Tag Archive for: RITA

I’m Glad You Asked…

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By Laura Spinella

My original thought was to do a post about the upcoming RWA conference
and RITA awards. I’ll be on my way to Anaheim at the end of the month for their
annual gathering of romantic-minded authors and accompanying soiree where the
RITAs are bestowed.  However, I realized that
a dress, shoes and an airline ticket do not for a blog make.
Then, yesterday, I heard from a reader. Derek first
wrote me about a year ago, and we’ve been chummy ever since. He’s a voracious
reader, who visits Goodreads more often than I frequent my liquor cabinet. In
fact, he reads so much, I worry about his vitamin D consumption and terminal
paper cuts. Derek sent me this link to an article in Publishers Weekly. For the
full effect, please give it a read.  The main gist of the article is Goodreads
dialogue, and not necessarily pleasant dialogue, between readers and authors. Whether you are an author, editor, agent or the most important component: a reader, the article is thought provoking.
Direct from Facebook, the other social media Kool-Aid, is my conversation with
Derek.  I would however, love to hear
your thoughts on the Publisher’s Weekly article. If you’re a reader/reviewer, is
it license to say whatever you want?  If
you’re an author, how do respond, if you respond? 
            Oh, BTW, about that RWA RITA thing…
If you could all keep fingers and toes crossed on the 28th, it would be very much appreciated! 
           Derek: I know we haven’t
talked in awhile but I stumbled upon this article about reviewers and authors
and backlash on Goodreads, and was wondering what your thoughts on it?

Me: Derek, it’s
always great to hear from you! And you sure picked an interesting question for
me… I feel like a Miss Universe contestant in the dreaded question round!
Interpreter, please! Well, interpreter if one is going to spend a lot of time
dissecting reviews anywhere, including Goodreads. 

Here’s my take for
whatever it is worth: I don’t read them. I don’t read reviews anywhere,
Goodreads, Amazon…  I don’t read them
if they’re glowing or a one-star kick in the teeth. I made that rule right after
BD came out. It just struck me as “awkward” to sit around reading
judgments about something that could never mean as much to someone else as it
does to me. I spent six years of my life with that book. It’s like toting your
kindergartner to school, shoving him/her in front of the student body and
saying, “OK, tell me what you think?” Reading is SO subjective, and
no two opinions are going to be the same. To say that an author reads a
negative review looking for ways to improve their writing, I wish them luck with
that. What happens when the next reviewer says the exact opposite? I don’t read
the good ones b/c there’s always a risk I might believe what they’re saying.
Seems like slippery slope to me.  

Lastly, I’d never
get into a dialogue with a reviewer. To what end? If they disliked my book (and
I’m sure some have), is a word war with me going to change their opinion? Maybe
I’m just not any good at dealing with negativity, or maybe i just think life is
too short. I do what I do. I love my book/s. Are they perfect? Heck no. But they’re
mine. Part of the job involves putting yourself out there for the masses to
comment on, like it or not. It’s a strange caveat you learn as you go. 

Well, I hope that
answers your question to some extent. Ask the next author and you’ll probably
get a completely different answer! I hope you’re having a wonderful summer!!
I’m off to CA in a couple of weeks… Again, I’d probably be happier alone in
my sunroom with my laptop. Writers are strange people (-;


Laura


Laura Spinella is the author of the RITA nominated novel BEAUTIFUL DISASTER. Visit her at lauraspinella.net. 

Novel Writing & the Food Network

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 By Laura Spinella
            I’ve
been on novel hiatus for a few weeks—okay, maybe closer to a month. Savvy writing
advice suggests novelists start another project immediately after finishing
one.  Unfortunately, this strategy is not
in my author DNA.  I need a break. Novel
writing is hard work, and my muse is a lazy soul.  With this mindset in motion, it’s not long
before a writing sabbatical lulls me into a Haagen-Daz, what’s my purpose in life, mode. It’s a slippery slope, though I
slide willingly—onto my living room sofa. 
From here I drift, like a garbage barge on the ocean, toward the oasis of
reality TV.  
I retreat to the Food Network where distraction is a
staple menu item. This is low-maintenance reality TV.  There are no dysfunctional families to sort
through; no convoluted backstories to grasp, meaning you can pull into Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives anytime.  Here, bleach blond, spiked-haired host Guy
Fieri travels the country, visiting quirky road-kill um, roadside
restaurants. At a glance, one can presume that lax sanitary conditions are meant
to be a metaphor for atmosphere. During these visits, Fieri ingests enough
lard-based house specials to be on prepayment plan for his future triple bypass.  Sadly, one can only stomach so much of Fieri’s
orgasmic reaction to pork parts slathered in Jimmy-Joe’s volcanic hot sauce,
and I move onto Chopped.
I am amused by this post-Julia Child generation effort,
a program that is not so much about cooking as it is about the $10,000 prize.
The money is poised to transform any one of the competitors’ lives. Seriously?
Ten-thousand bucks is all it’s gonna take to turn your life around?  Most contestants want to open a restaurant. Unless
the plan is to open a restaurant in their basement, ten-grand isn’t enough to
keep a diner in doughnuts, never mind using it as venture capital. Regardless,
you have to love the show’s energy. Four wannabe Emerils put their creative and
cooking moxie to the test by using secret basket ingredients such as tree bark,
goat urine, and Japanese jellyfish to prepare their dishes. Sometimes I feel
for the contestants, but mostly I sympathize with the judges who have taste
test the results.

I am restless, needing something with more substance. I
stick with the Food Network and tune into Restaurant Rehab.  This is boot camp hell for wayward
restaurateurs. Have the ’80s called asking for their mauve drapes and mirrored
walls? Do you employ your toothless, recently paroled cousin as your chef?  Is your staff under the impression that they
are indentured servants, too stupid to quit, trapped like rats on a sinking
ship? Well then, enter iron-armed, drill sergeant chef Robert Irvine.  This guy looks like he bench presses Viking
stoves for fun.  In forty-eight hours Robert
is going to fix everything from the décor to the cousin, perhaps sending him
for dental implants before the grand reopening. Frankly, Robert scares me. But
maybe that’s what it takes to rewire thirty years of learned behavior in thirty
minutes. Assuming he understood the premise of the show before he signed on, Chef
Robert appears oddly outraged to find himself thrust into this hopeless
mess. After berating the widowed proprietor for her inability to get a clue or
at least a functioning carpet sweeper, he tears apart the dining room décor. Usually,
this is cavernous square footage that could seat hundreds. It occurs to me that
the real problem is location. The rehab restaurant is almost always situated in
a pea-size town, bypassed by the bypass a decade earlier. Nevertheless, Robert goes
to work ushering in his design team. Now, if you look closely, you’ll recognize
Taniya Nayak, his go-to designer.  She’s
a decorating refugee from HGTV and saddled with the dilemma of stretching a
$10,000 budget to cover the 100K makeover the place truly needs. She also
appears oblivious to her short of end of the stick. Taniya’s chipper attitude never
wavers. Not even when Chef Robert berates her for taking too long to execute an
overhaul that, in real reality, should take six months. Someday Taniya will
decide she’s had enough, taking kerosene and a match to the sprawling space.  In the meantime, Chef Robert heads into the
kitchen to scream at um, mentor the chef.  As we suspect, this is a doomed
encounter.  In no time, he’s made the ex-con
cousin wish he’d violated parole.  But no
worries, it’s all going to be okay; Chef Robert has a plan. He’ll teach the
unskilled chef how to prepare foolproof dishes, complete with sauces, mastering
each one before the grand reopening—which occurs in about an hour. Of course,
this three-act drama plays out to perfection as Chef Robert saves the day. He
waves goodbye to a restaurant brimming with happy diners and staff, insisting a
call from Zagat is imminent. I flip Chef Robert off and sigh longingly at my
pollen covered laptop. Novel writing would be 
snap if only my next book had a slot on the Food Network.

                 

Laura Spinella is the author of BEAUTIFUL DISASTER. A 2012 RITA finalist, the novel is the recipient of the NJRWA Golden Leaf and Desert Rose RWA Golden Quill awards for Best First Book, as well as a finalist in the Wisconsin RWA Writer’s Touch award for Best Mainstream Novel. Visit her at lauraspinella.net.  
         
      

They Always Ask: What Comes After THE END?

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       By Laura Spinella     
It’s itchy palms and a cold sweat, a compulsive urge
that a team of interventionists couldn’t thwart. That’s what I’m down to.  No, don’t be ridiculous, I haven’t quit
drinking. I said compulsive not insane. But what I have done is turn in a
manuscript. It leaves me with time, a gaping hole from 7 a.m. until noon. Initially,
I’m dazzled by the prospect—think cats and a tinfoil ball. By living in the
mainstream I can get things done, big and small.  I’ll chase time until it lodges itself under my sunroom sofa, moving something like this: Instead of
brushing by old newspapers and dirty toilets, I take the papers to the recycle
bin, scrub the toilets until I’ve drowned the Ty-D-Bol man. I make every bed and vacuum the
floor of my closet. Afterward, I’m surprised but only marginally alarmed to
find that morning has two hours left. 
Not a problem. I have a 30%-off Kohl’s coupon. By noon everyone has new
underwear and I have half-a-dozen potential outfits for a trip that’s three months
away.   On day two, dinner is a planned
event.  My usual incidental dash to the microwave
morphs into a Julia Child effort, one that involves béchamel sauce and a 1,000
calorie French dessert.  By day three, my
real jobs are organized as if they
are my goal. Newspaper stories are booked weeks in advance; my editor is dazed
but delighted.  Normally, I’d segue from my
WIP to my cyber-gig needing a shower and wearing pajama pants with a
hole in the crotch. Not now. Now I show up in makeup and clothing that does not
involve an elastic waist. Day four I surprise my son and pop in at track
practice. I bring brownies for the hardworking boys. From across the field, his
head pivots sharply. It’s as if he smells something repugnant in the air. I
wave. He trots steadily in my direction, glancing right at a gaggle of girls
who, apparently, also stopped by to watch.
            “What are you doing here?
Is someone dead?”
            “I had free time. Can’t
a mother watch her son practice?”
            “Seriously, why are you
here? It’s track practice. I’m perfectly safe.”
I assume he’s alluding to his younger years when I tended to hyper-fret
about things like child abduction. I decide it’s still plausible. “You never
know who’s lurking.”
What happens if you’re not careful with your javelin
              “I have
a black-belt in Taekwondo and a javelin in my hand.  Go home; go write something.”  He darts across the field, taking his
position. Only for a moment do I think he’s considering hurling the javelin at
me.
            And this is where dazzle
turns to disaster. I’m not the mom who goes to practice. The thrill of a
three-course meal can only satisfy for so long. I hate shopping and my day jobs
function fine on the fly.  Twenty-four
hours later, I stare at my sunroom writing chair. It’s wrapped in metaphoric
yellow caution tape.  I may not enter; I
have no business there.  There’s a hard
rule about revisiting a manuscript that’s no longer in my possession. I’d only see
a thousand missteps, unable to change anything. Rationally, I should look
forward to this break. Downtime is supposed to be beneficial, an opportunity to
recharge the muse. Well, clearly, my muse is an addict. I sit and write a blog,
thinking it’s a quick fix.  Two paragraphs
in and I find my knee bouncing like a drunk with a Dixie cup. It’s not enough.
This is not to say the muse has anything remotely brilliant to relay. In fact,
it’s the very reason I equate it to an addiction. A wiser person would seek
help. Besides, what would I write?  The
muse has a suggestion.
            “Remember that idea I spun
a year ago? We were driving. Instead of the license plate game we played the what if game.  What if that girl, the one with the crummy
newspaper job and the psychic gift, landed in your lap top?  Come. Sit. You know you want to.”
            “No I don’t. What I want
is for you to quit delivering half-baked ideas, expecting me to fill in the
blanks.”
            “Sorry, if you wanted a thorough
muse your last name should have been Rowling or Roberts. I work with what
they give me.”
            “Do you have any idea
how much time and commitment your ideas take? Someday I’ll regret it, the
endless hours I’ve wasted on you.”
            “And still, you would have
spent more time sleeping. You’re not getting that time back either. So come, sit. Just try it. One sentence, a character
name, the way he looks at her—focus, you’ll see it.  And I haven’t even told you the best part of my
idea.”
            “Ha! I’ve lived your
ideas, holistic designer, rock star, a rogue man on a motorcycle.  They’re absurd.”  Yet, ruefully, I inch into the room.
“Maybe. But the motorcycle man worked out fine. I heard
he’s up for a few nifty awards.  Besides,
what are your options?  Plant a garden,
take up golf, stalk the high school cafeteria?”
“Shut up.” But as I speak, I’m fighting temptation and
gravity.  I move closer.
“That’s it. Ease your way in. We’ll go slow. We’ll talk.
Hell, maybe I’ll even float you some backstory.”
My fingers move past the cautionary yellow tape. The
leather chair does feel good.  It’s only
been a week, but there’s dust is on the keyboard. We can’t have that.  Okay, I’ll sit—but only for a minute…  

Laura Spinella is the author of Beautiful Disaster, a 2012 RITA Finalist, Best First Book; NJRWA Winner, Best First Book; Wisconsin RWA Write Touch Finalist, Best Mainstream Novel; Desert Rose RWA Finalist, Best First Book and a Favorite Book of 2011 at SheKnows.com. Visit her at www.lauraspinella.net