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

New Year, New Stories

Throughout all the bullshit I've been going through lately, I actually have been writing.

Well, sort of.

I finished WHAT THE HUMMINGBIRD KNEW. Still haven't published it.

Then I started working on another short story. THE UGLY WIFE. Almost finished, maybe another two chapters, but can't seem to find the time.

Then, the other night I was having these ridiculous dreams and lo, and behold, I found another story. Short and sweet, but again, alas, no time to spit it out. However, I find if I make a cover for it, it makes me WANT to write it. Although, I guess if I'm toodling around with covers, that is still kind of working. 

And I suppose now, if I have the time to write a blog post, I should have enough time to finish THE UGLY WIFE. My daughter is as basketball practice until 8 tonight. The caregiver is with my mother. Laundry and dishes are done. All the paperwork I have been putting off for weeks is finished. There really is no other excuse is there?

See ya. I'm hitting the keyboard.

Robynne Rand (c) 2019

Threads

It's been over a year since I've been to this blog. I can't remember if I told you or not, but my mother is in the latter stages of Alzheimers/dementia. I have been her primary caregiver for the last eight years. I hope you can see why I haven't been to this blog.

I've also resumed several of the functions at my daughter's school that, being an 8th grade mother this year, I should not have had to take on. The principal laughed in my face. I am doing the same if not more work much to my chagrin. The staff are also under the presumption that I will resume my duties next year, even though my daughter will have graduated. (They can't keep her back, she's making the honor roll.) I laugh at them every time they bring up the subject.

Romantic "Boomer" Short Story

Over the last year, I have begun two manuscripts. They both sit in the mid 20k range. However, I have written and completed one novella and one short story. Both are edited and have been waiting for publication. I know it only takes 5 minutes these days, but I just haven't been able to find the time.

I forgot how much I like writing shorter fiction. However, readers want a longer ending. They are disappointed they can't follow the HEA to a spot in the future. I find that interesting.

It's that time of year when I tend to take a final sweep of the last twelve months and see if I've accomplished anything.  I keep telling my friends that I want to "go back to work." I guess I have, but it doesn't feel like it. I remember the days when I could write 75 thousand publishable words in six weeks. I guess I'm not who I used to be.

It's also that time of year when I tend to look forward. My daughter is heading into (hopefully a private high school) and the volleyball schedule is a nightmare. The school is also an hour from the house (one way). We still can't seem to find a full-time day-time caregiver for my mother that will stick around longer than a couple of months. I need to finish the manuscripts I started before I begin another story. I have had it in the back of my head to build a website for more than five years. I'd like to tackle that this year.

I also think I'd like to blog more. My therapist appreciates the books I write as a cathartic excercise, however, she thinks, and I think I do to, that I need to discuss writing as my "real job" because the job I do at school is not about writing and I never discuss it. How can I stay relevant if I'm not around?

It's that time of year when I clean my house. I begin the week before Thanksgiving and don't finish until we return to school on January 3. Furniture is moved. Clothes are sorted. Cabinets are cleaned. I have two bedrooms, the other half of the dining room, and a hallway I have to finish painting (including all the trim) a bathroom I need to finish floor to ceiling (I tore out the wall tile and the floor) and another bath I have to start. I must also finish the floor in my office and move all the furniture back in. (Is it any wonder I can't write?)

I miss my old life. When I was famous. In my own little microcosmic world. When everybody knew who I was. Now I don't know who I am and I'm certainly not famous--infamous is a much better word. I hate to say that people will definitely remember me after I leave my daughter's school. I am, as it were, a character.

The old urge to write the Great American Novel is coming back. Sure, we all say that, but once the glamour and the hype of being a full-time novelist wears off, most of us write to recieve enough royalties to quit whatever shitty job we have so we can pay the bills. The GAN has long been stuffed to the bottom of my writing list. Until recently. I've been toying with an idea for fifteen years (since I was pregnant). The threads of it change constantly, flowing in an out of existence, sticking somewhere in the gray matter then floating free again. However, it's there and for whatever reason, won't go away.

I also want to start the romatic women's fiction project I've wanted to do since I began volunteering at my daughter's school. If you think your workplace suffers from gossip, political wrangling, and snobbery, you haven't worked for your private school PTO. The sad thing is I'd like to write a screenplay instead of a novel. And that would take forever. However, it would totally work as a movie.

Today, we are dealing with 13" of snow in North Carolina. I have to put on my gear and head down to my parents' house (137 steps away down the hill). I did it twice yesterday. During the storm. It was like walking through rough shoreline chop. My ass tingles today. How many muscles haven't I used?

The only thing I like about snow in North Carolina is that school will be out for at least two days. Maybe I can get some writing in. After I finish the pots and pans from my cook-pocolypse episode yesterday. After I deal with my mother. After I flip the laundry. After I unload the dishwasher. After I shovel the driveway.

I'll see you soon.

Robynne Rand (c) 2018

Discussing The Five Act Structure

Cover # 17 I think I'm
keeping this one

When I started writing THE MECHANIC NEXT DOOR, I thought it would be a slam dunk. I was writing from experience, both on the personal and technological side. I'd done this before, I knew what I was doing, and what I can piece together from what I saved on Twitter and in Versions, I am a fairly proficient writer (when I have time and am in the zone.) All told, it took me 37 eight-hour days to "produce" the finished manuscript. Of course, in reality those 37 days actually took six months. (And let's not forget how many man hours it took for editing and final look-sees and beta readers. And then another round of whatever.)

That being said, during the latter half of the summer, when I was writing the heart of the project, I noticed that the story would not end. Every time I came up with an ending, I found another piece of the puzzle that needed to be shored up. I know as a reader, I would not like to ask at the end of the book, "what happened to...?"

So, I let the story go where it wanted to. A friend of mine used to have as her tagline, "My characters write the stories. I just take dictation." (She's not online anymore, but her name is February Grace. I believe she's on Twitter. Phenomenal storyteller.)

For the last third of my story, I let the characters decide what they wanted to happen because quite frankly, they weren't doing what I wanted them to anyway.

Sometimes, it's the craziest moments when everything comes together.

We had just gotten back to school. I was nearly finished with the book. I was flat-out with gift card responsibilities, volleyball season had started, and the principal asked me to be on semi-permanent car-line duties. I needed to finish the book, but it just wouldn't end.

And then it hit me--because I was thinking it was supposed to be over. Everyone had gotten what they wanted. But not really. It wasn't as if there were loose ends, the story just felt like it had been cut short. There should be more.

Who am I to argue?

I slaved over the last three chapters wanting to make sure I got every little nuance that I had written at the beginning. There were quite a few I have to say. However, I love writing intricacies in a story. It allows a farther reach for the character to develop.

I rewrote the ending four times. Completely. At least 1500-2500 words each time. I wanted to have the "perfect" ending. When I finished, I felt satisfied I had a good product.

Blam! 

And then it hit me. I had just written another five-act structured novel. I was following a pattern. My contemporary women's fiction were both five-acts. My Regencies were not. Neither are the murder mysteries.

One of the very first rejection letters I received in my young career mentioned my "purple prose." I tend to write very long flowery sentences-- a throwback to what I used to read during my formative years. I guess I still do it, only in a different genre.

Women's fiction is supposed to mimic real life. Well, life has a way of moving up and down. Yes, sometimes, when we think the worst is over, another wave comes crashing in to unsettle us again for however, how long. For those of you who are lucky enough, the second wave brings good news.

Over

Well, now the book is finished and out in the world. Yes, I still have to go through it and have my trusted writing friends go through it, but I needed to get it out of my computer for me to be able to move on.

It's called a "soft opening." I just sort of learned that/remembered that phrase a couple of days ago. More on this in another post.

Robynne Rand (c) 2017

Editing, Publishing, and Writing Again

Last January (2016) I said on this blog that I wrote three murder mysteries. I finally finished editing the last one, and they are published under another pen name I have.
Logan Hendricks. You can find information about that here. 

 They are not available on Amazon. (That is another story.) However, you can find them on Smashwords, itunes, and Kobo. I tried to find my links to itunes and Kobo but couldn't. When I do I'll post them. I only Tweeted about them once, or twice, quite frankly because I haven't had time.

FROM THE SKY is the next one in the series. I'm about half-way finished. They're each a little over 100 pages. Nice easy afternoon read. No blood. No gore. No psychological drama. Not a whole lot of swearing. Just plain and simple murder mystery stories about a detective and his unofficial partner, a pot-smoking astrologist, and what happens to them while on the job and off. The 6th grade teacher at school read them and he said they're a cross between Law & Order and James Patterson's Jesse Stone.

I also published
THE MECHANIC NEXT DOOR
two weekends ago. I'm still waiting to take
more pictures to try and figure out if I should
bother finding another cover.

However, I just started writing the Regency romance that should have been started in August--according to the schedule I set for myself (time and again) and I'm always ALWAYS off by six weeks. Always.

So, I know how long it SHOULD take me to write the Regency. I SHOULD be able to publish by Christmas. HOWEVER, I know things will get in the way and it won't be finished until Valentine's Day. So, be forewarned if you read Anne Gallagher Regencies. She'll be late with her next book.


Anyway, once volleyball season is over (Saturday) I'll be able to breath.
I have to return to school now. Time for car line duty. And how on God's good green earth did I get stuck doing this job now?  Grrrr...

Robynne Rand (c) 2017

Changing the Title and Cover Again Part 37

Okay, I skipped a few in between 3 and 36. I've changed the cover a lot. I've changed the title 3 times. For those of you who were here last week, that new cover I showed you--yeah, everyone I showed it to in the real world said no. Except Kim. I then found the perfect picture. I made up the cover. It's still not what I want.

I happened to see Katrina the other morning. She has a camera. A nice one. We asked Mrs. Martinez if we could borrow her truck for a picture. Katrina and Rosario took some great pictures. Then Katrina hurt her back so she hasn't sent them to me yet. I'm hoping to take some more next week with the janitor's truck. It's white and would showcase the font against the green backdrop.

Which leads me to the font. Again, giving me fits. I picked three. I found new ones. I mixed and matched. Grrr.

So, I'm back to the beginning. The girl with the dog. Because I think once you read the book, you'll get the cover. And I've always liked that cover. It's comfortable.

At forty-two, Abby Pryzbylowicz had everything she thought she ever wanted—nice apartment, nice car, nice life. A novelist by trade, she penned romance novels for the money, detective mysteries for fun, and the occasional piece of literary fiction to keep her name in the papers. A reclusive woman by choice, she only wanted to be left alone with her characters. However, when her cousin phoned and begged Abby to help with her mother she couldn’t say no. Abby loved Aunt Rose. Besides, it was only for the summer.

Upon her arrival to Rose MacLaren’s house, Abby found her aunt a ferocious hoarder, had frequent bouts of forgetfulness, and a penchant for choosing her clothing according to color rather than season. Conversations had to be pieced together to make sense. And convincing Rose not to drive proved to be a covert operation. 

When Abby set out to help her aunt, she thought it would be simple enough. All she had to do was clean the house and get it ready to sell. Rose was moving in with her daughter in September. However, as family skeletons started falling out of the closet, Abby’s only confidant was the mechanic next door.

Dealing with him was another story. 

It should be available everywhere.

Robynne Rand (c) 2017

Changing the Title of Your Book When Nothing Else Seems to Work

So, I was writing all summer with the intent to publish in September. I had a perfect title (which I'm not going to share because I may want to use it again). The book was supposed to be about a woman and a jerkface dog. Well, half-way through the manuscript, the dog semi-disappeared and the story became more about the woman, her aunt, and the guy who owned the dog. So, I changed the title again.

It was great. Or so I thought. I found three pictures for the cover (because I couldn't make up my mind which one I liked best), made mock-ups, and showed them to my friends. Twelve friends to be exact. It was a 3-way tie.

After discussing the situation ad nauseum with my very good friend, I decided the only other option I had was to change the title AGAIN. Because once I finished the manuscript, the new changes I had made to the cover copy didn't reflect the old title.

Of course, once I decided to change the title, I then had to search for more cover pictures. Because the old pictures didn't fit either. And luckily, I found one. While making the cover (yes, I know how to do that) I found that my fonts were all icky. Nothing looked right. So, I had to search for new fonts.

So, here we are with a new title and a new cover design. Now, I just have to go back in and edit the manuscript and I should be good.

Naturally, that all depends on what the Gang of 12 have to say about it. I sent them the new mock-up about 20 minutes ago. Let's see if they like it.

What do you think?

At forty-two, Abby Pryzbylowicz had everything she thought she ever wanted—nice apartment, nice car, nice life. A novelist by trade, she penned romance novels for the money, detective mysteries for fun, and the occasional piece of literary fiction to keep her name in the papers. A reclusive woman by choice, she only wanted to be left alone with her characters. However, when her cousin phoned and begged Abby to help with her mother she couldn’t say no. Abby loved Aunt Rose. Besides, it was only for the summer.

Upon her arrival to Rose MacLaren’s house, Abby found her aunt a ferocious hoarder, had frequent bouts of forgetfulness, and a penchant for choosing her clothing according to color rather than season. Conversations had to be pieced together to make sense. Convincing Rose not to drive proved to be a covert operation. But every Saturday night at eight o’clock, Rose parked herself in front of the television to watch a British comedy on PBS, just like any other little old lady on the block.

When Abby set out to help her aunt, she thought it would be simple enough. All she had to do was clean the house and get it ready to sell. Rose was moving in with her daughter in September. However, as family skeletons started falling out of the closet, Abby’s only confidant was the mechanic next door.

Dealing with him was another story.

Robynne Rand (c) 2017

The Perils of Pen Names

Robynne Rand is my pen name.
Anne Gallagher is my pen name.
Logan Hendricks is my pen name.
None of them is my real name.

Ever since I was little, I've always called myself something other than the chosen name my parents gave me. I'd like to think I was making up characters even then, instead of the likely scenario that I'm really crazy. I was Susan Breckenridge for a long time. I might have been nine. Don't ask me why. Let the therapist figure it out.

Why I Have So Many

I write in niche markets. Traditional Regency romance. Detective murder/mysteries. Contemporary romantic women's fiction. I've found through trial and error that Regency readers generally don't leave the confines of that genre. Women's fiction readers might wander into a detective story, but won't stay for very long if there is too much blood.

In the beginning of my career, I didn't want to lose readers because I didn't write what they wanted to read. Anne Gallagher wrote Regency romance. I did publish REMEMBERING YOU under Anne Gallagher's name, but it was a flop.

I had too many stories, so I found another name.
Too many genres so I found another name.

Why They Are A Problem

Because I have too many. Three different names, four different social media platforms, (remember I'm also piedmontwriter). I can't keep track of half the shit I'm supposed to do in real life, how am I supposed to keep up with four blogs?

I know, I know. Anne R. Allen and I had a long discussion about this a long time ago. She said not to have a pen name. I disagreed. Now, look where I am. Neck deep in schizophrenia. (I don't want to offend anyone if you are schizophrenic. I empathize with your situation.)

Whilst reading a book on menopause, I came across some interesting information. It said women who are going through the change will lose their mind.
Unequivocally.
It's a scientific fact.
I feel so much better.

What I Would Like to Do

I would love to design a website for Shore Road Publishing and house everybody under one roof. That way I'm only there once instead of all over the place four times a week. Sounds good and easy in theory, and probably would be in practice, but I just don't have the time to research and write and upload and download and all that crap. I want someone to do it for me. But I want input. And that costs money.

The cat's surgery broke my bank account. (That's another story.)

What I am Going to Do

Ignore the bullshit. Just write. Sooner or later, after one of the books I'm currently involved in gets published, I'll figure it out. My head's just not in the right space to do so right now. My Saturdays are spent at volleyball games until mid-October. That used to be my work-on-other-things-day-but-still-related-to-writing-so-I-can say-I'm-working-day. And Sunday is my get-the-laundry-finished-day. Mon. thru Fri. I'm writing.

The writing guru's say you need to have a website, blah blah blah. As a Taurus, I find it's easier to ruminate on serious issues before tackling anything this big. But I have to figure it out before my friend moves away. She said she'd help me.


Luckily, I don't think are any other genres I wish to write in, so the names I have will do.
However, I had an idea about a non-fiction book.


Robynne Rand (c) 2017

The Caveat

Last week, I told you how I ignore the bullshit of my daily life to carve out several slots of time where I may write uninterrupted. I also stated what pulls me away from that. Perhaps a little TMI, but hey, I was proving a point. We all have bullshit. The day-to-day grind that eats at us so badly, that we might go mad if we don't get out from under it. I wanted you to see what I deal with every day so when you think, "Oh, I don't have time to write." You do. You just have to learn how to ignore the chocolate syrup on the kitchen floor. (This is another story.)

Where I Am

Currently, (As of this writing. When you read this, I might be finished.) I am 73 thousand words into a romantic women's fiction novel that I started in April. (While on spring break working with my brother in the yard using the heavy equipment, and also writing a Regency romance. Don't ask me how I managed 6,000 words during that time.) It's a good book. I like it. It has enough twists and turns to keep the reader engaged.

I was working on it steadily enough through the summer, maybe three or four times a week, (you know how summer goes with kids) but then at the end of July, I realized school was coming on fast and I needed to get 'er done. I was Tweeting and engaging, and building up buzz across social media. (See, it's on my sidebar. Right there >>>) I was doing what I needed to do, in the zone, plowing through three and four thousand words a day. I had very strong feelings about this book. This book was going to be the book. You know, that one novel that would finally get people talking about me. I was almost finished. I had twenty-two days before school started. Finishing the book would be a piece of cake.

Problem is, every once in a while life throws us a blindsided curveball and we are hit so far out of left field we are out of the game.

Mike Wyzcowski

Mike is my little cat. She's seven months old. Yes, she's a female and her name is Mike. Why? (That's another story.) Monster found her during recess one day last March behind the fenced-in shed at the back of the soccer field at school.

When I arrived to pick Monster up, she begged me to bring the cat home. I said, "If she follows us to the car I'll take her home and feed her and then we'll see what happens." *stern Mommy face* The cat followed us to the car, climbed on Monster's lap, settled down, and took a nap for the half-hour ride home. Once there, I fed her (poor thing was starving), she curled up on the couch and slept for two days straight.

We kept the cat. I fell in love with the cat. The cat is funny, and sweet, and just such a great little cat. She sits on the kitchen counter (drives me NUTS) and watches me do whatever it is I'm doing. She talks when I walk into a room she's in to let me know she's there. People say, "She's just a cat." No. She's not. She is my familiar. I love this cat. More so than I ever thought possible.

Crisis Hits

On August 9, Mike started throwing up.  After every meal. All the time. I brought her to the vet the following Monday morning. (Don't judge. I thought she had gotten into the trash and ate something rotten.) By Wednesday (16) that week, Mike was in surgery for an exploratory because the x-ray showed something but they couldn't determine what it was. I thought it was a hair band. Monster leaves them all over the house.

All was going to be fine with the cat. She was in the doctor's hands. I could relax and finish the book. I had 6 days left.

Mike came home Thursday afternoon. I let her be until Friday night when I gave her the anti-vomit pill that I crushed up and slipped in her food. She threw it up. I gave her the pain meds in little plastic vials the doctor had given me. She threw it up. Saturday was the same. Only Saturday afternoon, she laid down on the windowsill in the front room and wouldn't budge. She may have had some kind of seizure (I think), and then crawled under the hutch and stayed there.

Cats always find a hole to crawl in when they know they're going to die.

I was very upset. I went to bed. Sunday for the cat was no better. She greeted me when I came downstairs, but threw up the milk. Mike laid down in the windowsill again and stayed there all day, pathetic and miserable. She had lost so much weight. She was starving and there was nothing I could do about it. I figured she would die that night.

I went through the Seven Stages of Grief, cried my eyes out, railed at God, and woke up Monday morning, fully prepared to find Mike stiff. I quietly crept through the house looking in her spots. I couldn't find her. I walked into the kitchen and there she was, sitting on the kitchen counter, waiting for me. She was back to normal!
I gave her food. She threw it up. I called the clinic and spoke with a nurse and a doctor to discuss her condition. They persuaded me the best thing I could do was to put her down. "But she was better," I cried. I told them about the kitchen counter. I told them how she walked out of the front room while I made dinner Sunday night.

At two o'clock, on the day of the eclipse, Monster and I took Mike for the long walk home. The staff was very kind. They gave us a room. The doctor wasn't quite ready for us. Mike walked around, sniffed everything in sight. She meowed (something she hadn't done since she'd been sick) and was acting like her normal self.

The doctor came in and I said, "I do not want to put this cat down. Even though I know that's what I said I would do. Her whites are still white and her pinks are still pink.) Which is what he told me the very first time he saw her. We discussed treatment options. Mike ended up with heavy duty shots of steroids, antibiotics, and anti-vomit medication. She came home and began to eat that night.

Drama Queen
I am a drama queen. I excel at it. Think Auntie Mame. However, I was so distraught over Mike, I completely shut down. I laid in my room for those two days that last weekend and cried. #MDF and Monster didn't know what to do for me. Thankfully, they left me alone.

Not only was I crying for the cat, but myself and my new book that would now not be finished and ready to publish by September first. This episode also threw off all the other writing I wanted to tackle as well. I've been trying to finish book 4 in the murder/ mysteries, as well as start on the next Regency romance. Now my schedule was thrown out the window.

Now, I know that my crisis is not the same as yours. I never intended it to be. And your next crisis I hope will not be something that I ever have the misfortune to bear. What I'm saying is, it doesn't matter what it is, it's personal to you. The writing goals I had set for myself were off schedule. I couldn't get that time back. Dealing with the cat was a priority. I set the book aside.

Would I do it again?
You bet.

#notamwriting

I didn't write one word from that first Thursday morning after I realized something was seriously wrong with Mike until a week after I made my stand and took her home.

I couldn't. I just didn't have it in me. And I knew if I did that I would write garbage I would only delete later anyway. It would be wasted time. And I hate to waste time.

Writing during a crisis is lunacy. Priorities are priorities. It takes great courage and strength of purpose to decide which road to take during whatever curveball hits you. My cat took me out. Never saw it coming. I wanted to finish my book. That didn't happen.

Bullshit of Life

When I say, ignore the bullshit. Just write. What I mean is, the everyday crap that we all put up with as writers. "Oh, you're home all day, you can drive for the field trip." "Oh, can you run to the market on your way home and pick up milk?" Just. Say. No. That time, those moments are set aside so you can rewrite the last scene you worked on.  You need to get home and finish it.

That is my reality and THAT is the kind of bullshit you are meant to ignore. Doing either of those things would cut into my writing time. And that is something you will not do.

(However, you might begin to make compromises because of the extraordinary guilt that you feel. Yes, you will do the laundry if left alone for forty-five minutes. Yes, you will do the dishes before sitting down to Chapter Nineteen. Let them see you are at least trying to be better at keeping up with the bullshit of life.)

And don't get me wrong, I love my life. Dealing with the crisis of Mike made me realize how complacent I've become in certain areas. I needed to prioritize. And prioritize I did. Writing remains in the top three. It's who I am. It's what I do. Shouldn't I be treated like any other normal person with a full-time job even though I work from home? Would you interrupt a therapist if she saw patients at her home?

Crisis Over. Ignore the bullshit. Just write. 

Dealing with a crisis, is like a story. It needs to have a beginning, a middle, and an end, to be any good. I'm finished with mine. Mike is doing fine. I'm working on several projects at once. Volleyball is ever present. Life is back to normal.

Right now, there are five loads of laundry on the sofa that have to be folded and put away. A 2400' square foot house that needs to be vacuumed. Toilets to scrub. Dinner to make, animals to feed, clothes for volleyball tomorrow, what is for lunch?

It'll still be waiting for me when I go upstairs.

Now, if I can only find a lawn guy to cut the grass.

Ignore the bullshit. Just write. #ignorebswrite



Robynne Rand (c) 2017

Ignore The Bullshit. Just Write. #ignorebswrite

Since the last vacation I took over five summers ago, my mother had shown signs of memory loss. We finally got her a diagnosis this past December where we were told she had moderate to severe Alzheimer's disease. (Mind you, her sister was diagnosed twenty years ago, and her father had dementia.) It was coming, but no one in the family wanted to face it. I knew it and wanted to deal with it, but both of my parents refused to acknowledge it and once we did get the diagnosis it was too late for medication.

To say my life has turned upside down is an understatement.

What's in Your Wallet?

I am one of those writers who has a schedule and needs to stick to it. I value the time I have and use it to its fullest. Writing stories is my JOB and I take it seriously. It's not 9-5, but broken up into three- hour slots over the course of the day...9-12, 3-6, 7-10, every day, even Sat. and Sun.

Unfortunately, although the ideal schedule for me, I cannot get anything done. Except laundry. The washer/dryer is in my office.

The Top Five Things That Pull Me Away from Writing

I am a single mother to a 12-year-old girl whose mission in life is to drive me nuts. I am expected to drive Monster to all her practices and games and shopping for school shoes and to friends' houses for pool parties and whatever else she needs me to do for her. This includes laundry and ironing. (I will never give up ironing. I've always ironed.) She has suddenly become a teenager and I have no idea how to handle it. Basketball and boys. I am not a big fan of either. I am her slave. (I say w/out hesitation.)

#MDF (my daughter's father) also lives with us because he is disabled. As the caregiver to a disabled man (with whom I have no relationship) and as #MDF doesn't drive, I must also take him to doctor's appointments, Walmart, and the barber, and at home keep him from overdosing on his meds and falling off the roof. (That's another story.)

My parents live down the street (187 steps away to be exact). As the caregiver for my parents, there are many and varied things that arise at any time during the course of my day to which I must walk those 187 steps immediately to deal with. My mother almost burned down the house once. Most often she has misplaced something and needs me to find it because I always do otherwise she'll drive me crazy by walking up to my house and complaining to #MDF that she can't find whatever-it-is that she misplaced and it's so important that she find it right now that okay fine, I'm up off the chair and on my way upstairs to find out it's the leash she has in her hand. Because she forgot what she was looking for.

I am a semi-important volunteer at my daughter's school. I am the Gift Card Coordinator whose job it is to maintain the year-long fundraising program. It is a full-time position in which I handle accounting, balance sheets, ordering, and purchasing/ processing of gift cards, customer and retailer relations, banking, and monthly, quarterly, and year-end reports without pay and no vacation. (Yes, I went in over the summer.) Basically, I sell gift cards to our families for a split in the rebate 50%-50%. I keep track of who buys, how much, their balance--each family is asked to purchase $2000- worth of gift cards between September-May. At the end of the year, I figure out how much everyone is owed, and pay it out. It's actually a pretty good job as far as it goes. I have a private two-window corner office, (it's really part of the stationary closet) my own outside phone line (something I didn't have in my other office), and my own computer. It makes me feel important* even though everyone knows it's a shit job and that's why nobody wants to replace me. We are in the first week of school. I am exceedingly busy.

And lastly, even though technically, all of the animals belong to Monster, I am the pet parent to 3 dogs and 2 cats, (one of whom just had major surgery). I am fully responsible for their care and well-being. Even though #MDF lives in the same house as the animals, he also forgets to look down into Bella's water bowl and make sure it's full. (We went for 3 days on the coast, left #MDF with the animals. He didn't give the dogs downstairs in my office any water. For 3 days. I told you he's another story.)

I didn't even mention housework, grocery shopping, cooking, dishes, the lawn (acre), laundry (sheets and towels, my clothes, his clothes, dog towels) or how many times I have to reprogram the TV's because no one in either household seems to remember how to change the fucking channel without screwing it up.

To say I don't have time to write is an understatement.

Time Is On My Side

Want to know how I keep my sanity and write. I ignore it. All of it. If no one is bleeding, choking, or fallen down, I ignore it completely and just keep writing. Fuck it. Whatever is up there is going to be up there no matter what time I finish my scene, chapter, whatever it is. In a perfect world, I would be making boatloads of money, have a housecleaner, and a lawn guy, and my office wouldn't stink like bug spray.

Well, I don't live in a perfect world. None of us do. I'm 55 now and have started to read all those books that I was supposed to read years ago. You know, the ones that will tell me what I missed. I decided to prioritize. I need to write otherwise I'll be broken. Otherwise, I'll end up in the grocery store talking to myself.

Ignore the bullshit. Just write. 

Screw it. What are they going to do? Fire me? Go ahead. Make my day. I would love to not have to scrape dried cat food off the bowls before I wash them. I would love to not have to clean the bathrooms. I would love to not have to cut the grass.

I think any shrink would tell me to write my shit down on paper to get it out. Purge my soul, as it were. It will help me. Yeah, maybe. I could do worse things. I used to be pretty good friends with Jack Daniels. So, I write. I ignore everyone. I would rather be with the characters in my head than anyone I know, well, other than Monster. When's she's speaking to me, she's a pretty okay kid.

I Should Be Jewish

The problem with ignoring the people I am supposed to love, and the many responsibilities that call my name throughout each and every single damn day, is the overwhelming guilt I carry. I was raised to be a nice Irish Catholic girl who obeys Mommy and Daddy and marries the first nice boy who asked. (I didn't date nice boys.) Essentially, I never left home. Oh, I had my own places, apartments, summer rentals, winter rentals, I lived with a few guys, but I always kept my bedroom at the family beach house. And I would use it. Frequently. (Mind, we haven't owned the beach house in Rhode Island for 14 years.) Now, whenever I go down to my mother's, she thinks that I live with them, and always asks where I'm going.  I can never get away, and when I do, the guilt just about kills me as I walk up the hill to my house.

Nothing. There's nothing I can do for her. When she comes up to my house, (Nearly every day, two, and three times a day on really great days.) I make her something to eat and a cup of tea. She visits, yawns, watches whatever's on television, and then leaves. And then comes back two hours later looking for whatever it is she left, and most times it's not there. She's lonely, I get that. But I don't have time to sit with her. I need to write these freaking books and get them published because winter's coming and the electric bill will be sky high. I am the sole earner in my family.

What's a Writer to Do? 

Ignore them. Maybe they'll go away. They won't. I remember when Monster was three, I had locked myself in the bathroom for 15 minutes of quiet. When I came out, the living room had been destroyed, yogurt smeared everywhere, Cheerios smashed into the rug, toys, dogs, and a dirty diaper.

I picked up the mess and learned how to ignore whatever Disney movie was playing in the background. I'm a writer. Yeah, I'm a mother too. But that's different. The kid would win in every showdown. Writing is something I do for myself, as a woman, as the creative person I am. Some people paint. Others make things with their hands. I happen to write.

I ignore everything during those three hours. Those are mine, they are sacred, there is no compromise. Unless there is fire.

And that caveat is next week.

Ignore the bullshit. Just write. #ignorebswrite


Robynne Rand (c) 2017


*sounds like a killer resume, right?

Character Displacement Disorder**

I've been so enmeshed in the novel that I'm writing that last Friday, every time I came up from my office, I had to keep asking what day it was, I thought it was Monday. And why I fully expected it to be raining (because it was in my book).

I've never done a poll for it, but someone probably should, and ask the question--

Have you ever been so immersed in what you were writing you lost all track of place and time?

I find this phenomenon truly bizarre and exciting at the same time. I mean, the human brain is a complex machine of infinite possibility, and to take what we think is right, Friday and sunny, and make us believe it's Monday and raining. Well, shakes the soul a little bit.

I suppose it's the trick to how hypnotists ply their craft. Trick the brain into thinking one thing when it's really another. I know because I was hypnotized once in a comedy act in Vegas. It was a funny skit--the hypnotist wanted me to think I was drunk, my shoe was a phone, I had to get ready for a date, but the shoe phone kept ringing. I remember everything I did on stage, but don't have an accounting for WHY I did it.

The power of persuasion. That is what all great writing really is. The power to persuade another human they have escaped their current time and space and have been transported to another.

However, that is the reader's experience. What I'm talking about specifically here is the writer's experience.

If we, as writers, are sitting in the BICHOK position, writing, and are fully conscious of the fact that this indeed is what we are doing (in Provo UT, Denver CO, Bethania NC at 6, 9, 11 am on any given day) then how can we be somewhere else at the same time that doesn't even exist except in our minds?

Dr. Who Anyone?

In my previous post, I talked about Fate, Karma, Kismet, and Serendipity (and a bunch of other nonlinear things). I guess I forgot to add time travel. And virtual reality. Because isn't that what we do as writers? We live and breathe in an existence that does not belong to us, per se, but our characters, but we are the creators of those characters and does not each of those characters have a bit of us in them, therefore we are the characters who are living in that virtual reality.

I think that's a bit too deep for me, even though I wrote it. But does it make sense?

How did I get sick?

Two weeks ago, I wrote a scene where my main character begins to come down with a sinus infection. As I was writing, my throat began to itch. My eyes started to water, I developed a headache, and then sneezed so many times, my daughter called down to my office, "Are you all right?"

I felt fine as soon as I stepped away from the computer screen. As soon as my concentration was broken. However, the second I got back into the scene, I started to feel lousy again.

Had I hypnotized myself? I didn't think you could do that.

Character Displacement Disorder**

to lose all cognizance of reality and become immersed in the virtual reality of the world you are creating; to feel the emotional and physical effects of the make-believe character

**This is not a true medical disorder. I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on television.

I wonder if gamers experience this phenomenon as well. I would presume they do. They have all the right tools, headphones, goggles, they're surrounded by their world.

If I am just sitting in front of a computer screen, then how can I lose myself if all I have to do is look up to break the trance? And if I don't look up, does that mean I don't want to break the trance? Does that subconsciously mean because I don't look up that I would rather stay in that world, the one I have created, than in the real one?

Or does it mean, that I am an awesome writer who has so engaged her audience (ME!) that getting to the next page is more important than a little snotty nose?

(I have just sneezed six times in a row. Is just thinking about being sick made me sick? Have I just incurred a residual hypnosis? Can you even do that? *sneeze*)


The mind is an awesome creation. Somedays I just wish it came with a set of directions.


Robynne Rand (c) 2017

Back to Basics -- The Purpose of This Blog

Originally, this blog was supposed to be a place to house this pen name. A place where readers could find me on which I sporadically blog. It's gone dark for years, and then I'll resurrect it for two weeks or months, and then it goes black again. I couldn't get my act together. I have two other blogs to deal with. For months I have been trying to decide what to do with it. I either needed to cut the cord or figure out how to incorporate Robynne Rand into the larger website I'm trying to design.

The Moon is in The Seventh House

Faithfully, every month I read my horoscope with hope and trepidation. I don't ever admit I buy into the hocus pocus in polite company, but I do. Horoscopes, astrology, healing crystals, tarot cards, Native American spirituality, mediums, ghosts, angels, destiny, karma, serendipity, all of it. I also believe in alien life, shape-shifters, Sasquatch, fairies, and the Loch Ness Monster.

On August 1, I read my horoscope. Four different ones. (If they generally all say the same thing, I'm good. It's when they spout different interpretations of the planets that anything can happen.) This month we have two major events in the skies.  A lunar eclipse and a solar eclipse. A bunch of other shit is going on up there as well, but it's too complicated for me to understand. I just know my life is supposed to change in a big way.

Anyway, part of one horoscope said to look back at where I was 19 years ago, and four months ago as this theme will be where the new shift in my life will occur. It also said my home and its people and contents will be my major focus this month. Buying and selling home and property. That also includes my parents (my father, coincidentally, shares my birthday). It also mentioned someone from the past will appear out of the blue. ( I get this every so often and nothing ever happens.)

Romance is not the predominant driving force for this cycle.
Publishing, Writing, School, Internet, Recognition are. (I get this all the time. Nothing ever happens.)

Last week, I picked up a copy of Christiane Northup's Women and Menopause. I'm nearly finished going through the "change", but better read late than never. Besides, I already had the copy of Women's Bodies, Women's Medicine. It would complete the set. Monster had volleyball practice Monday night, so I took the book with me and sat in the car for two hours reading. (When she got in the car she said, "Wow, you're already up to page 69! (She hates to read. Thinks it's boring.)

In the book, Northup quoted a Native American Tarot card. I used to read Native American Tarot cards. Nineteen years ago. Along with the other insights I received from the author's words, I took it as a sign. The Universe was telling me something and I needed to pay attention.

Jupiter Aligns with Mars

Last week, my father received a letter from my Cousin Kathy, Uncle Jake's daughter. Jake is my father's brother (fought in WWII, received the Medal of Honor from Sen. Jack Reed, and was buried with full military honors). He died in October last year. Anyway, Kathy's letter contained her account of the last days she spent with Jake. It was very moving, detailed, and sad. My father told me to send Kathy a response. He couldn't do it.

Because I'm a volunteer at Monster's school and have a semi-important job, I have been there on and off all summer. On Wednesday, the teachers had their annual get-back-together lunch and workshop. I went to my office and did my thing all the while knowing that I was going to see the man who left me a year ago to marry another woman. (Read on to find out what happened.)

And Peace Will Guide the Planet

My mother has Alzheimer's. Enough said. However, I have been trying for years to convince my father to get help in a few days a week. I can only do so much. When I was at school Wednesday, I ran into a lady I knew from the church. Virginia is her name. She's Latina, and just so sweet. I talked to her last year about helping my mother. She had two other jobs and couldn't get away. Then I found out she began working for one of the teachers whose dad suffered from Alzheimer's. I was angry that Jean would undercut me like that. Good help is hard to find and I needed help.

At school yesterday, I also saw Jean, who buried her father in June. I also ran into Virgina (something completely out of the blue whom I hadn't seen since March 2016) I begged her  to come and work for me. (As of this writing, I still haven't told my father she's coming.)  Virginia said to me, "I know you think I abandoned you last year, but Jean's father needed me more at that time. You have always been a strong woman and I knew you could do what you needed to do for your mother for a little while longer. But now I am here for you with no encumbrances and everything will be fine."

I am a strong woman and did perfectly fine on my own. But now the moon was in the seventh house and Virginia has come to save me. Didn't I mention that my horoscope said part of my theme would be my parents? and the past?

And Love Is In the Stars

To get back to the man. The basics--He is 42. I am 55. He is gorgeous. I am not. He has 2 Master's Degrees. I have a single B.A. When I met him he had been engaged to her for 3 years. My ex and I have been living separate and apart for the last 10 of our 13-year relationship, even though we live together. (Another long story. Someday I'll tell you.) The man met My Daughter's Father (#MDF) last summer and understands my living arrangement.

During our brief, year long "friendship" the man and I discussed books and art and politics and life and philosophy and music and he read all my books and I helped him with his curriculum and we were nearly inseparable when we could be together. We talked about everything. He was intellectually superior to me, but I was thirteen years older than he was. I could boss him around and he didn't care. I loved him. L.O.V.E.D. him and was devastated when he left. Don't get me wrong, deep down inside, I wasn't fooling myself. I knew it could never work out between us, but the fantasy I had read about in books was actually my reality and the reality was pretty amazing.  While it lasted.

He had taken another job two Septembers ago and would be going west over that summer to marry his fiancee.  I would never see him again. Ask my best friend Debbie how I cried. But life moves on and in the end, I got over it.

Anyway, as fate would have it, in May I found out he would be returning to the school this August. All summer long, I concocted various scenarios in my head of how I would greet this man when I first saw him. How I needed to show him that what we had was all in the past. How I'm just fine and not weeping anymore. (told you I loved him) I was all right that he married his girlfriend. As I said, I am always at school, so I had to put aside my feelings and behave in a rational manner. I was an adult. I could do this.

To make a long story short. I finally saw him. In the office. He said hello. I said hello. I left the office. Pretty good. I wasn't hysterical. I pretty much ignored him. Yay me. Walking back to my office, I stopped in to see Jean and Julie, talked for a few minutes and then stepped back into the hall to proceed on my merry way. The man was waiting for me by the water cooler.

It was as if we had never been apart. The words just came tumbling from our lips, babbling coherently/incoherently to keep up with the other's questions. I couldn't contain my curiosity and asked him, "How was the wedding?" And he said, "She dumped me."

That's all I'll say about that. However, he also asked if I had finished my detective stories. No, but am working on them. I mentioned the book on menopause I was reading and he asked, "You're reading again?" (Another insight I found along the way.) The entire experience was like we were never parted. If he were any other man, I would say he likes me in that way. I'll let you know what happens.

The Past is the Present is the Future

Nineteen years ago, I was working as a bartender in small mining town in Nevada. Men, booze, and trouble were abundant. About a year-and-a-half, after I got there, things weren't working out for me so much and all I could think about was what a mistake I had made leaving the best job I ever had and wanting to get back home. There was a solar eclipse that also fell under a lunar eclipse in August.

Four months ago, in April, I was trying to find us a beach house to rent back home for the summer. I was thwarted at every turn. I also began writing the book I am currently trying to finish. A woman's journey to help her aunt battle Alzheimer's demons and what happens when the family skeletons fall out of the closet. Every conversation in one form or other between Rose and Abby is true. I've also tied in other main characters from previously published books, which was fun for me to revisit and see where they are now. I am writing what I know, setting it in the place that I know best. Home.

Nineteen years ago, my aunt was diagnosed with severe to moderate Alzheimer's.

When I write, I always find pictures of my characters to help in the process. When I found the love interest, (I write romantic women's fiction) I nearly lost my mind when I also found out the actor I had chosen also shared my birthday (albeit different years) and had once played a character by the name of Billy Gallagher. (My true life grandfather's name.) (Gallagher. The other pen name that I write under.)

I always kept a journal. Always. Since I was fourteen. After I read, ARE YOU THERE GOD? IT'S ME, MARGARET. I stopped keeping one when I moved to Nevada nineteen years ago. *cue Twilight Zone music*

I hide the last journal I wrote in at the bottom of my underwear drawer.
Some people keep their jewels there.
Originally, I didn't know what this blog was supposed to be for.

Now, I think I do.





Robynne Rand (c) 2017



Coming Soon

Ignore The Bullshit. Just Write #ignorebswrite

Scarborough Beach, Rhode Island

So, we were supposed to vacation in Rhode Island this summer, but due to my mother's illness, (and several other mitigating factors) we are not. To say I'm disappointed is an understatement. To say I'm relieved is something else. However, this has left me time to work on my latest book .

Postcard from 1942 (front parking lot)

As a writer who once lived in Rhode Island, (and is yearning to go back) I try to include as many points of interest in my novels as I can. It helps prevent homesickness (which I've been dealing with for 10 years) and keeps me focused on my writing. I have visual aids stacked up on an old computer screen so I can look at them when I'm "in the zone." (Problem is, sometimes when I'm in the zone I truly have no idea where I am when I here "Mom" from upstairs.)

Anyway, at one point in the story, Abby, the main character, and her Aunt Rose, take a ride to Scarborough Beach. I haven't been to Scarborough since I was in my early 20's (30 years ago). Don't get me wrong, I drive by it all the time (or used to when I visited Narragansett), but it's changed so much it doesn't resonate with me as a writer. When I'm writing I'm thinking about how it USED to be.

This isn't there any more. So sad.

When Scarborough was Scarborough and right next door was Olivo's Beach and then Lido's Beach. Remember that? Remember the Boardwalk? No matter how hard you tried, you always got a splinter, even wearing flip-flops. Remember the seaweed? The long seaweed that would wrap around your legs and scare the living daylights out of you because you thought it was a sea monster coming to get you. The rip currents? The surfers? Salty Brine on 630 WPRO AM radio telling us every half hour, "Time to turn before you burn." (And the famous "No school Foster-Glocester, but that's a story for another day.)

And then, at the end of a long day, Aunt Carries for chowder and clamcakes. Remember when that wasn't famous, it was just the place to go after a long hard day at the beach?

There used to be huge, untamed, rose hips along the sides and back of the restaurant when I was a kid. And Aunt Carrie (yes, a real person) kept chickens in the back that my brother and I would try to feed clamcakes to. Now, it's so commercialized, it's not the same. We went there to eat the last time we were at the beach and yes, the food is still exactly the same (EXACTLY - recipes don't change) but the atmosphere and ambiance was gone. No longer was it the place I remembered from childhood, but a sad reminder that everything changes, nothing stays the same.

Maybe next summer we'll get back to Narragansett for the summer, but for right now, I think I'll keep the Scarborough I remember from my childhood in my head, and in my books.

Robynne Rand (c) 2017