

 

Goodbye 2011: The Official Pity Party Post

To say that this has been one hell of a year is putting it mildly. Not all was bad, nothing ever is, but lots of it sucked, sucked big time.

This year has been filled with immense loss. The kind of loss that changes you and how you look at life. The kind that makes you shake your fist at God or whatever the hell is in charge and ask why? WTF did I ever do that was so damn bad?

My very good friend lost an election, a campaign I worked hard on. Not too hard as I was concentrating on my writing, but hard enough. It was a personal loss and the fact I could've fought harder for him weighs on me day in and day out. My community lost more than anything. A community I live in, was raised in, and hoped to retire in. Not so sure about that now. I never thought I'd leave my 'hood. But I am thinking about it more now.

My beloved Aunt succumbed to cancer after a long, hard, and courageous battle. I hadn't seen her much until we got the news it would only be days. Then, when I finally saw her, the light was fastly dimming. Again, the guilt weighs on me. I could've done more. I should've done more.

The day my Aunt passed was my niece's 13th birthday, the day I met Nicholas Sparks, and the day I miscarried the baby I waited two long years for. Yes, after so long waiting to get pregnant, I did, and it only lasted six weeks.

Life couldn't be crueler, I thought, but I was wrong. I got preggers again right away. YAY! I thought. Finally something good may come out of all this grief. I lost that baby too. On Christmas Eve, right in church, as the choir chimed out Silent Night, before God and the newborn Baby Jesus, the cramp of all cramps came. I rushed to the bathroom and there it was. Massive clumps of blood and tissue.

My sick and twisted sense of humor had me thinking things no good Irish Catholic girl should. My baby, Gloopy we named it, (the first we named Klumpy), landed in the bottom of a church toilet bowl. Is Church toilet water Holy Water, I thought, too traumatized to think seriously. I made the sign of the Cross, looked one last time trying to be sure of what I saw, and then flushed.

When I returned to my pew my Hubby looked at me and he knew. One look and he knew. I had to tell him later what exactly happened. He never got the Christmas Eve gift I had planned for him. The positive home pregnancy test and a pacifier that said, I Love Daddy. It sits in my nightstand drawer now. Unsure if it will ever be used.

Then there are the rejections from this year. The ones on my first and only completed MS. The one that has gone through three title changes and god knows how many revisions. Those hurt but I learned from them. One of those rejections even made my heart smile. A lovely agent passed but praised the writing. She's made of awesomesauce and I even had a picnic lunch with her and other writing buddies in NY this summer.

The rejection that nearly killed the writer in me was for a piece I was ASKED to write. Was sought out for and begged to write. A FB writing friend said she'd been following me and was a secret fan. Yay, I thought, I'm unpubbed and have a fan! She was the editor for an English as a second language magazine in Korea. (I know right, I should've known!) The magazine was legit, so far as I could tell by the Internet, and I said okay. This "friend" saw my author bio page and asked me to write about how the death of my beloved brother sparked the writer in me. I ran some ideas by her and she signed off on me writing 2,000 words about the day my brother died from the POV from when I was 12. I dug up newspaper articles from that day. I asked my mother things she hadn't thought about in years. For two gut wrenching weeks I typed my little heart out, opening wounds long healed and letting them bleed all over the page. I was proud of what I'd written and sent it off. My editor was all smiles and tears. Then time went on and on and on. And nothing. I sent out some emails and was told the editor left due to illness and the new one wasn't interested in my story.

Yeah. I had no words at first. Then I spewed some off. How dare they, I thought, ask me to drudge all this stuff up and then tell me thanks but no thanks. I have profound respect for those who write their memoirs. I only wrote 6 pages and still tear up when I think about it.

However, there is the bright side.My daughter is so amazing and I know I am blessed to have the honor of raising her. And I have my husband. My best friend and soul mate who I wouldn't have been able to get through any of this without. He's my heart and my soul and the reason I am able to type this today. After all these years together I love him more than I ever thought possible. He's my rock. He's my home.

I also got to see AJ twice, once in NY then later in Niagara Falls. I have a job, my health, family and friends who care about me. I have a great network of writers I surround myself with. I did win a contest and two editors from major houses are awaiting my full as I type.

But, the guts to send out anything is gone. At a conference I had another editor from one of the biggies ask for my work but she later rejected it. All confidence is gone and I am desperately trying to find it as I type this Woe is Me Pity Party Post.

I am hoping 2012 brings the Charli Mac gusto back. The big balls that match my big red nose are sadly missed.

Hiatus Time

Charli is going on a hiatus from this lovely blog. Not to worry. This is not a ledge moment or a Sheen like break from reality. I just need a break, have lots to do, and wanted to let you all know I will be back soon.

Lately I've been participating in Blog fests and hops. It helps you meet other writerly friends and exchange information.

It's nice but it's not why AJ and I started this blog. Over the past few months our wee lil' blog has received those blog awards. We don't post them, it's not our thing. It's nice to have people feel that way about you blog and acknowledge it. But when you go to their blogs to accept the square image you find out you're 1 of 7 to 10 recipients. In order for the giver of your award to accept one that they got they have to give them out. What the what? Are these awards really all that sincere?

Hmmm. Some yes but since it's sort of forced prolly not all.

The Blog Fest thing I actually like. I get to read other people's writing and such but it gets overwhelming. You can spend hours and hours just looking at other people's entries, commenting, and bam, your day is gone. And you've yet to open your WIP and actually write.

Hmmm. I start a blog to share about the writing experience and blog more than write.

I used to look forward to jumping on here and venting about the process, the craft, the joys, the lows, and the ledge moments of becoming an aspiring writer. What happened to me?

The blogosphere. The interwebz. The twitterverse. The Facespaces.

I have a lot going on outside my writing life. I will be super busy until May. It's all very top secret, the kind of thing where if I tell you I have to kill you. So we'll leave it at I'm busy.

Maybe AJ will be by soon. Maybe I will find something of writing value to speak of. But for now I need to get back back to actually writing.

Smell ya later interwebbing blogospheres!

Lemon Out.

The BETA

BETTA is a fish whose face blooms while preparing to attack.

BETA lost the videotape wars in the 80's to VHS.

BETA is the second letter of the Greek alphabet.

BETA is a measure of the volatility, or systematic risk, blah blah blah some Wall Street thingy. 

BETA is a motorcycle.

BETA is the last round of testing before software gets released.

BETA blockers help fight heart disease.

BETA is a night club in Denver.

(You now you just head bopped to this pic. Hee hee.)

If you are blessed enough to have a Critique Partner you will one day get to BETA read their entire MS.

It's a celebration of sorts. The end of a journey.

And it's refreshing to read something you love so much all over again.

But 'tis a bit of work. You must read with keen eyes, dotting all the i's and crossing the t's. You read it as you would a novel, in a flow. Not chapter by chapter over the long months of critiquing.

Here, you may find some plot holes, timeline mistakes, and things you flat out missed before.

The whole time you are remembering why you love your CP so much. Why, out of all the other aspiring authors, you chose this one person to share your writing journey with.

This week I had the immense pleasure and honor to read  AJ Wilson's A Princess For York.

Holy HOT Highlanders batman!

I was completely blown away!

I'd never read a historical romance before reading for AJ.

Never wanted to and I have to admit I was skeptical when I opened the first chapter over a year and a half ago.

This is not your typical historical romance. Not like this douche-nozzle to the right.

It's Historical Fiction with one hell of a love story at it's heart.

I never wanted to see a man in a skirt so bad in my life. Ha-cha-cha.

This tale is smart, action packed, sexy as hell, endearing, and has you tearing up at the end, begging to read the next adventure!

Go to her website and be blown away! I mean really, it will leave you wanting more.

'Tis truly The Tudors meets Braveheart!

This BETA read was a labor of love. There were a few things that needed ironing out, not much. But I was left breathless, willing back tears at the end.

This experience has me talking in brogue on occasion, typing it. Aye, 'tis truth! I cannae lie. The story is verra, verra moving. Never read the like!

For all you aspiring authors, the BETA read for a fellow writer in an honor. I relish the next tale I get to devour for my CP.

*This was a totally blatant arse kissing post for when JAWS tears me MS a new one!*

Just Kiss Already Blogfest

Christina Lee over at Write Brained and Stina Lindenblatt over at Seeing Creative are  hosting a smooching good blogfest today. In honor of Valentine's Day we are posting a kissing scene from one of our works. So get your chapstick ready and pucker up! When you are done swapping spit here, head over to Christina's blog and check out some others.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!!!!!

Meet Me In Jersey is my current WIP. It's a tale about long lost love set along the New Jersey Shore. Here, Miguel and Grace, childhood friends and first loves, reunite on the sandy shores of their youth as both their marriages have just ended. In this scene Miguel recalls when he kissed a very newly married Grace, along with their childhood promise to be together until they were old and gray.

“Are you happy?” His heart skipped a beat as he tried to keep his expression blank.

“It took me a really long time to get here Mig, I won’t lie. Getting over us took all I had but I did it. I can really say that yes, I am happy.”

“That’s all I want for you, you know that, right?” Miguel searched her eyes, for something, anything to tell him how she really felt.

Her eyes glazed a bit and her brows rose. “And that’s all I want for you.”

A hopeful stare lingered. Need outweighed reason. He closed the space between them and pulled her body to his. Her breath quickened. Warm palms pushed against his chest. It only made him hold her tighter. “Are you as happy as you were our last night together? When you told me you’d love me forever? When I told you, you were the only woman I’d ever love?”

Her silence spoke volumes. A slight chuckle of recognition escaped him. His lips brushed across hers, tasting wine and cake. They melded together in a familiar slow dance. Tongues swept, light at first, then with more longing. A soft moan rumbled from her mouth to his. Making it impossible to stop, but he had to.

Miguel released those soft lips, traced pink cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “Old and gray, Grace. Don’t forget that. You can’t ever forget that.” 

Head down he left, unable to look at her. The taste of Merlot, butter cream frosting, and what could have been lingered on his senses.