The Scent of a Hero

My relationship with the hero of the novel I'm still diddling with, The Night Caller, has crossed firmly over into the he-refuses-to-pick-up-his-socks phase. We've surpassed the honeymoon first draft, navigated the second draft plot hole bruises where each of us refused to see eye to eye and are in the final edits before the pages are shoved into submission. We're languishing in the too-familiar zone. I know as much about how he looks as the back of my own hands against the keyboard. I know he clips the first word of his sentences when he's angry, drinks more coffee than my high school AP history teacher, works only in boots past midnight and hates American cheese.

So in final edits, while I polish every nuance of his character, I'm struggling to find the one thing about him that will breathe fresh life-the turn of a phrase or description where I'll remember discovering him for the first time in that blissful first draft. Enter semi-neurotic writer on a quest for the perfect hero-scent.

It started innocently enough. A postcard-sized card tucked into a Belks sales ad. I rarely smell the women's perfume samples that pass through my hand. We all know on us they transform magically into God-that-smelled-so-much-better-on-the-card-stock-wand. Male fragrance samples I always embrace, because I know they'll stay manufactured and uncompromised by the seven other warring cosmetic products on my skin.

This one was called Unforgivable. Am I supposed to know who Sean John is? I'm guessing from the "vibe that is explosive yet chill" description, he's firmly off my pop culture radar in the netherworld of hip hop. But the name, ahh, that had me. What man in his right mind would perpetuate a state of erotic allure and proclaim his unworthiness all in one breath-or inhale-in this case? Does the black bottle further this dangerous enticement for the woman who dares to purchase this for her man? Does the scent resemble anything of the unforgivable nature of my hero? I had to know.

I unfolded the flap, closed my eyes and firmly entered the Unforgivable vibe. My first thought was the back room of my grandfather's house when I was ten. Utilitarian red carpet, scorpions in the shower, black vinyl pull-out sofa my cousins were forever using as a whoopie cushion. Not exactly the "explosive, yet chill" Sean John was hoping for, I'm guessing. It did whet my appetite to find the one scent that was my hero-the final touch of realism that would evoke that writer-reader magic.

Armed with enough card stock wands to stretch from here to a NY editor's desk, I braved the male fragrance counter and spritzed until the nostrils of the Katie Holmes wanna-be salesgirl flared from the ambush and she offered her services to narrow the search. I smiled politely and said, "Research."

By the time I reached home, even the Kleenex wad in my purse begged for mercy from the metrosexual locker room ambiance I'd created. I laid each one out, disappointed I'd not had the wherewithall to write the cologne's name on each wand. No, that would have been neurotic. My hero wasn't in the name, anyway. He isn't explosive, yet chill or any of a dozen other empty words crafted by ad teams in high rise buildings. He's not on any of the soggy cardstock wands or in any glossy black bottle. The time has come for him to stop breathing in my mind and start anew with someone else. A reader who'll bring her own scent-memories and olfactory tastes to the pages. Someone who'll complete that writer-reader contract where I've left off.

Somehow, it feels unforgivable that I'll move on. Take a new story on a honeymoon. Dance words around another hero. But the real betrayal lies in not letting go. Writing is a balance of many things, the hardest of which might be knowing when a piece is truly finished. There will always be a different verb, a more specific noun. The real magic comes from a place not of pimped-out scents and glossy description but from the vibe within the writer all along.

Even Sean John would chill on that.

Too bad there's no Smell-O-Blog technology. I'd share Sean John's humid-August-crickets-through-the-screen-door vibe with you. Gah. And who knew cologne had trailers now? Get his vibe. Uh.

Your turn...what semi-neurotic thing do you do to jump into your story's reality?

A Romantic Halloween

Romance and Halloween. Not so much, right? Think again. If costume-less teenage punks sinking their meaty fists into your candy bowl sounds less than appealing, grab your loved one tonight and try one of these ideas:

A midnight graveyard picnic
arrange to meet there if you dare



Create a haunted bedroom
candles, black rose petals, webs, red wine

A walk in the woods
Take along a blanket and flashlight and find the perfect spot to swap ghost stories or Halloween memories.

Fright Night at the Movies
Popcorn, candy and many, many opportunities to clutch your partner

Secret costumes
Arrive at a party or large club where everyone will be in costume, but don't tell each other what you'll be. Find each other through clues of body language or behavior-the way they dance, move, speak to others, choice of drink.

Costume party for two
No elaboration needed.

Nighttime pumpkin patch
Carve out some pumpkins and a time long after the trick or treaters have gone to bed. Spread autumn leaves on a blanket in the backyard (or bedroom), light the jack-o-lanterns, have a picnic of wine and dessert.

Love letter or poem
Write a love poem about all the ways your life would be scary without your love in it. Burn the edges of the paper and roll it up in twine or black ribbon. Found haunted love poems work well, too.

Have a great Halloween, everyone!

Man the Contests!

Funny thing about those contests I mentioned. How fun that "Home", my paranormal short inspired by Charles Gramlich and his blog reader's flurry of flash fiction, took second place over the weekend in the Western Pennsylvania Romance Writer's Bump in the Night Contest.

See what I mean about pots on the stove?

Find it here if you missed it, and be sure to check out the other delightfully wicked Halloween flash fiction pieces in Charles' challenge.

Check out this Navy poster from WWII. I'm pretty sure this guy's name is Finn.

Serenity and Opportunity

First things first. When my agent and editor are clamoring at the door for my 38th book and I'm brain dead, you can find me here:
Unfortunately, it might take me until book 38 to figure out exactly where this is.

My inbox is packed with announcements for short and novel-length fiction contests, anthology requests and reader's contests, so I thought I'd pass along the info:

The Paul Gillette Writing Contest, sponsored by Pikes Peak Writers. Deadline: November 1, 2008. (that's Saturday, people) Categories include: short stories, book length children's, historical fiction, mainstream, mystery/suspense/intrigue, romance, science fiction/fantasy/horror and young adult. VIP judges include a panel of eight agents and editors. Awards include registration fee for April conference in Colorado Springs, CO or $100-first place; $50-second place; $30-third place. Winners attending the conference will receive top priority in agent/editor appointments. FMI.
L.A: This is a huge contest and conference. Great opportunity. Any way I can pimp myself back home, I'm there. April in Colorado is beautiful.

Bantam/Spectra presents a new short fiction contest for unpublished writers of science fiction, fantasy and horror. For its third edition of Spectra Pulse, Bantam's exclusive magazine distributed at Comic-con San Diego and select conventions and bookstores, the publisher is allowing unpublished writers to have their work featured alongside some of the most well-respected names in SF/F. One lucky winner will receive $100 and have his/her story published in the 2009 Summer issue. FMI.
L.A: Squee!

Time in a Bottle Anthology. Looking for stories that explore parallel events in time, the nature of time or in some other way are centered around time. Along with time as the central focus, it must also fit one of the following genres: hard science fiction/soft science fiction, fantasy or space western. Submission period: November 1, 2008 to May 1, 2009. FMI.
L.A: You can imagine the squee factor when I found this one. It came from a writing friend, but I can't find anything about the anthology itself or who's publishing it. Be sure to check it out thoroughly before submitting.

My publisher, The Wild Rose Press, is sponsoring a Sony eReader Giveaway contest. Purchase any title from the list of their sponsoring authors between September 22, 2008 and December 15, 2008 and you're eligible to win. You can also enter by sending a postcard containing the title of three books in the giveaway list by three different authors to: The Wild Rose Press, P.O. Box 708, Adams Basin, NY 14410. FMI and a list of eligible titles.
L.A: Who doesn't want an eReader? Go for it.

That's it for now. If you've heard of any other contests, do share. My theory about contests is simple. The more pots on the stove, the higher the odds of something really great happening. Get your fiction out there.

Life in Network Hell

If you know nothing about Life on Mars, either the BBC or the US version, this post will bore you to tears. Walk the dog. Floss your teeth. Get back to writing, slacker. If you know anything about the series-and about me-you must have known I'd come to an opinion about it eventually. I gave this reincarnated version three episodes. The waters are warm enough to wade in.

It's been almost a year since NBC canceled Journeyman. Last night, seeing a teaser of Kevin McKidd playing a hunky doctor on the upcoming episode of Grey's Anatomy smarted. What a leap off the tower of intellectually engaging drama, though the tower is lowered each year into the sinkhole that is a collective network impatience. This time, ABC is the guilty party, offering up something engaging, stirring a legion of viewers hungry for things other than American Gladiators and Cloris Leachman's thigh-revealing attire, and snatching it away when Nielsons don't deliver. Newsflash: only my parents watch television in real time and they're not your demographic. Change the system to reflect DVR/Tivo and internet downloads, the way most viewers put priorities first and avoid political and erectile ads. But I digress.

Life on Mars entered the Fall season trying to re-capture the Rice-a-Roni devotees left behind from Journeyman and add the magic elixir of network success: the cop show-this time with a 1970s twist. Who doesn't remember the Cameros racing through an entire decade of bad clothes and Farrah love interests? What red-blooded American male would turn away from cop-talk spiced with police brutality and characters that don't exactly play by the book? What woman could deny Jason O'Mara's fresh face?

The cast is superb, especially Harvey Keitel as the precinct's loud, blunt purveyor of justice. I enjoy wading into a scene that's not offering up CSI-ADD camera work and a David-Caruso inflated ego filling the screen. I like the historical perspective and the underlying irony of how far we haven't come from the 1970s. Those echoes add depth, something toe tags and snappy CSI banter can't reach. But, therein lies the show's demise.

Those CSI viewers ABC was hoping to attract are dropping off en mass because there's not enough cop. Unlike the original BBC series, which is rumored to have revolved primarily around cases each week, the new version of Life on Mars has become too character-driven. Huh. I thought that made for great television. Shows what I know.

Life on Mars does succeed in continuity-a place Journeyman failed. The very premise of Jack Vasser physically juggling his past and present life, central to Journeyman's conflict, is the structure that made it difficult for some to follow. Life on Mars has shades and echoes of Sam Tyler's present life, but the writers chose simplicity in structure.

ABC has yet to order more episodes. Apparently, when the execs tossed the Fall shows to the wall, the only things that seem to stick are gore and disco balls. What a shame shows like Cheers and M*A*S*H would have endured the same fate had they been produced in a results-hungry 2008. My advice? Watch the first three eppies on the internet, they're worth it. Tune in for a taste Thursday night, help the ratings. It's not like LOST, you'll catch up fast in the opening monologue. But if you can't bear to have a favorite canceled by impatient networks, don't bother.

Just turn off your set and go floss your teeth.

What shows are you watching?

A Thousand Words

I adore this short film by Los Angeles screenwriter and director Ted Chung:



For more information on Chung's work and links to his other short films visit his page on the Berlinale Talent Campus site.

Will the Year 2036 Have Pick Up Artists?

If you're a sci-fi geek like me, you've probably heard of John Titor. Today, the Institute for Quantum Living posted an article profiling the details of John's arrival on internet message boards in the year 2000, his answers to questions about the state of the future between his time (2036) and the present day, and how he traveled through time. Entire websites and documentaries are devoted to celebrating and debunking this man and his prophesies. Cafe Press even has shirts devoted to the phenomenon.

For skeptics(also like me), it offers a what-if to chew on for awhile, even if our rational mind dismisses everything surrounding John Titor as a hoax. I've long believed that our society's overindulgence, recklessness and the slippery slope of moral values will endure a backlash. People will stand up and say "Enough is enough." I picture a world reshuffled into true communities again, smaller nexuses of activity where we rely less on purchasing tomatoes from Guatemala and more from local growers. Where townspeople dive into decisions and education and volunteering because resources from the greater governments will have lost the funds and the power to intervene in day-to-day life. A homecoming for people like me who come to realize the "opportunities" that come with big city life aren't worth the ridiculous dance we endure to be part of it.

Strangely, this is part of our future, according to John Titor. Maybe he, or whomever created this fantastic tale grew weary of the noise, the choking exhaust, the prevalent hum of fear and intolerance outside the door. Maybe for some, believing in the possibility of time travel is easier than believing we're collectively capable of real change.

I'm pretty sure my subconscious has been thinking about this for awhile. While entertaining that mind-bending twist at the end of The Night Caller, I wondered what it would be like for the reader to discover that the heroine of the 1880s they'd come to know was actually a hundred and thirty years in the hero's future and society had reversed itself, minus the hard-won lessons of humanity's darkest hours. I can't conceive of it working for this story, but someday, I'm sure the idea will surface again.

And to put this all in the proper, absurd perspective, I leave you a photograph posted of John Titor:
I'll venture he's the one in buckskin on the left. His friend is too Pick Up Artist to be convincing.

If you read the article, let me know what you think. If this is all too much for you, dissect this jokester's time travel couture.