And The Joke Is On Me

So, last month I decided to announce to the world that I was back to writing. Ha. Double Hardy Har Har. The Universe said, "No, dear, I don't think so." Actually, it wasn't the

Universe, it was my father. Who, now that I had all this free time, wanted me to wait on him hand and foot. Every. Single. Day.

I love this picture.

And I have. Until today, when I faked being sick, so I wouldn't have to go to the store for him again. Because he wants me to go to the store EVERY SINGLE DAY. There is nothing worse than redundancy. In my world anyway. I hate doing stupid things twice. I have begged the old man to give me a list on Monday. Groceries, pharmacy, Walmart, Home Depot, bank. Which he does. I do his shopping. I spend all day on Monday running around the lesser Winston-Salem area trying to find all that he needs, deliver everything to his house, and put it away. 

And then every day after that, he finds something else he forgot, that he needs. And no, it has nothing to do with his needing someone to talk to. He's on the phone most afternoons talking to relatives. Or he's in his new workroom not wanting to be disturbed. He's just a selfish old man who wants what he wants when he wants it. He's like a five-year-old who's eighty.

How can I go back to writing when all my time is being spent as a personal assistant who isn't even paid?

However, truth be told, when I re-read the manuscript I started last July, I found I couldn't deal with it. It was memoir-ish fiction, but I had forgotten the horror of the last few years, and after I read it, I cried for three days. There was no way I could write that book. Not now. Maybe not ever. I don't know.

And don't get me wrong, I have about two dozen half-started manuscripts lying in one computer or another. But this story was going to be a good one. It was, until I stopped writing it. I had a break over 4th of July, and wrote 25k in 4 days. I thought it would be a breeze to finish. I never went back, and then my mother passed away, and my life hasn't been the same since.

I've been thinking about a new story. But that's all, just thinking. I believe it would be better for me to finish the Regency series I started seven years ago. I could close that chapter this year if I had the time. But therein lies the problem. Finding the time.

I'll let you know what happens.

Robynne Rand (c) 2022

So Here We Are

 During the course of the last few years, I honestly never thought I would be sitting here at my desk, staring out at the tops of the trees in my backyard, wondering what to say. Which is funny, because, as you know, I'm a writer. I suppose then, as a writer, it's always good to begin at the beginning. And I am literally at the beginning of a whole new chapter of my life. Let me digress for a moment and give you a brief overview.

My mother had Alzheimer's disease. It was bad. It was ugly. I'll save the really messy stuff because that's not what this blog is about. But, I will say, whatever you think about keeping your parents at home, it's ten times worse than you can ever imagine. It's hard, it's dirty, it's disgusting. I cried every day for ten years. The last five I cried twice, and sometimes, three times a day. The burden was incredible. It was never easy. Even with paid professional help. Even with visiting nurses, and eventually hospice. Bone weary even on my good days. It was probably the hardest thing I've ever had to do--watch my mother die right in front of me--but I don't regret one second of it. She was my mother. 

My mother passed away the week before Thanksgiving  (2021). Since then, I have been cleaning my house, and putting furniture back where it was. (When my mother moved in, I had to rearrange three different rooms, on three different floors, three differnt times. I have been living in absolute chaos for the last five years.) The whole intention being--that when my house was in order again, I would be able to go back to work.

Work. Definition: Writing. Sitting down for aught hours in front of a keyboard churning letters onto the great big white page on the computer screen. (And praying this will be the one to catapult my career.)

When I had the discussion with the person-who-lives-with-us that I intended to go back to work, he thought I meant in the real world. I said, "No. Back to writing." He scoffed. "I thought you wanted to go back to real work." I wanted to punch him in the face. Writing is real work. I then proceeded to tell him about the editing, and the formatting, and the cover making, and the cover copy writing, and the next editing, oh, and then the writing, oh, and I neglected to mention the social media component. He shrugged his shoulders and "uhhed" me.

So, here we are. Back at the beginning. Again. 

The house is in somewhat of an order. Even if I still don't have cabinets. Or a dishwasher. I can breathe through the second floor--it's not stuffed and cramped and dark. I have two desks upstairs in the dining room, and my "writing room" downstairs. 

I've only published two books in the last 4 years, one Regency, the other WAITING FOR YOU IN WICKITOCKET. Not that I haven't tried to write anything. I'd get great ideas, write the first few chapters, and then give up. However, I've also been allowing other ideas to brew and percolate, and I think I've hit on something good. We'll see what happens when I'm finished. 

I feel good. I feel bad, because my mother just died, and I should be in mourning, but she's much better off where she is now. Alzheimer's is a suffering I would not wish on my worst enemy. I'm at peace, because she is at peace. And I'm not feeling guilty because I feel good. 

Now it's time for me. I need to go back to work. As much as I'd like to think it, money doesn't grow on trees. And after two years of a pandemic, I kinda' got used to being home ALL THE TIME. Not having to drive anywhere except for groceries. Just call me a homebody. Who hopefully will be able to convince the person-who-lives-with-us that when I say I'm going to work, it means do not bother me. For anything except blood or fire. 

So, here we are. 

Writing. Blogging. Working. Yay me.

See you next time.

Robynne Rand (c) 2022

Back From Outer Space

Where I've Been

It's been a year. Yeah, I know. You don't have to remind me. I've been dealing with a lot of stuff. My mother moved in with us. My father couldn't deal with her and his radiation treatments last summer, so she's been with us ever since. So here we are. I won't bore you with any of the details of how I am. Let's just say, I finally had an extra hour this morning to dye my hair--since my mother moved in with us (I kid you not. And it actually turned out really well. Even my daughter said so.) I just wish I could get rid of my damn wrinkles as quick. Anyway. A lot of stuff happened to me in the last year. I lost all my animals. Yeah. Three dogs, and my mother's cat who had also moved in with us. I had to put two of the dogs down the day after Christmas.

What I Did 

However, they say, triumph overcomes tragedy. On December 28, I started to write a book to process and deal with my grief over losing the furry side of my family. I had written a quick synopsis for it last summer, but had tucked it away. I had the main character stuck in my head, her voice so clear, I just started writing. Something I honestly haven't been able to do since last year. 

I kept writing and writing. Until it was finished. I finished it on April first. I knew when I started, the goal was to just finish. In trying to move my mother in last summer and make her as comfortable as possible, I had to leave the rest of my house in the shambles it was because of the revovations I began last spring break thinking I had all summer to finish. I have three rooms to finish painting, including the trim. Floors are ripped up. Ladders are resting against walls in the kitchen. I use them as shelves because I also ripped half of the cabinets out of the kitchen. I had to finish something. A book seems like child's play now.

What I Learned

1. I'm glad I finished it. I think it came out really well. It's been a long time since I could write from the heart instead of an agenda. I'm glad I was selfish enough to take the time to do it.

2. I never really knew how much time there was in a day until I stopped driving my daughter to high school. Of course, my mother takes up some of that time now, but my afternoons are free and for the last several months I've been known to not even check what everyone wants for supper until after 6 pm. Because I was writing. It blows my mind.

3. I am a major over-writer. I ended the first draft at 104K. Then I said, well, let me trim that down some. I only made it to 102K before I said, ok. Then I did a third edit and got it down to 99K. Which, still a little wordy, so another round. I ended that session with 101K.
I like to explain things. What can I say? Over the next two days, I will attempt to give it one more pass.

4. I don't like formatting. Especially for paperback. I do everything myself. Covers, formatting, editing, proof, copy, line, cover copy. I call this the busy-ness of writing. Where everything has to line up. Like true, plumb, and square. Page numbers, headers, footers, hate them so much. But it's part and parcel of being a starving artist. I have to do everything myself until I become a multi-million dollar best-selling author and can hire someone tod o it for me.

5. I like staying home.

What I'm Doing Now

I'm getting ready to publish a new book.
WAITING FOR YOU IN WICKITOCKET.
e copies will be available on April 22.

Fifty-seven-year-old Margaret Thompson lives a life of quiet desperation. Her daughters are in college, her ex-husband has remarried, and her vision of the future is blurry and uncertain. Until a letter arrives in March, informing Margaret she has inherited her beloved late aunt’s beach house in Connecticut. Her home every summer when she was a child.

Pictures from the attorney tell the story of a vengeful cousin, but Margaret has no idea of the true damage until she arrives in June. Over thirty years of cherished memories are erased as soon as she opens the front door. If that wasn’t bad enough, Margaret hears her late aunt talking to her and wonders if she’s losing her mind.

With little money, and only a college kid for a construction crew, Margaret is determined to bring the house back to what she remembers. Hidden treasures, secret rooms, and ancestral stories bring Margaret’s other memories to the surface—memories she had hoped to keep buried.

New friends, new ideas about her future, and new revelations about what home really means, force Margaret to question everything she once held dear and fight for what she now wants.

Unfortunately, what she truly wants only exists in the secret place in her heart.

Robynne Rand (c) 2020

Restructuring a Novel

And why I would be stupid enough to do it.

Simple Answer: Because I want to get the story right.

A Story is Born
Two years ago, I started writing another novel for the Ladies of Dunbury series I have created under the pen name Anne Gallagher. It is the fourth in the series. (Eight years ago, before even writing the first word in the first novel, I had already made a complete story-arc with synopsis (synopsi?) for each of the planned seven novels.)

So here I was, three novels under my belt, and I have this character I can't stand. I just don't like her and have no idea how to write about her. Problem is, she's already in all the other books. I can't just "erase" her. I have to suck it up and do it. How hard could it be? I know what's supposed to happen in the story.

Writing is Hard Work
For the last several years, I have also been my mother's caregiver. As I began the novel, I confess my mother was the majority of the excuses I used so I didn't have to write.  I despised the main character. I wrote and wrote, but was only comfortable writing her hero's part. And then one day I had an epiphany...or rather, an epiphany struck me, when after bitching about this particular character, a friend of mine said, "Well, just change her. You are the writer."
I could...
Change the plot by making it less complicated.
Change the secret the main character holds about herself.
Change the story arc to one of intrigue or espionage.
(I like writing espionage.)
Change the way the story ends. And how short or long it eventually becomes.

As soon as I realized all this, my brain has been humming with excitement. I have all new ideas for the ending now. Funny how one little thing can change your whole perspective.

Stop Thinking It Has To Be A Novel
I also think the biggest thing I got over was that this story HAD to be a NOVEL. I didn't even want to try to create the minimalist 65thousand k. It would take up too much time I just didn't have. And then, BLAM! It hit me. I could turn it into a NOVELLA! OMG just smack me upside the head for not having this idea sooner.

It's funny how just one simple little thing can change your whole perspective. And don't ask me why I didn't think of it before. It's a brilliant idea, especially when I have the next four in front of me. It will fit into the new scheme for the rest of the series.

Out of the Mouths of Babes
I've taught a short story writing class to the middle-school kids at my daughter's school for the last two years. I tell them, "If you ever get stuck in your story and can't get out, either blow something up, or start a fire. The characters have to respond."

And it's not as if I'm blowing something up, or starting a fire in the story that has changed my way of thinking about it (although someone does get a very nasty cold), but rather, something blew up inside of me.

I have been following the same guidelines on this series for that last (almost) decade. I had every intention of writing seven full-length novels (85-95k). I was not going to veer from that course. I thought about acquiring Dragon, the speech-to-text writer just because I thought it might make it easier for me to write. And then, one day, I woke up and said, "Nope. I just can't write a novel."

And that's when the stars in the heaven rained down their sparkle dust on my little brain. My writing grew stronger. Plots twisted, characters turned. The end was in sight, rather than light years away. Writing this story is easier now. Don't get me wrong, I'm still not crazy about the heroine, but she's less annoying than she was. And the ending is going to be kick-ass.

In Conclusion
The biggest take-away from this is that I want to get the story right. If I had continued on my path, I would have written a shitty novel. Now that I've changed course to a novella, the writing has improved, the story flows better, quicker. And smaller is not always bad.

Robynne Rand (c) 2019

Reviews and Why We All Need Them

As a young, published writer, I constantly checked my reviews. Twice, three times a day. Crazy. I know, right. The more reviews, the better exposure, sky-rocket to #1. Break-out authors happened back in the good old days. Kindle, Nook, ipad, didn't matter. Digital was the new black. Then algorythms happened, and trolls happened, and mergers happened, and you could buy reviews, for awhile, but somehow the earth righted itself and publishing settled down into e-reading as the new way of how to read. My mortgage set the tone for how many books/stories I should publish in a year. Back in the good old newbie days, when I was hungry for reviews (they could make or break a career), I would put in marathon days slaving over social media trying to find anyone who would read any of my books. Once I realized my reviews would come from trusted blog allies, not other people, I gave up trying to get them. If I wanted to write and publish to at least stay on the charts, then I couldn't be social with the media.

When I began writing contemporary romantic women's fiction under Robynne Rand, my usual friends gave me the stars I needed to be able to get on the charts. But then, I had a couple of reviews from people I did not know. Boosted ego aside, it was nice that they liked my stories. I made two of them cry. I write from the heart and I usually cry at some point during the writing. That's when I know it's a good book. I digress.

I finally published all the new short stories (see the side bar >>>) and had a love-fest on FB Valentine's night with my friends. There was much discussion about where they could buy them in paperback. (E-version only until I find time to reformat and make the covers.) I tried to explain to them how time-consuming it is and I didn't have the time, but it was like, once I didn't give them a link, they didn't care any more. I thought about the review for my first official FB launch. 5 out of 10. I started strong, but man, I kick myself when I think about the ppb sales I lost that night.

My daughter received her acceptance letter from the private high school we applied to. It is a relief off my shoulders and people have congratulated me. And then they go on to tell me what a fabulous daughter I have--she's smart, she's beautiful, she's kind and polite--with a surprise in their voice, as if, knowing me as they do, seem to doubt that I could possibly do such a thing. What did they think? I wouldn't know how to raise a decent, well-mannered young lady. I was one once. I remember the rules. Sometimes I think that being raised in a poor urban jungle showed me exactly how not to raise my daughter. I guess the reviews are in on my parenting skills.

I finished the short story writing class for the middle school. It was fun, but exhausting. The timing of our venture coincided, not only with the PTO Reader-thon, it was also the end of basketball season and all Varsity teams were headed into two tournaments over the last two weekends of the exercise. I cannot tell you how many parents came up to me at those events and thanked me for what I was doing. How much their kids had learned. I immersed the kids in the process of writing, and writing well, and what it means to be edited, and proofed. Judged for their writing skills, graded on all aspects of what it means to submit a short piece of fiction, formatting included. The reviews are in. I guess I have 10*. Two-thirds of the seventh grade parents asked me if I would do the writing exercise again next year even though my daughter won't be there. Tyler, the teacher, and I have chatted about it, but nothing is set in stone. (I suggested September. PTO wants January.)

My daughter is attending (today) the Model UN conference at the high school she will be attending next year. Model UN is a big thing at our school. All the kids get dressed up. On the way to school yesterday, my daughter was in a panic about what she could possibly wear to the event. She's a sweat-pants, t-shirt kind of kid. Even her "go out with friends pants" are actually jeggings. I told her I would go to our favorite store and see if I could find something. Just so happened, I was putting her clothes away and said to myself, "Let me just see what's in her closet." Lo and behold, was a gorgeous black dress, long-sleeved, just above the knee, would look great with her black boots and my white scarf, with a red-tag clearance sticker hanging from the armpit. Oh yes! I had done it once again. Saved the day with my red-tag clearance sticker priced items.

        I picked my daughter up from school yesterday afternoon (Tues. 26), and she asked,  "Did you go to our favorite store? Did you find me a dress?" I told her the dress was waiting at home. We got home, she ran upstairs, I ran downstairs. I finally saw her again around six. I asked, "So, what about the dress?"
        Open-mouthed, she said, "It's so perfect."
        I nodded. I had scored another 10* review on the Mommy-Meter.

As an old published author, I have very little time even to write, never mind socialize. However, the fastest way to sell books is by word of mouth. Oft times it comes in the shape of a review. I think I'm a pretty good writer. Selfishly, I wish more people would know that. No, this is not a plea for reviews, it's just an observation of having judged and been judged in several different situations over the last several weeks. A review to a writer is validation that people think well of your work.

It's nice to know people think well of me and my daughter.
It's nice to know people know I'm a good teacher.
It's nice to think that if I had published paperbacks instead of e-versions, I would have made a small fortune on Valentine's night.

Still learning from my mistakes.



Robynne Rand (c) 2019

What My Daughter Said About My Writing

So, I finished my short stories, and subsequently published (yay) so that I would not be hindered when I started teaching a short story writing class for the middle school where my daughter attends. This is my second year doing this. However, last year I only had the 6th grade. This year, I am doing 6, 7, & 8th grades. Lots of work, but Tyler (the teacher) believes I am enriching their appreciation for the written word. I show them the basic rules, show them how to come up with a workable plot, and let them have at it.

Some of them hate this class. Some of them love this class. But they all agree that writing is hard work.
They also respect me because at the beginning of each seminar I tell them about the struggles I have had writing as a profession--that I've published over 26 books/novellas, that rewriting and revision can kill you, and that in order to be a "good writer" you have to have written at least a million words that you just throw away. And I can back this up by showing them my published paperbacks and typed manuscripts.

Anyway, during this same time, the PTO decided they were going to combine a fundraising event with the local bookstore. They asked a middle-grade author to do an event at our school. She came in yesterday and spoke about her struggles to sell and eventually publish a book. I did not attend.

During the Pep Rally that was held yesterday afternoon for our basketball team, Tyler handed me the last of the short stories from the 8th grade. We chatted about their struggles trying to "impress" me. (I asked the kids to use fantastic vocabulary and let me say some of their word choices were completely fantastical.) Tyler also chatted about the local author who had spoken to the kids. He said he thought it was good because she reiterated everything that I had already told them--that writing was hard work. She explained her struggles (similar yet different than mine) and told the kids that it was the best job she could ever have. (Exactly what I told them.)

When my daughter got into the car at the end of the day, I asked her what she thought of the local author's event. She looked at me and said, "Lame."

I was disappointed in her answer. I had spoken to Tyler and he had been very impressed. "Why?" I asked.

And my daughter said, "Because she thought she was so cool. She started writing the same year that you did and she only managed to write seven books, six of which were never published. She said it was because she had little kids at home. Well, you had me and did all the volunteer stuff at school that you did. She also said her books were around fifty-five thousand words, and your books are like ninety thousand. And she whined about having to make revisions. She said they were really hard." She rolled her eyes. "She's got nothing on you, Mom."

Out of the mouths of babes. Can I tell you how much I love my daughter. 


Robynne Rand (c) 2019

Working Again

So, jut to let you all know, I published WHAT THE HUMMINGBIRD KNEW. I finished THE UGLY WIFE (coming in at 19k) and is ready to be published. I also have 17k on THE TRUTH ABOUT KEVIN, however, I still can't decide whether to kill Kevin or not. No HEA there. No matter what I do.

However, that ending has to wait because I'm teaching a writing class to middle school students at my daughter's school for the next two weeks. I'm super stoked, it's a lot of fun, for me, not them, I'm a stern taskmaster.

So. I am finally working again. And let me tell you how good that feels.

See you soon.

Robynne Rand (c) 2019