Author: stella

I opened up the email, with the subject matter, your cover art and held my breath.

First, for a split second, I couldn’t believe it. I must’ve jumped into an alternate universe, where I was a published writer. I closed my eyes and waited to be zapped back into my humdrum life as a software developer.

When it didn’t happen, I squealed like a little piggy. Weeeee! Squeeeee! Weeeee! Yup, I did, like a little kid jumping up and down on Easter morn with a basketful of jelly beans and chocolate.

Oh my God. What if no one likes it? Shivering, I bit my lower lip. What if I can’t really write and this is a horrible, horrible mistake. Take it back. I change my mind. Let me rewrite it just one more time. I’m sure I can do better.

What? Of course not. I’m so, so, sorry, you two. You’ve been through so much to arrive here; a forced marriage, the inquisition, and King Edward’s ever-watchful eye. You deserve this kiss in front of your keep. I wouldn’t take that away. Forgive me?

Maybe, eventually I will get some good reviews and you can make a guest appearance in book two. Then, perhaps, I could dare believe I am really a writer.

Wow. The first day of Spring. Damn, I still have those two pounds to lose from Christmas. Wish I planted those crocuses last year, but then, the squirrels would just have them hidden all throughout the lawn. At least I’d see some signs of spring. What did my husband mention about Friday night? Did I feed the cats? When is their next vet visit? When is my dentist visit? Did I schedule a mammogram?

What if our characters spewed out all the stuff that goes on in their brains? I often wonder what that would be like. The plot would never proceed; the hero would no doubt go out and find a beer, and the evil protagonists would win out.

So how do we, the writer, decide what to give away of the minds rambling. From what I’ve heard, women are much different than men. We must have a thousand thoughts to their one, forcing the internal dialogs in my novels to be more one-sided.

I’ve tried to question men about what they think about. As a generalization, forgive me guys, their thoughts seem not to be so wrought with what-ifs. Apparently, a million years ago, that trait helped out in the survival of the species. I can just hear it now. His brain thinks, ugh, I go kill and find food.

Hers is much more. Does he like me? Will he feed me? Will he warm with me tonight? Maybe I should get some more tree branches, just in case. Will it smoke? What if the fire goes out? Who is that female and why does she have a warmer fur than mine. Who is her mate? Should I find some berries?

I digress. So. How much to add of the internal dialog? My first writing had very little and it was void, like watching a movie. After reading that critique, always the over-achiever, I made my characters blather incessantly. Ouch.

How much of internal dialog, as a reader, do you want to read? Do you think the amount of male dialog should match the female?

Help me out.

[wppb-register]

Going to be on HAG blogging on April 29th.

How did I start winning Romance Writers of America contests? See below.

Year of our Lord 1276

“By God, drag her down here! Naked if you must!  Bread and water from now to eternity if you cannot!” Sir Marcus Blackwell slammed his fist on the well-worn table and the sound echoed back from every direction. Of all the bad luck. Forced into marriage with a foul-mouthed, murderous widow.

He clenched his teeth when the next bout of high-pitched screams and curses exploded from the floor above. Crashes, clanging, and banging followed. Marcus cringed while Lady Ann’s strident screaming rang throughout the stone manor and probably into the courtyard.

“He cannot steal my lands this easily. He shall live just long enough to rue this day. I shall never, ever, turn my people over to a blood-thirsty, gold-grabbing beast. I would rather be cursed to hell. Nay verily, I would rather marry the devil himself than see myself married to him.”

Beast? He’d strangle the minstrel who’d taken his sword’s moniker and baptized him with that odious name. He was a holy crusader and deserving of respect. Crossing himself and counting to ten, he paced the dark hall lit by one weak torch. Shadows danced across dark tapestries, across a great hearth the size of several horses, and over enough tables to feed a small army. Thatch crunched under his boots releasing a perfume of lavender and grasses. He stopped for a respite of blessed silence.