Rituals & Soundtracks

My fabulous former creativity coach forwarded me this interesting article on writers and their rituals, which got me to thinking about my own rituals.  When things are flowing smoothly, I don't rely much on rituals, but when they're not.....

Ritual 1 -- I pace. I'm a compulsive pacer. It helps me think.

Ritual 2 -- I write by hand with purple ink. It's got to be purple!

Ritual 3 -- I listen to the same song (the song can change each day) on an endless loop. (very annoying for anyone in the vicinity) Usually it's a song from a soundtrack (my faves include Clubbed to Death from The Matrix and The Doctor in Utah from Doctor Who) but I've also gone thru classical periods (Moonlight Sonata and Pachelbel Canon in D).  I suspect I'm somehow soothing my brain waves since these are such repetitive tunes. Most of the time I go lyric-free, but if I'm really stressed I rely on Bowie's Under Pressure.

Since I did a half-marathon relay this past weekend (boring race reports here and here)  I started thinking about how music is part of my running ritual too.

Then I got to thinking that since Janet had a race this past weekend too, I thought it would be fun to share our dueling playlists. Make sure to head over to her blog to see the music that motivated her.


I have a really odd playlist. The music is chosen not because of a driving beat, but because I need a constant reminder to not take myself to seriously.

Here are my 10 Most Played songs from my Running Playlist from this week's race:

1985 -- Bowling for Soup  

Axel F -- from Beverly Hills Cop

Walking on Sunshine -- Katrina in the Waves

Rock Me Amadeus -- Falco

Weapon of Choice -- Fatboy Slim (loved the Christopher Walken dancing video)

Safety Dance -- the remake from Glee (which I don't even watch)

Sexy and I Know It -- LMFAO (because it's the funniest video I've seen and I smile at the memory)

U Can't Touch This -- MC Hammer (it was played incessantly on our honeymoon...not by us)

Signed, Sealed, Delivered  -- the new Straight No Chaser version

Most Played:  Praan -- Gary Schyman -- because I LOVE the "Where the Hell is Matt?" videos. Go watch one. Now. I bet it leaves you smiling.

Okay, I'm popping over to read Janet's playlist to see if it's as odd as mine. ;-)

Tell me Killer Friends: What are your reading, writing or running rituals?

Teaser Tuesday - Dying Embers - B.E.

Here's a little snippet from the beginning of my suspense novel - Dying Embers.  It's the book I'm currently sending queries for, and since most of the eastern seaboard either has gotten the first 3-5 pages (the first chapters, the first three chapters, the first 50 pages) or will be soon, I thought it'd be okay to share it will all of you, too.

I hope you enjoy.

As she approached the twisted Mercedes’ wreckage, its cracked side mirror winked at her as if they shared some unspeakable secret.  The wind blowing through her mousy-brown hair made the leaves of the grand old trees waver and the moonlight dance across the pine straw.  All around her whispered the soft hush of the forest and faint noises from the road.  So peaceful.  She could almost forget what she’d done, if not for the sickly, wet gurgle.

Standing beneath a tree a few yards above, she couldn’t tell if the sound emanated from the vital fluids dripping out of the engine, or from her husband and his mistress.  Maybe it was the tree as its sap oozed from a wide gash where the metal had ripped away the bark.  The car was dead.  The other three would die soon enough. 

She only felt sorry for the tree.

Her intention had only been to send them down the embankment to the gully below.  If she’d known a tree would stop them partway down, she would’ve planned the whole thing better.  If she’d planned the thing at all, this would’ve gone so much smoother. 

Whatever Will had done, the tree didn’t deserve to pay for it. 

“Hello?” a harsh voice rasped in the night air.  It was filled with pain and the wet sound of too much spit or too much blood.  The noise was so soft anyone else wouldn’t have been able to tell who survived the impact, but she knew the cadence deep inside her, even before her brain had time to register it consciously.

“Hello, Will,” she whispered back.  With a slow deliberateness, she nudged a rock down the steep hillside.  It bounced off one of its many brethren with a loud clack, and her smile widened.  Except for the poor tree, she picked the perfect spot. 

“Hello?” he said louder, his terror filling the air and echoing off the jagged crags.  “Is someone there?” 

Her lips curled into a sneer as she bent to pick up a rock.  With a deftness born of many summer softball games, she tested the weight of it in her hand and then hurled it against the one unbroken pane of glass left.  

The sound of its shattering came only an instant before Will screamed like a little girl.  Or maybe it was his cheap hussy. 

If she was lucky, they were both alive.  Their heartbeats would mean her plan hadn’t completely failed after all.  Oh, she wanted them dead, but not too quickly.  If she was going to spend the rest of her life suffering from their betrayal, the least they could do was spend a little time suffering themselves.

Above them on the road, a semi chugged its way up the hill and she froze.  Everything would be ruined if they were discovered now.  Truck drivers could see too much from their perches, and she needed time for her tormentors to die.  In the morning, the skid marks would be visible on the asphalt, or the sun would glint off the car’s mirrors, and they would be found. 

Too late.

“Whoever you are, please help us.  My wife is bleeding badly, and she’s having trouble breathing.”

The smile left her face.  His wife?  His wife?  So the lies were to continue even unto death.  Bastard. 

“She’s not your wife,” she said into the darkness, each word drawn from her like splinters from a stake in her heart.  Step by merciless step, she crept toward the vehicle; each one bringing her closer to her goal. 

“She never was your wife.”  With each step, another millimeter of her perfect white teeth glowed in the moonlight.  She was snarling by the time she slid the last few feet.  

“And she never will be.”  When she reached the back bumper, loose rocks slid beneath her feet, lurching her against the trunk.  The car wobbled precariously. 

Good.  Better than she hoped for, actually.  If the car tumbled into the ravine, days could pass before anyone found the bodies.

In Like but Not In Love

Way back when, I had a friend.  His name was Marvin.  I knew Marvin liked-me, liked me, but when we first met, I was dating someone else.  He was a really super nice guy.  We had a lot in common.  So when I was single and he was single, he would ask me to go do things with him.  I don't know if he thought they were dates, but I never looked at them that way.  We hung out together because we were friends.  Then one night, we ended up back at his place and had one disastrous kiss. 

I think it was disastrous because I never felt that way about him.  From where I was, I was in like, but not in love. 

I think it must be kind of this way when an agent rejects some manuscripts.  Recently I got a rejection from a requested full manuscript I'd sent.  She said she was 'in like' with it, but it wasn't love, so she had to pass.  She told me the story was fun and dark.  I think she said something about liking the writing. 

It all amounted to "I really enjoy your company, but I don't feel THAT way about you."  Which was basically what I ended up telling poor Marvin. 

As nice as you say it, it doesn't hurt any less. 

I've been on the other end of that equation myself, so I'm pretty sure I can guess how Marvin felt when the relationship didn't go where he wanted it to go.  There was this one boy in high school.  I totally thought I was in love with him, and I hoped it would lead to hearts and flowers and all things good.  He thought I was nice enough to hang out with, but he ended up taking the little red-haired girl to prom.  (Yeah, it really was a little red-haired girl.)  I was crushed.  But he was 'in like' with me.

I love my manuscripts.  Total love.  But they're not feeling the love from others out there in the world.  They're getting a lot of like from the industry, but the love just ain't there.  Yet.  Eventually I found the love of my life and what I felt for that boy in high school is a pale shadow of what I feel for my husband.  Eventually, my manuscripts will find someone who loves them as much as I do.

And I hope eventually Marvin found the one he was supposed to be with.

How about you?  Have you ever been 'in like' with someone?  Have you ever been in love with someone who only liked you back? 

Workin' it

I took three days off from my day job this week to write. I've got deadlines I have to meet, and the stress of not getting much done was really getting to me. Fortunately I had some vacation time I could take, so I set up a mini-ri-mo for myself.

Wednesday I didn't get much done, since I had also scheduled maintenance on the sprinkler system which ended up taking a lot longer than normal. My total word count for the day was 2360, which, if you figure my average word count had fallen to about 5, is pretty dern good.

Thursday my word count rose to 6380. I attribute that to a lot of things, the first being no interruptions, the second being I was working on a different story. I had to put one of the novellas aside because I was just getting nowhere. I don't like doing that, but I couldn't face spending the day feeling blocked. I also bought this book: 2k to 10k: How to Write Faster, Write Better and Write More of What You Love by Rachel Aaron. At $0.99 you can't go wrong, and while I don't know if her methods will work for everyone, I took one very important piece of advice from her.

If you're not having fun, you're doing it wrong.

Now, I'm not saying this was my problem, per se, but the idea shook me up and made me remember that I became a writer because because I LOVED to write. Nothing makes writing into torture like having to write - and setting hard and fast deadlines for my books sucked a lot of the joy out of writing for me. So I sat down on Thursday with the idea that I was going to enjoy the story I was writing. Ultimately I enjoyed writing 6380 words. I don't know if I'll really enjoy the story until it's done and I don't have to worry about finishing it anymore.

Are you enjoying the story you're writing? If not, why not?

Lost Sock Memorial Day

Did you celebrate Lost Sock Memorial Day last week? Where do YOU think those missing socks go?

CLARICE: In my house we had the reverse problem. When my son was little he used to go to bed with a sock on each little foot and when he woke up there would be three socks in the bed. We told him the extra sock migrated from the dryer during the night, but we knew the truth. Now that he's older, we've told him where socks come from, but I'm starting to think it might be immaculate conception, since all of his socks are holey.

JB: The socks in our house aren't lost. They're stolen. Given the chance BOTH dogs will steal socks. If you ever stop by uninvited, chances are you'll spot a stray sock in the living room.

B.E.:  Alas, I forgot about Lost Sock Memorial Day.  Those poor forgotten socks... forgotten again.  I shall lay a rose upon their tomb... If I can find it.  Seriously, though, I'm pretty sure lost socks travel to another dimension where many footed creatures are walking about clad in a variety of colors and textures.  Too bad for them there are no lost shoes to go with them.  Lost shoes end up on the sides of highways for some reason.  Maybe those are trying to find the lost sock dimension.  ;o)


Tell us Killer Friends: Do you lose socks? Where do you think they've ended up?

Which comes first: the title or the book?

I was recently asked if I come up with the title and then build the book around it.

Ummm, no.

In fact the possibility never even occurred to me. The question actually left me dumbfounded for a long, uncomfortable moment.

I could see how non-fiction writers could pull something like that off. After all, they're expounding on a certain subject. THE HAPPINESS PROJECT (great book!) is about happiness.

But I couldn't imagine writing fiction like that. (Unless it's satire, say something like 50 Shades of Burnt Umber.)

I need to have a pretty good idea of what my book is going to be about before I even try to come up with a title.

THE FIRST VICTIM was the title the publisher had wanted. I'd called it Her Nightmare and Stolen as I wrote and queried it.

I'm proud to say I came up with CONFESSIONS OF A SLIGHTLY NEUROTIC HITWOMAN but I wasn't thrilled with the sequel title FURTHER CONFESSIONS OF A SLIGHTLY NEUROTIC HITWOMAN that the publisher came up with. I'd wanted to call it THE HITWOMAN AT TWO WEDDINGS.

The amazing Jennifer Colgan suggested THE HITWOMAN GETS LUCKY and I've come up with THE HITWOMAN AND THE NEUROTIC WITNESS for the next book in the series.

One of my favorite titles of all time is ROOM (amazing book!) by Emma Donoghue. Not only is it simple, but it so perfectly describes the world of the protagonist.

Even though I disliked the book, I must admit that Eat, Pray, Love was a pretty good title.

I also love the title of Jennifer Colgan's INTERVIEW WITH A GARGOYLE.

And you've got to love the simplicity of Jennifer Hillier's CREEP and FREAK titles.

Tell me Killer Friends: If you're a writer, do you come up with your titles before your books? And readers, how important is a title to you? What are some of your favorite titles?

THE HITWOMAN AND THE NEUROTIC WITNESS -- Teaser -- JB Lynn

I haven't even read this over yet to see if it even makes sense, so please know this is a ROUGH teaser from my upcoming novel THE HITWOMAN AND THE NEUROTIC WITNESS.  Forgive me for the mess and enjoy!

You know it’s going to be a bad day when you’ve got Piss on your chest, Doomsday staring you in the eye, and God singing, “Staying Alive” out of tune.

My name is Maggie Lee. Through a bizarre series of events (include a head injury that left me with the ability to talk to animals) I’ve become a hitwoman.

I wasn’t sure if either of those things was the reason my apartment had just been blown to smithereens. But there I was, sprawled out in the parking lot, every cell in my body aching, with a dog panting in my face, a one-eyed cat kneading my chest, and a snarky anole lizard singing off-key “Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin alive, stayin alive.”

“Doing what?” asked Doomsday (my grammatically-challenged Doberman, who prefers to be called DeeDee because it’s more feminine).

Thankfully the reptile stopped singing long enough to haughtily inform the dog, “Cardiopulmonary resuscitation.”

The dog cocked her head to the side. “What?”

“CPR, you ignoramus,” the lizard shouted. “We’re trying to save her life.”

“Song?” DeeDee asked.

“The American Heart Association says it’s the perfect beat to use,” God replied, before singing again. ““Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin alive, stayin alive.”

If Piss, the one-eyed cat wasn’t pushing on my chest with her untrimmed claws, I might have been able to tell them that I was alive, but they were killing me.

Thankfully someone shooed her off of me.

My favorite mobster came into focus. Leaning over me, his diamond pinky ring sparkled like the North Star.  I blinked. Either I was seeing double, or strangely-named identical twins Tony and Anthony Delveccio were at my apartment complex.

That couldn’t be good.

Were they the ones who’d blown up my apartment? Were they here to finish the job?

    "Can you sit up?" The twin wearing an avocado green silk shirt unbuttoned to his belly button asked.

    Since the other one was wearing a tomato red shirt, I decided that avocado was Anthony and tomato was Tony.

    "Are you okay?" Tomato, a.k.a.Tony asked.

    "Imbeciles. Does she look okay?" God thundered indignantly. 

    Well, to me it sounded like he thundered...to people who can't talk to animals it sounded like a high-pitched squeak.

    "What the hell is that?" Anthony looked around trying to locate the source of the squeaking.

    "It's the lizard she's always sneaking into the hospital that she think no one notices," Tony replied. "It's the kid's pet."

    "He's kind of cute," Anthony said, reaching for my reptilian friend.

    "Save me! Save me!" God screeched scampering away to hide behind Piss who was watching the mobsters suspiciously through her one good eye.

    "Touch don't."

    DeeDee's growled warning made both men freeze. Anthony snaked his hand around to the back of his belt.

    Afraid he was going to shoot my dog, I struggled into a sitting position. "Lie down," I ordered the dog.

    For once she did as I asked.

    "You okay?" Tony crouched down to look me in the eye. I could have sworn I saw actual concern in his gaze.

    I nodded. "What happened?"

    "You're lucky you got out," Anthony said.

    "We smelled gas."

    "We?" Anthony eyed the burning building. "You had someone in there with you?"

    "Just my pets."

    "Just?" God sniffed haughtily.

    Piss turned her one-eyed gaze on him, effectively shutting him up.

            “What are you doing here?” I asked.

            “We were checking in on a local business venture we have a stake in,” Anthony said a tad too smoothly.

I guessed that the strip club right around the corner was probably their “business venture”.

“We saw the flame and thought we’d do the Good Samaritan thing,” Anthony continued.

I had no idea what “Good Samaritan” means in a mobster’s vernacular, but I doubted anything good came out of it.

“Plus,” Tony confided, patting my shoulder, “we know you live here.”

“Thanks.” I offered the man in the red shirt a weak smile. I knew he’d meant the words kindly, but the idea that two deadly mobsters know where I  live was not particularly reassuring.

            “You did us a solid taking down Kowalski and causing a headache for the Dubrovsky family,” Anthony said gruffly.

            I nodded. I didn’t say that I’d almost died a couple times while just trying to keep my family safe. Let them think I’d done them a favor. Maybe they’d think twice about knocking me off now.

            “But you’re going to be taking some heat now,” Tony said. “People will be watching you. Cops. Feds. Other organizations.”

            I nodded knowing that he wasn’t talking about Kiwanis or Masons. He meant other crime organizations.

            “So we gotta distance ourselves from you until things cool down,” Tony said.

The idea seemed to sadden him, so I did my best to not reveal that the prospect left me overjoyed. “I understand.”

“It’s business,” Anthony muttered.

“I get that,” I assured them.

 Both men stiffened as sirens wailed in the distance.

    "Fire trucks," I reassured them.

    "Cops won't be far behind," Anthony muttered, turning away. "We gotta go." He hustled away toward a black sedan.

    "You sure you're okay?" Tony asked.

    I nodded.

    "You take care of yourself." He hurried toward the car as the sirens grew closer.

    I looked at my apartment building engulfed in flames. A quick scan of the area seemed to indicate that all my neighbors had made it out of the respective units. Some were crying. Some were in shock. Some looked pissed off.

            I looked at the smoldering hole where my apartment had been. I swallowed hard, trying not to cry. That place had been my home. It had been my place to escape from The Witches. Now it was gone.

            Sensing my distress, the animals gathered around me.

            “Sad no,” Dee said, resting her heavy head on my shoulder. I tilted my head, leaning it against hers.

            “It’ll be okay, Sugar,” Piss chimed in, nuzzling against my arm. I pet her distractedly

            “You are so screwed.” God opined.

            I shot him a dirty look.

He shrugged. “Can’t argue with the truth.”

For more information about Maggie and the gang, visit my website.