Opening Lines

A couple of years ago I read a lot of agent blogs and they all said the same thing -- You need to have a great opening line, a fabulous "hook" to draw the reader in. Sounds good in theory, but I was never one to practice it. My stories start at the beginning (if that makes sense). I don't want to drop three paragraphs or chapters for that matter just because an agent tells me to. I mean, just because you have a great opening line doesn't necessarily mean that the rest of the book won't suck. Believe me, I've seen this happen.

Standing in a bookstore, you open the novel, read the first page or three, plunk down $15- for something you think is going to be fabulous and once you get to the end, if you even GET to the end, you find out the $15- was wasted.

In my opinion, I'd rather start the book off slowly and allow the reader to get the WHOLE idea of what is GOING to happen rather than just dumping them right into the mix and having them say, "What the f**k is going on?"

For example, when I started showing REMEMBERING YOU around, everyone told me to dump the first two pages and open when Genna first sees Tony at the diner. Then I could fill in all the backstory later. Uh, no. That's not where the story began. It began with her driving up interstate 95 and thinking how surprised Uncle Sal would be when he saw her. It began with her remembering what it was like to be home and why she left in the first place. It began with her nervousness and anxiety. I mean, ten years is a long time to be gone. And then, BLAM, there's Tony. It's kind of like an "Oh shit" moment. (Not an "Ah Ha" moment.) As in "Oh shit, what is Genna going to do now?" I like to REACH the tension instead of just starting out with it.

Some people call that backstory. Others call it info dumping. I call it the beginning.

As a reader, no one would care about Genna and Tony and why the meeting was so significant if they didn't know she hadn't been home for ten years or why. And that's what the first two pages were all about.

However, that being said, I've had an opening line roaming around in my head for a story I want to write. It's a great opening line but I'm not going to share it with you because God only knows who actually reads this blog and I've already had some stuff stolen so I don't want to lose this to some .99 plagiarist gang-banger.

It's a GREAT opening line. It drops you right into the story. It's an "Oh shit" moment if ever there was one. My problem is, I don't know where it goes from there. I mean, how can you follow something like that? I could write the whole story and it could suck. Apart from the opening line, there may not be anything worth reading. And I don't need any more 2 star reviews cluttering up my book. I've got enough of those.

So, for anyone reading this, what's your opinion? Would you rather get dropped in to the action, or would you rather be led to it?

What Dreams May Come

I just love that phrase, but have never seen the movie. I have a feeling it's very sad.

Anyway, I don't know what's going on in my brain these last few days, but I've been having some very unusual dreams.

Traveling to England and going to a wedding for a cousin I don't have. (I have no idea where that came from. Perhaps Downton Abbey?)

Being married to Chris Matthews (from MSNBC) and getting ready for a cocktail party at a tiki bar. (This kind of blew my mind. I've never been to a tiki bar.)

Reliving the rivalry between me and my friend Kate over this guy Jim whom we both dated back in 1997. (I haven't seen or heard from Kate in YEARS but I guess I must have been thinking of her at some point.)

Working at my old job as a chef but not being able to get the food out to the customers. (That's just from the revisions I've been doing. Can't seem to get them done.)

Weird weird stuff. But put in perspective it kind of makes sense. (Except for Chris Matthews, although I do like him very much. Maybe he's my new muse?)

And I know dreams are supposed to be about our brains filtering through odd bits of flotsam and jetsam that go on during the day -- stuff we think about subconsciously but aren't really aware of. Which I guess explains my pizza dream the other night. I haven't been able to eat it because of the accident to my front teeth I sustained right after Christmas. And I miss it so bad.

Years ago, I used to keep a dream journal so I could analyze them to help me figure out what's been bothering me. I wish I had one this morning. The dream was so good, when I woke up I said, "Hey, that would be a great plot for a novel." Unfortunately, in between letting the dog out, the cat in, and the tea pot boiling, I never got the chance to write it down and now it's gone.

It had something to do with Cinderella and the stepsisters, with shades of English countryside thrown in  for good measure. (Probably because I watched a documentary on Chatsworth -- The Duke of Devonshire's home in England.)

And yes, I did write down the notes from last weeks post so that story is secure in my files box. Now if I could only remember if I was an evil stepsister or not...

It Hit Me

I was driving along, minding my own business when I saw the Asplundh tree guys chopping the snot out of this poor elm tree because his branches got caught up in the wires. I hate those guys. They just chop and chop and chop and don't care how it looks as long as the branches don't hit the wires. I mean, shouldn't they hire a professional arborist to at least make sure they're not killing the thing. And besides, half the time, the way they cut it up, if a strong wind comes in, the tree is going to hit the wires anyway. Stupid Asplundh guys.

Anyway, as I was driving, I saw this old woman on her porch wearing a fuzzy pink bathrobe, white fuzzy slippers, and an old fashioned kerchief on her head hiding an array of curlers. She was standing there looking at the mess on her front lawn that the tree guys left. (In their defense, they do send a crew to clean up, I guess they hadn't gotten to it yet.)

And BLAM, it hit me. A short story, fully formed, jumped into my head. Three characters (sans names), the plot, and the ending. I was happy, joyful even, I had another contemporary romance to work on. (sometimes the whole Regency thing is a bit overwhelming) I drove home thinking I would immediately set to work on it, but of course, once I got there, it disappeared.

But then, over the weekend, I happened to drive past the old woman's house again and the story came back to me. Yay! It even had a twisty romantic angle to it, so instead of three characters, there were four (which may or may not work depending on what I want this story to become).

I'm hoping to begin working on this short story/novella as soon as I finish publishing my latest Regency. And maybe if I'm really lucky, I can finish it in a few weeks.

So that's where I am and what I'm doing. Hey, who knows, maybe I can finish it before next week. *cue snarky laughter*

The Fun Part

You know what's fun about this blog? No one reads it. So I can basically say anything I want and don't have to watch my language or be politically correct. This blog is the other side of me that no one sees when I'm Anne Gallagher.

A friend and I once had a discussion on why I wanted to be two people, why I wanted to promote my Regencies as Anne Gallagher and change my name on my women's fiction to Robynne Rand. I told her it had to do with marketing and promotion -- that readers of my sweet historicals would be appalled when I used the f-bomb in my contemporaries. And it's true. People look at me a certain way. They expect me to be nice and likable, and usually I am.

But there's also a grittier side to me that a lot of people don't know about. The Robynne Rand side. The side that's been homeless, and hope-less, and addicted, and rehabilitated. The side that's had more share of heart ache and heart break than any 40 women should ever bear. The side that's had to fight for equal rights in the workplace, fight off sexual harassment, fight against red tape and bureaucracy just to put food on the table. One that's been kicked so hard, so far down, that it's almost a miracle I've survived to be who I have become.

And this is the side I want to write about in my women's fiction. I want to show there are two sides to every coin. Sure, as Anne, I'm sweet and nice. But I'm really kind of flat. As a character, that is. But as Robynne, there are uncovered facets to me that have yet to be discovered.

And I'd like to do that through my writing. It might be a bumpy ride, but it's going to be fun. Because once it stops being fun, I just won't do it anymore.

The New Year is Over -- Time to Get to Work

Well, I missed the ball drop again in New York. Bedtime was at 9pm New Year's Eve. Unfortunately, the fireworks in Winston woke the dog and the dog went into a spastic fit. Needless to say, although I missed the fun and frivolity, I welcomed in the New Year in my own special way. Cursing the dog until 3am.
Fun stuff.

Yet, in hindsight, it was better than puking my guts out on the lawn after imbibing too much alcohol. Fond memories of New Year's past.

Anyhoo, now that the dreaded holidays are behind me, I've begun to ruminate on all I have to do this year.

Three more novels, at least 3, if not 5 short stories. Stuff to keep me occupied.
No, they're not resolutions, or even goals really. I'm just looking at it as work. You know, 9-5, or in my case 7:30 - 2:00. Maybe a little overtime after supper. Depends on how the day goes.

I read somewhere a long time ago, that "serious" writers write. They don't bitch and moan about it, they work through the writer's block, they keep going even when they're exhausted, or their new keyboard won't produce an 'h' unless hit squarely. (Stupid keyboard)

So, that's what I'm doing. Working.

I've had some people tell me I'm prolific because I bang out books like every other month. I wish. It's not true. Yeah, I've gotten better at how long it takes me to write something, but if I could bang them out in 60 days, I'd be a bazillionaire by now. I'm not quick, I've just learned how to write and edit at the same time. I've worked hard over the last three years to get to where I am. I'm not prolific, just kind of good at what I do.

I spent this morning looking at something I wrote over 4 years ago. My first novel actually. The beginning novel to my series. I've done some major rewrites to it over the last couple of years. But still, it sucks. Crazy POV's, head hopping, bad punctuation, bad research. I wrote it before I knew the rules. I wrote it because I finally had the time to write The End. I wrote it just to see if I could and have it make sense.

And now I have to fix it. Not fun. Just like when I was a chef. I hated making soup. And soup is easy, or so they say. It's just never been one of the things I like to do. Like rewriting. I have no desire to rewrite this particular book, but hey, it's the first one in the series, and if I don't fix it, the secrets I reveal in the last book in the series won't make sense.

So, I'm working. I mean, what else is there to life anyway?

reading on the beach, horseback riding, backgammon, chocolate, walking in the woods in fall, skiing, kite-flying, did I mention the beach?