Celebrating the Written Word

MY OTHER JOBS

2011-10-20T07:50:00.000-07:00

When I’m not writing I do various things like cooking and cleaning and laundry and grocery shopping. Very exciting, yes? But the job that takes all of my energy is property management. Twelve years ago we bought eight houses to rent. The market was ripe. Real estate was soaring. We’d make a fortune! As the years rolled on things looked pretty good, property values were going up, we were paying down mortgages, having good luck with tenants and estimated we had quite a bit of equity as a result of our investment.

Then the crash came. We should have seen it coming, but we kept thinking (early on) that it would recover. So we didn’t sell our properties. It would have been hard to, anyway. Even though the tenants were paying their rent on time, most of them tended to be very messy. It’s hard enough to sell a rental property, let alone one that’s in total disarray. In the end we were stuck with all of the houses.

Things got worse. Recently we found out we are “upside-down” on all of them. We owe more money for each and every one of them than they are worth. Yikes! What happened to our fortune? It went down the tube like it did for so many others. What makes it even harder is we no longer have good luck with our tenants.

Two ran out in the middle of the night without paying the rent. One of them owed for the month before as well. (I tend to listen to sob stories and commiserate.) If running out wasn’t bad enough, they left the houses in shambles. It cost a small fortune to get them back into shape in order to re-rent them. I also found out the newspaper ads, which used to be inexpensive were no longer inexpensive. They wanted hundreds of dollars to run a short one to entice new tenants.

I was able to get a contract signed on the one that had the most damage (after spending my children’s inheritance to get it in shape.) Finally, things were looking up! Not so fast. The very next day the air conditioner compressor conveniently located on the outside of the house was missing. The guy I hired to mow the grass and trim the bushes to get the lawn in perfect shape for our new tenant, pointed it out. To make matters worse the compressor had components that were no longer compatible with the actual air conditioning unit itself so we had to purchase the whole enchilada, to the tune of two and a-half-thousand dollars.

Recovering from that we discovered the roof of one of the other homes was beyond repair and needed to be replaced. Once we had that done, the front stoop and staircase of a tri-level collapsed (nobody got hurt, thank the Lord and all his angels.) and had to be rebuilt.

From there it was all downhill. Dishwashers, ovens, septic tanks, garage door openers and rotten siding took over. We were clobbered with repairs bills every time we turned around. All of this makes me very thankful that I have another job: that of a writer. I can bury myself in a story and pretend that my real life is not really happening. Just last week, a tenant called and told me her toilet was backed up and had flooded the bathroom floor.

“Don’t bother me, now” I told her. “I’m in the middle of a very important scene. Call me later when you finish mopping up the mess.”

She did call later. I called the plumber. It was her fault. She’d flushed a yogurt lid down the drain and it didn’t quite make it. We added the cost of it onto her rent and I went back to my manuscript, feeling ever so happy. Maybe things were looking up in the real estate market!

Well, I can always dream. In the interim, I’ll just keep on writing.

Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River, Divorcing-Dwayne, All That's True and The Heavenly Heart, which is available as an e-book. Write to the author at Jackie@jlmiles.com. Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com.

BLOOPERS AND BLUNDERS

2011-09-14T10:50:00.000-07:00

When I received news that my novel Roseflower Creek was to be published, I got overly excited. And when the day arrived for my first booksigning I was still pretty much flying high. Not even the article I read about booksignings being a lesson in humiliation could dampen my spirits. It said if you’re an unknown author, usually only two people attend your event: your mother and the person who booked it. I arrived at the book store early and spied the stack of my debut novels prominently placed near the front door. A desk and chair awaited me. I took my seat and quickly realized the article I’d read was most likely right. No line appeared in front of me. Then something exciting happened. A woman walked in the front door, spotted me sitting at the table and approached. She said she’d be delighted to purchase a copy. Since I wasn’t expecting many people to attend a booksigning for an unknown author, I’d brought along a book to read so I wouldn’t feel so foolish sitting there by my lonesome. It was a copy of Terry Kay’s Taking Lottie Home, which had just been released. Excited that I would be autographing a copy of my book for the very first time, I quickly opened the front cover and wrote: In honor of the written word, and signed my name. The women tucked the book under her arm and proceeded to the check-out line. Shortly thereafter she reappeared at my table and explained that she wanted a copy of Roseflower Creek and handed the book back to me.
Imagine how silly I felt when I realized I’d signed Terry Kay’s Taking Lottie Home! I learned my lesson. I no longer bring a book to read at my signings.

During my book tour the following month I was slated to appear at three stores in North Carolina that were in cities close enough to each other that I could stay at the same Hampton Inn. I’d be there two nights and three days as I had one signing set up per day. The first event was at a Barnes and Noble and everything went very well. I even managed to sell a dozen books. The next day I arrived at a Borders store and discovered I was not scheduled to sign that day at that location. The young girl at the information desk said she’d call the manager and see if he could sort out what had happened. It wasn’t hard to figure out. This was Wednesday. I was scheduled to sign on Thursday. I’d mixed up the stores. I arrived an hour late to the signing I was to be at in the first place and had to explain I’d gone to the wrong store. I told a small fib to cover my embarrassment, exclaiming that I’d been to so many book signings that month my head was swimming and to forgive my confusion. I learned to be more careful when reading my schedule and it never happened again.

Several years later at a book conference I was presenting at, I drew a nice crowd and was prepared to do my very best in presenting Bring Your Characters to Life. During a short introduction of my publishing history, I was interrupted by a conference staff member who had an announcement to make. She stepped up to the podium, a stack of papers in her hand, and explained that several of the remaining sessions had to be reassigned to different locations (she gave no reason and I didn’t ask.) and she would be passing out copies of the changes. She picked up the stack of papers she’d brought with her and made sure each attendee received one.

Now I was ready to begin my presentation. I looked down for my carefully typed notes that had all the information I would be sharing clearly spelled out. I needed those notes because I have trouble memorizing and it was the only way I’d be able to follow through with my presentation. But, my notes were nowhere in sight! I searched through my handouts that I planned to pass out later, but they weren’t there either. I panicked. I’d never be able to do the presentation without my notes to guide me. I apologized to the class, explaining my notes had disappeared and perhaps the woman who’d arrived to hand out the conference changes had picked them up by mistake. I went looking for her, catching up with her at another session. Sure enough, she had my notes tucked at the back of her stack of papers. Thankfully, she hadn’t them out by mistake or I would have had to kill myself. So far I’ve never lost track of my notes again when presenting at book conferences, but I always bring along an extra copy just to be sure I have a back-up plan in place.

Any other authors out there with embarrassing events to share? I’d love to hear them. I won’t feel so alone in my stupidity.

Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River, Divorcing Dwayne, and All That’s True. Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com. Write the author at Jackie@jlmiles.com.

MY WRITING SCHEDULE

2011-07-17T09:12:00.000-07:00

When I first started writing my creative energy announced itself at midnight. I woke each evening at the stroke of twelve like Cinderella, only she was on her way home and I was on my way to the keyboard. I wrote from twelve to five a.m. and tiptoed back to bed, so as not to disturb my husband, when I finished for the night. That schedule worked well. I finished my first two novels, “Roseflower Creek” and “Cold Rock River”.

Gradually, writing in the middle of the night didn’t sit too well with me. Mostly, I slept, slumped in the chair in front of my computer. I got over writing at that ungodly hour and graduated to writing from six a.m. to ten in the morning. Happily, I found I could be very productive during those hours, too. I finished my third book, “Divorcing Dwayne”.

But as time rolled on, I discovered I was no longer an early riser. I would wake at eight a.m. if left on my own without an alarm clock and realized I’d missed two hours on my writing schedule. I adjusted the schedule to eight a.m. to noon, several cups of coffee at the ready. This worked out okay. I finished “All That’s True”, that debuted this past January.

I stayed on that schedule and completed my next novel “Summer Ridge” which is now in the consideration stage with my agent shopping it. “Summer Ridge” follows twelve-year-old Mary Alice Munford, who is struggling with the knowledge that her mother plans to marry her father, a man who abandoned them before she was born. It’s set in the seventies and is reminiscent of “Paper Moon”, for those of you who remember that movie. The movie was based on the book “Addie Prey”.

The opening to “Summer Ridge” begins with Mary Alice explaining her situation in life. She says:

When I was very little my mother would tell me stories about why my father wasn’t with us. First she said he was away in the war in Asia—Vietnam. Then she said he was healing from the wounds in his head that made him forget us. Now she says he’s in the Secret Service.

“Hogwash,” Granny Ruth says. “She’s filled your head with garbage.”

Back and forth, back and forth. They still can’t agree on anything. They can’t decide what bread to buy. They can’t decide on which church to go to. One thing’s for sure--they don’t agree on my father. My mother insists he’s perfect. Granny Ruth says, “And pigs can fly.”

Ours is not a happy household. There’s me, my mother, Granny Ruth and Aunt Josie, whose husband, my Uncle Earnest, fell under a combine when I was four, so I never got to know him good. The day he died, I climbed up on Aunt Josie’s lap and wouldn’t leave, even when it was time to go to bed. Mama tried to pick me up.

“You been sitting there all day, sweet thing.”

“Leave me lone, Mommie,” I said. “I’m helping Aunt Josie cry.”
Now that “Summer Ridge” is finished and in my agent’s hands, I find I’m in a writing dilemma. It’s hard for me to concentrate on a new work of fiction when I’m waiting to hear on how the most recent one is doing. I have to drag myself to the keyboard at the designated time in the morning, but mostly find that I am unproductive. I can’t seem to leave the last work behind and concentrate on a new one. It’s irritating, so mostly I force myself to sit and write no matter what falls onto the page.

Lately, I’m not too enamored with what I see and am trying to encourage myself to keep going. I often wonder if other writers have ever felt the way I do. Is my most recent book the last bit of creative writing that will fall onto the page? Do I have anything else left to say? Will the creative juices once again flow freely?

Let me know if any of you dear authors struggle with this. In the meantime I’m anxiously waiting to hear from my agent. I’m convinced the sale of “Summer Ridge” will once again get me going. I’m counting on it, so wish me luck!

Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River, Divorcing Dwayne, and All That’s True. Visit her website at www.jlmiles.com. Write to the author at Jackie@jlmiles.com.

ALMOST CRAZY by Jackie Lee Miles

2011-06-09T14:20:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure if my husband has ever considered that I might be a lunatic. He’s a quiet, loving man who never criticizes (Am I blessed, or what?). Even so, he may have questioned my sanity while I was writing Cold Rock River. I’d discovered the slave narratives and stayed camped out at the library for eight months. You couldn’t take the material out. What else could I do but return there daily? When he got really hungry he’d come over and find me, telling me I must be exhausted and should come home. Such a sweet man—I’m not even a good cook, yet he searched me out. Months later I was done with my research and back to a normal daily existence, if you call writing until three a.m. in the morning normal.

Then we moved. Once all of the furniture was transported and the boxes I’d so carefully packed delivered, my husband decided to take the kids fishing so I could have some time to myself to sort everything out. Perfect! There’d be no laundry and no meals to cook while I unpacked at least one-hundred boxes and put our new home in order. Once they left, I drove over to the deli to pick up a sandwich for my lunch. I’d need nourishment before beginning the laborious job of unpacking.

That’s when the trouble started. I parked the car and proceeded to the front door, quickly questioning what kind of neighborhood we’d moved into. Someone had deposited a pile of black hoses on our front door step. It was a bright summer day. The sun beating down caused the air above the ground to waffle, making it hard for me to make out what I was seeing. I set my lunch sack down and reached for the hoses, thoroughly disgusted that with all I had to do—now I had trash to dispose of.

As I reached out for the mass, it instantly uncoiled itself and slithered down the stairs and around the side of the house! It was a black racer, totally harmless, but what did I care? It was a snake. And at least eight feet long, I was sure of it, and bigger around than a giant tomato. I unlocked the front door and ran into the house, leaving my lunch parked on the front step. It didn’t matter. I’d totally lost my appetite. I leaned against the now closed front door and realized I was shaking all over like I had some kind of palsy.

I eyed all of the boxes stacked up in the living room. The shaking would have to wait. There was work to do. Visions of the snake slithering around outside my house would have to wait, too. Thinking he might be tempted by my lunched sitting on the step outside the front door, I decided to retrieve it. I opened the door, peeked out, and not seeing anything, snatched my lunch bag back into the house where it sat for the rest of the day on the dining room table.

Unpacking was painstakingly slow. I kept thinking of the snake and how could I live in a place that might have many more of them scooting through the lush foliage that surrounded our house. That’s when it hit me. The reason the snake was on the porch in the first place was because he was waiting for his mate to re-appear. She’d found her way into our house sometime yesterday all the while the doors were open for the movers to bring things in. I was convinced of it! That slithering black monster’s mate was in my house, God only knew where. I stopped unpacking and climbed up on the back of the sofa, eyeing each corner of the room. Nothing moved. I leaned over and looked under the sofa. Nothing there either. That didn’t mean anything. A snake could hide anywhere.

I got on the phone and called Arrow. Once I explained I had a killer snake in my house, they connected me to their wildlife division. They said they’d be out in three days. I assured them I’d be dead by then. They agreed to send someone as quickly as possible. True to their word, within the hour, a technician showed up at my front door. I walked across the top of the furniture to make it there and let him in. Thankfully, he had a snake hook in his hand. He’d have the errant mate in no time and return her to her companion.

Three hours later he’d scoured every inch of my house including the lid to the washer, which made me realize I could never again wash clothes without peaking inside and recoiling lest a snake be curled up inside. But when the technician lifted the lid to toilet I lost it. How would I ever be able to sit on the john in peace again? I pictured a snake coiling up to bite my butt. I dissolved in hysterics.

The guy from Arrow eventually calmed me down and assured me there were no snakes in the house, which by now was a mess. He’d gone through every box in the room. He left, but not without leaving an invoice on the dining room table next to my lunch. It was for $500.00. Obviously, the wildlife division was expensive. I curled up on top of the back of the sofa and waited for my husband and children to return. There would be comfort in numbers, so maybe I’d get to sleep that night after all.

They never did understand my panic. According to them, snakes were part of the landscape and a black racer was one of the most harmless of all. My husband paid the bill without saying a word. But I was sure he was watching me a little more closely now. Maybe he did think I was a lunatic, but was just to kind to mention it. There was the time I called the police to report a prowler in the middle of the night, which turned out to be my laundry basket toppling off of the dryer where it had been too precariously placed. And then there was the time I was driving home from Cape Canaveral and ended up in Pensacola instead of Atlanta when I was daydreaming about my next book. And what about when I locked myself out of the house in my nightgown (Don’t ask.), and the entire fire department showed up. For sure, my husband probably did think I was a lunatic.

Right now I am once again camped out in front of my computer in my nightgown. But I never go outside while I’m wearing it, so I’m safe and totally sane. My husband will just have to trust that I am.

Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River, Divorcing Dwayne and the recently released All That's True. Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com. Write the author at Jackie@jlmiles.com.

JOBS I COVET

2010-12-30T08:26:00.000-08:00

I was asked by a reader what jobs I covet other than that of a writer.

That was an easy question to answer. I want to be a marketing genius or a computer wizard. That way I could promote my books with great expertise, instead of laboring as to what to do to “get one out there.”

My inadequacies as a marketing professional go back to my childhood. At the age of seven, I convinced my mother I was destined to make lots of money selling Kool-aid if she would only provide it. I set up shop on a card table in front of our sidewalk. My mother brought out a pitcher of cherry Kool-aid. The sides of the container were dripping with moisture, so I wrapped my hands around the sides just to make sure. Yes, it was ice cold and ready for serving. My heart soared. I couldn’t wait for my first customer.

Unfortunately, we lived at the end of a very long street and didn’t receive much foot traffic in that area of the neighborhood. The only customers I managed to capture were my playmates that offered a penny for a cup of the delicious drink, when the asking price was five cents.

Deciding I would not let the problem of money discourage me, I persevered, waiting for the drivers of the droves of cars driving by to stop and replenish themselves. One man did and gave me a quarter. I rewarded him with not one glass but two, which he kindly drank and proceeded on his way. To this day I keep hoping he’s won the lottery.

My entire take for the day was thirty-two cents, which included the quarter I received from the kind man driving the car who stopped, along with five playmates who eagerly offered a penny for their drink, and a contribution from my best male friend, Eddie Schaeffer, who bought one cup, then coughed up another penny to get an extra serving.

The following morning my older sister Sandi, age nine, set up her own stand. She stated everything I had done was wrong, including giving my product away for a penny when I could have “had them walking up and down the block with signs pointing to your stand!”

She made signs on card board, that my daddy provided, that offered “Cool refreshments for 5 cents a cup”, and glued them to paint stir sticks.” She then invited all of my playmates who had so eagerly purchased my drinks for a penny a cup to walk the sidewalks from one end to the other for payment of two servings of her Kool-aid, which consisted of not one flavor (I had cherry the day before), but two, grape and cherry.

Her efforts were rewarded. She made two dollars and forty cents by the time she ran out of her third batch of Kool-aid. I’d been out-marketed.

Which brings me to where I am now: fresh out of ideas and amazed with what others are doing to get their books noticed. I am in awe of author friend Nicole Seitz’s remarkable interactive website, promoting her upcoming novel, The Inheritance of Beauty. She expounds on not only where she will be featured next, but offers any number of ways to win free books. That shouldn’t be hard for me to do, so I’ve written that option down in order to promote my latest novel All That's True. It’s the story of thirteen-year-old Andi St. James (I love young protagonists), who’s entire life is turned upside down during the first Desert Storm War when she discovers her father is having an affair with her best friend’s step-mother. To make matters worse, her brother has been killed in a freak hazing accident, which causes her mother to start drinking, all the while her sister is planning the Atlanta wedding of the year and is determined that Andi will be a junior bridesmaid.

Here’s the hype from the publisher posted on the back cover:

Andi St. James’ privileged Atlanta life is turned upside down after her brother’s tragic death. As the relationships around her crumble, Andi embarks on a poignant and sometimes laugh-out-loud journey of self-discovery, where she learns the devastating consequences of deception and realizes that making the most of what you’ve got is a big part of all that’s true.

I’m sitting here contemplating ways I can promote this book. If I were a marketing genius, or a computer wizard, my desk would be loaded with ideas, so many I wouldn’t know where to start. Not so.

Thankfully, my publicist has sent me an e-vite in honor of my first official appearance for ALL THAT’S TRUE (which is being released today, January 11th.) The e-vite is to announce that I will be featured at The Georgia Center for The Book on Wednesday, January 26th, 2011 at 7:15 PM with appetizers to be served by CHOPstix Restaurant. It’s all spelled out neatly on the card with a delightful rendering of the book cover and a not-too-bad photo of me.

CHOPstix is supplying the food because they are featured in the book during one poignant scene when Andi finds out what else her father is up to. I called the restaurant and pointed this out and announced that I would be reading from that portion of the book during my presentation and they were happy to provide food in honor of being mentioned. What a blessing. Maybe I’m getting the hang of this marketing thing, afterall.

But, sending out the e-vites is what has me worried. During the promotion for my last novel COLD ROCK RIVER, I eagerly sent out scads of emails which featured the cover and an invitation to visit with me the day it debuted at a local Barnes & Noble store. I sent this on-line invite to everybody in my address book. Two days later I was completely locked out of receiving and sending emails.

It took me a week to find out that the host considered me a spammer and it took selling my grand-children to get them to believe I was only an author trying to contact all of the people in my address book that had given me their emails addresses themselves to begin with.

This time I will send out only ten at a time. In the event you are in the Atlanta area on Wednesday, January 26th, please join me at The Decatur Center for The Book (Decatur Library on Sycamore Street, downtown Decatur, Georgia), for some great food from CHOPstix, along with a reading and some trivia on why I wrote this book to begin with.

I would love to see you! And it will encourage this frustrated author to continue to find ways to promote the written word, as I’m determined that this is the year I will step out of my comfort zone and go for it. Wish me well, and be sure and tell me if you’ve struggled with marketing and promotion. It’d be nice to know I’m not alone.

All great best,

Jackie Lee Miles

Author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River, Divorcing Dwayne and the newly released All That's True. Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com/. Write the author at http://www.blogger.com/jackie@jlmiles.com.

WRITING STRUGGLES

2010-07-20T04:56:00.000-07:00

I’m often asked about my struggles as a writer. This topic really hits home when I finish one novel and have to start another.

I just finished two novels. The first one will be released January 2011 by Sourcebooks: ALL THAT’S TRUE. It follows Andrea St. James (Andi for short), during the first Desert Storm war, who discovers her father is having an affair with her best friend’s step-mother. Sourcebooks calls it “an authentic coming-of-age tale with a terrific takeaway.”

The second novel, HEART, has yet to be sold. It was inspired by an actual CBS news program where a man received his daughter’s heart. The tagline of the book is: After a fatal accident sixteen-year-old Lorelei Goodroe follows the lives of five people who receive her organs, including that of her father who receives her heart.

Okay, two books down, a new one to go. But what to write? After several days of contemplating, I get an idea when a character comes to me, a twelve-year-old girl who has a problem. (I tend to write in young voices—I can’t seem to help myself.) The protagonist’s voice is very strong. I hear her words in my head:

“When I was very little my mother told me stories about why my father wasn’t with us. First she said he was away in the war going on in Asia, Vietnam. Then she said he was healing from the wounds in his head that made him forget us. Later she said he was on assignment for the secret service.”

I used those lines for my opening of SUMMER RIDGE and wrote a tagline: Twelve-year-old Mary Alice Munford struggles with the knowledge that her mother plans to marry her father, a man who abandoned them before she was born.

On to the novel and that’s where the real struggle begins. What to write? What will this girl’s problems be? What will stand in her way? What can you say that will keep your reader riveted for three hundred pages? That’s a tall order, but that’s what books ask of us. And your reader expects some good answers.

Early on, Mary Alice states that her household is not a happy one:

There’s me, my mother, Granny Ruth and Aunt Josie, whose husband, my Uncle Earnest, fell under a combine when I was five so I never got to know him good. The day he died, I climbed on Aunt Josie’s lap and wouldn’t leave even when it was time to go to bed. Mama tried to pick me up.

“You been sitting there all day, sweet thing.”

“Leave me lone, Mama,” I said. “I’m helping Aunt Josie cry.”

I loved this protagonist immediately and started to write, regardless of the struggle.
I’m now two hundred pages into the manuscript. Mary Alice is at a fair with her father, who she still calls Hank, seeing as she can’t think of him as a real Daddy. He has picked up a gal from the local café, Wanda Lou, and the two of them are off having a very good time on their own. Mary Alice is busy pitching pennies and is not doing too well when a man comes up next to her and says, “What are you shootin’ for little miss?”

Mary Alice says he is acting like he really cares. She shows him the two little dogs she has won and points to the large one hanging down from the rafters with a big red bow around its neck.

“If I get one more, I can trade it for that big one,” she explains.

“That’ll be right nice,” he says and hands her another quarter. “Give her another try.”

She takes the three pennies the attendant hands her and tries again, but one by one the pennies bounce off the plates. The man who gave her the quarter takes hold of her elbow and says, “They got a booth across the way. They use bowls instead of plates. It’s easy to win. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Mary Alice eagerly follows the man who says she can win. He takes her behind all of the tents that are set up in back of the booths. Eventually, he spins around and says, “Sorry girlie, I can’t quite remember where that booth is.”

That’s when he grabs her. Mary Alice heart sinks. She realizes now it was not a good idea to follow him, but it’s too late. He already has his arm around her neck.

That’s as far as I’ve gotten. I’m still struggling and still writing. Please write back to me and tell me what you think. Your responses count!!

Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River, Divorcing Dwayne and the soon to be released All That’s True. Visit the author’s website at http://www.jlmiles.com. Write to the author at Jackie@jlmiles.com.

BRING YOUR CHARACTERS TO LIFE by Jackie Lee Miles

2010-04-20T13:21:00.000-07:00

I attended this workshop on characters and learned the most amazing things. The first thing I was told is that the center of your character lies in their ability to care about something. This will make your reader care.

Example: Assume that Joanna Mott is married, insecure about her looks and her identity, and is devastated by her discovery that her husband is having an affair with their attractive single next-door neighbor, Felicity. As a reader you know that Joanna has abandonment issues from childhood, though presently she doesn’t even know the word exists. She simply feels unattractive. You know from the narrative that she was left in the care of her aunt as a child and grew up with her female cousin, Miss Alabama.

Now you have the makings of a sympathetic character with an element about which she truly cares. You’ve made her a wife who feels extremely unattractive with rational insecurities who desire more than anything to keep her marriage intact. You’ve assigned a caring element to the character and thus have committed her to a stance by which she will live.

This is the character’s dominant dynamic. You can now write with more assurance that you know where you are going. The character who cares passionately about something, and is willing to make a stand because of it, is worth bothering with.

Alfred Hitchcock said it best:

“First you decide what the characters are determined to do, and then you provide them with enough characteristics to make it plausible that they will do it.”

Then ask yourself what makes them tick. Here you are free to be creative, so long as it’s plausible, for no one ever knows undisputedly what causes people to behave the way they do. Why does the rich housewife steal? Was she poor as a child or is it the thrill of pursuit when she gets away with it?

Next remember that character is always linked to contest. Scarlett is nothing unchallenged by the Civil War. What are Romeo and Juliet without the feud between the Montagues and the Capulets? “To Kill a Mockingbird” is left adrift without the prejudices of the south coupled with the fragile innocence of Boo Radley.

Another good thing to do is tag your characters. Give them names that distinguish them, names that evoke images and feelings in the reader’s mind before the characters even begin their journey with the reader. Assign them characteristics that make them stand out. In the story above regarding Joanna, she has arms as long as a monkey’s attached to hands as small as an infants. As a child she was known to swing from anything that dangled, causing her aunt to fret that her limbs would get even longer. Now fully grown, she tucks them one across the other, anxious for others not to notice. Regardless of her efforts, they notice.

Add contradictions. Play against the norm. Surprise the reader, especially with the villain. Give them human qualities. If the antagonist is after the protagonist’s husband, craft a scene where the antagonist is wounded when she is put down in public by her mother, who favors the younger brother and sister. The antagonist may be an evil, conniving husband stealer, but this scene will show she’s also very human.

Next, give your reader some idea of how your character looks, but allow enough room for them to use their imaginations. Use tags. Scarlett’s main of hair is a tag. Auntie Mame’s cigarette holder is a tag. Kojak’s lollipop is a tag. The list goes on. Get creative. Instead of your character having a cat, how about a miniature pet pig she takes for walks on a leash?

Years ago when I was selling insurance, a client had two of them. They climbed under the table where we sat and tried to eat my shoes.

After this, you will have to identify your characters abilities, speech, mannerisms, and attitudes. Only then is your character fully-fleshed. Once you’ve done that, simply give your character something to do. Put him in a tight spot. Craft that which your character wants more than anything and send him on his journey in pursuit of it, with plenty of obstacles in his way.

When you design a sympathetic, flawed character, you have the first element of a story. When you construct that which is important to him and why, you have the inner essential of a story. And when you take that flawed character with his specific passions and rationalized behaviors and place him on a path to discovery and change, you have the makings of a story worth reading.

And always remember the core of your character lies in his actions. If Joanna, in my example above, is terrified of being abandoned and swears she will do anything to keep her husband from leaving her and does, think how effective it will be when she finds she can not only let go and move on, but triumphs because of it.

This is the essence of characters we can’t forget. They have human fears, human desires and the ability to rise above their circumstances, to conquer, and to change. These are the characters we can’t get enough of.

The teacher who spoke to me of what makes a good character left me feeling I could indeed create memorable characters. I just had to follow the rules. I can do that. I know you can, too. When you are working on your next novel, may you be blessed when creating your characters. May you find the right words to bring them to life. May you dazzle your reader with their antics. And may they forever leap off the page.

Amen.

Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River, Divorcing Dwayne and All That’s True (to be released January 2011). Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com. Write to the author at Jackie@jlmiles.com.

GETTING AN AGENT AND KEEPING ONE

2010-02-15T12:19:00.000-08:00

I tend do to things backwards. First I got my book sold, then, I got an agent. I was at this conference and met the president of Cumberland House Publishing, who sent word that they wanted to publish my debut novel. Soon after, I received in the mail a document requesting my notarized signature. Cool! Then I realized I knew nothing about the ins and outs of a publisher’s contract and immediately got out my copy of Guide to Literary Agents.

I stumbled across an agency that listed James Patterson as one of their clients. I was clueless to the fact that they no longer represented him. In truth it was his earlier books that they’d sold. Even so, had I known I would have been duly impressed. They also listed the words NO SOLICITATION. Now why would they include themselves in Guide to Literary Agents if they didn’t want to have inquiries? My thoughts exactly.

I promptly called them up. A very pleasant voice greeted me on the phone. I explained that I was a newbody-nobody, but had sold my book and needed representation. Did they have an agent there that might be interested in me? She told me to hold on and eventually connected with me one of their agents who said she would not represent me, even though I had sold my novel, unless she truly liked it. That sounded reasonable. I asked her if I could send it to her. I went on to explain that I needed her answer yesterday. She laughed and said to overnight it and she’d take a look. I did. She called me the next evening and told me that it had probably happened to her before, but she couldn’t remember when, that she’d sat down to read a manuscript and didn’t get up until she’d finished it.

I said, “Does this mean you’ll represent me?” She laughed again (I liked her immensely already), and assured me she would. Her name was Sarah Piel and she was with Arthur Pine Associates, now known as Inkwell Management.

Sarah did a good job for me negotiating my contract and I got busy with my second novel. By the time that I’d finished it Sarah was no long with Arthur Pine. She’d left the industry to birth children and didn’t bother to tell me. Worse, Arthur Pine no longer existed. By now, they’d merged with the two other agencies to form Inkwell Management and no one at Arthur Pine, not even Sarah, had made mention of me to any of the agents there. I would have to start querying.

I got busy and composed what I felt was a strong query letter and started sending it off. Eventually I sent it to twenty-five agents in N.Y. and managed to hear back from twenty-three of them to either send the first three chapters or in many cases the entire manuscript. I was tap-dancing on the clouds. I figured I only had to get an acceptance from one of them and it had to be a numbers game. Surely one of the twenty-three would want me. After all, I was already published and now touring with the Dixie Darlin’s, four nationally published authors with a passion for promotion that had managed to make one-hundred appearances. Piece of cake.

Never slice your cake until someone’s ready to eat it. One by one all twenty-three agencies wrote back, with several saying some pretty nice things. Regardless, they also added the word, BUT, at the end of their last sentence. BUT ~ it didn’t fit into their list, BUT ~ they couldn’t determine where to place it. BUT ~ they had just purchased something similar. You name it ~ there was a BUT at the end of each letter. So much for it being a numbers game.

I was too discouraged to send out another host of queries. The first batch had cost me a small fortune considering they had all asked for hard copies and I’d sent each of them a fresh one. Okay, I admit I reused one manuscript. Why not? When it was returned I noticed it had only six pages with noticeable fingerprints on them along with some coffee stains on page 132 (Did they stay up reading long into the night? If they did, they weren’t impressed. They promptly sent it back.), and decided I could easily re-use this particular manuscript. So I printed out replacement pages for the soiled ones, but immediately noticed the color of the paper didn’t match. I set out to find a ream of paper that would. After three tries I stumbled upon the correct copy paper that I must have originally purchased. The new pages I printed couldn’t be detected from the original pages that I printed. Cool! Then I realized it would have been cheaper just to reprint the entire manuscript.

I was more miserable than ever. I’d wasted all that time and money chasing and buying paper, not to mention the gas I burned up going to those places in the first place. Bummer. To ease my pain, I reminded myself that I would be using this paper for many days ahead as I got busy on my current manuscript.

Soon after, I happened to be in Nashville touring with the Dixie Darlin’s and decided to drop the twenty-three-times-rejected manuscript off for my publisher to read. I hadn’t previously approached him because I was so sure I could secure N.Y. representation. Huh! Well, he loved it and called me to tell me he was bringing it out in hardcover that September. I was overjoyed and promptly threw out all the letters that had the word BUT in them. What did they know?

On to my next novel. When I finished, I queried Rachelle Gardner with WordServe Literary. (She has a great blog! Check it out.) Rants & Ramblings, On Life as a Literary Agent. She called to tell me she loved the novel and would very much like to represent me, if I was willing to do some work on an edit. Was I? I’d climb Mount Everest to do so if it meant representation. We sealed the deal. She would be my agent. And to think I hadn’t even had to send it off to any of those places that sent back letters with the word BUT in them. Cool!

This is exactly how it happened. I have to be honest. My mother’s words are imbedded in my brain: Always tell the truth; you don’t have to keep the facts straight.

Jackie Lee Miles is the author or Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River, Divorcing Dwayne and the soon to be released All That’s True. (Jan. 2011). Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com. Write the author at jackie@jlmiles.com.

THE DIRECTION OF PUBLISHING

2010-01-07T11:31:00.000-08:00

Taking my writing to the next level is a tough assignment for me. I’m not very savvy when it comes to the Internet world which is where the future of publishing seems to be residing. I did manage to post a bio and my author photo on Facebook, but it took more than a half-dozen attempts and three Bloody Mary’s. How’s that for efficiency? Which by the way is a perfect example of how well versed I am in Twitter and various other social networks.

I prefer the old standard for keeping in touch with readers: book signings, book festivals and workshops. But I do have a website. I understand a website is no longer optional but an important part of an author’s platform. Mine is set up okay thanks to a very savvy and talented web designer. The problem is that it’s not interactive and I’m not sure what to do to make that happen. I do try to post blogs on it as often as I can, but that has been mostly once a month and my blogs don’t do anything but sit there to be read. They do not offer a contest for free books, or offer a prize for the best vent. I’m working on changing that. I’m also working on getting acquainted with all of the social networks and how to best take advantage of them, but it’s slow going.

Last year I hired Authorbuzz.com to do some promotion for me, and it seemed to work. I still show up now and then in their top 100 books for book clubs. But they did all the work. All I had to do was send them my bio and a book cover and author photo, which I found I could handle. I got acquainted with “attachments”. It was a big accomplishment for me. After Authorbuzz, I hired PumpUpYourBook.com to do a virtual tour of my latest book and they did a great job. I’m not sure if I held up my end, however, as I was supposed to do something called Technorati and I never did figure it out, so I’m not sure if my tour was as effective as it could have been.

Thankfully, Sourcebooks, my new publisher who bought Cumberland House, my original publisher, has decided to take my books to the next level themselves. They are re-releasing Roseflower Creek and Cold Rock River with new book covers and a new author campaign to boot. I’ve been told this is highly unusual, so I am very grateful to them for loving my books enough to give them a second chance. Look for Roseflower Creek in May of 2010, Cold Rock River in September 2010. And also keep an eye out for my latest book, All That’s True, which Sourcebook is releasing in January 2011.

This is all pretty exciting, and it will give me plenty of time to get more acquainted with the marketing available via the internet. All of it still scares the daylights out of me, but I’m determined to conquer my fears. I just have to get the Bloody Mary’s ready and I’ll be all set to dive in.

Jackie Lee Miles is the author or Roseflower Creek , Cold Rock River and Divorcing Dwayne. Look for the release of All That’s True in January of 2011. Visit the website at jlmiles.com. Write to the author at Jackie@jlmiles.com.

REVIEWS TO MAKE YOU CRY

2009-11-06T07:17:00.000-08:00

I once saw this commercial that showed an alligator meandering across the floor of an enormous and beautiful white room (furniture, curtains and all), and this lady was sitting on a divan with a bottle of lotion in her hand, and she was admiring her silky smooth skin. I didn’t write down what lotion she was hawking. I already had four bottles under my bathroom sink that hadn’t done any good whatsoever, so I didn’t care, plus I didn’t trust her. I figured she was getting paid so how can you count on her actions anyway. I did notice that the alligator didn’t eat her, which made it a pretty weird commercial if you ask me.

I’m thinking about this commercial because I’m reading the latest review on Amazon.com for my novel Cold Rock River, and all I can say is I will never buy that bottle of lotion even if I could find out which one it was that girl in the commercial on the white divan was using. I don’t want silky, smooth skin. I want skin like that alligator. I want skin that is incapable of any arrows penetrating the surface. I want skin that is impervious to any and all injury. I’m an author and I need skin thicker than cement. Skin like that should absolutely come with publication. You sign your contract and poof! your skin instantly turns to concrete. Done deal.

Unfortunately, it’s not that easy and the reviews that eventually pile up (especially on Amazon.com) can be injurious to one’s mental health. In my own case I was sailing along quite nicely, wracking up some pretty nifty five-star reviews and getting a bit overly confident (never get overly confident), and thinking that maybe I’d written a couple of books well worth reading.

That’s when you need to watch out. Smacko! Right in the kisser! It will get you: An uglier than ugly review that says your book is not worth buying. This is what one reader wrote about mine: After reading Dorothy Allison, Fannie Flagg, Alice Walker, Connie May Fowler, Rebecca Wells (which all deserve to be read, unlike this novel), this was a very contrived and poor attempt to do what these writers have already done.

Outch!! Didn’t their mother ever tell them if they have nothing nice to say not to say anything at all? Or at least to be gentle with whatever it is they are trying to say. Couldn’t this author have simply said she did not like the novel and found it lacking in what other southern writers have managed to do. Which might have caused some readers to order the book just to find out what it was that I didn’t do. One never knows. Which got me to thinking. Maybe her one-star ugly review is not all bad. Maybe it stands out among all the five-star reviews as a sour apple. That’s it. That’s what I tell myself. Look at all those other fabulous five-star reviews on Amazon and what they have to say. I start reading through the list of the titles just to be sure: Fantastic! Another winner! Breathtaking and mesmeric! Wonderful & riveting. An engrossing novel. Simply outstanding. An amazing book. I keep going. I find the ultimate title posted: I couldn’t put it down! I’m tap-dancing on the clouds. Forget the person who gave me one star and said I wasn’t worth reading. What do they know? Exactly.

That’s when I spot it—another review. It’s there among all the others. It says. Cumbersome and ultimately predictable. Ugh!! Those ugly words head straight to my heart. But, then I remember a favorite adage my mother used to quote about fooling people. I’m thinking that adage covers pleasing people, too. You can please some of the people all the time and all of the people some of the time, but you can’t please all of the people all of the time.

If I’m going to keep writing I best remember that. But in case I forget, the next time I see that alligator commercial I’m going to call the station and see what kind of lotion they’re using on him. I might need some. His skin looks pretty thick.

BUYER BEWARE

2009-10-16T13:10:00.000-07:00

I’ve noticed lately I’m getting more and more wrinkles. If this keeps up my face will look like a roadmap. I saw this ad on TV that said I could turn back time—just by buying their product. I bought three jars. They lied. The only thing that got turned back was the check I wrote to pay for their products. It didn’t quite clear my bank. I called them up (the product people, not the bank) and told them it would be alright. I was going to ask for a refund anyway. They weren’t amused.

I think that any and all products being advertised should do exactly what they say they’ll do or the people advertising them should immediately suffer serious and permanent consequences, like getting a case of incurable dandruff, or developing uncontrolled facial ticks. Take the skin care folks—at the very least they should be hit with a terminal case of zits.

The problem is, before long thousands of people would be running around with dandruff and pimples and facial ticks. I say this because it seems everyone selling something lately exaggerates and gets away with it. I went to this laser clinic for hair removal. They promised after six treatments I’d never shave my legs again. They also said it was a virtually painless procedure. Always listen up when someone uses the word “virtually”. It means the same thing as when a doctor says there might be some discomfort.

The only thing the laser clinic didn’t lie about was the price. It would be three mortgage payments, payable in advance. You’d think I would have learned my lesson after that fiasco, but oh no, I’m still out there reading and believing all the hype slick advertisers hand out. Just last month, I read an article in the newspaper—well, it looked like an article, but was actually an ad for weight loss camouflaged to look like an article written by some prominent doctor I’ve never heard of. Anyway, their product guaranteed that you would lose seven pounds in your sleep the first week alone. I bought some of that, too. And I did lose seven pounds, just like they said. Mostly because I lived with my head stuck in the toilet for eight days straight. The product made me sicker than my cat when she swallowed a year’s supply of fur balls in one setting.

And that’s just one of the weight loss products on the market. There are approximately three millions others that claim you can achieve the same results. In addition to weight loss, skin care, and hair removal, there are scads of other companies promising to remove cellulite, firm your under arms and whiten your teeth, not to mention give you fingernails stronger than nails, erase under-eye circles and stop you from ever passing gas. Right, like I believe that. But, you name it, and there’s a product out there promising to fix it. And that’s just products. What about all the procedures being touted as a total cure-all for what ails one. There’s liposuction, micro-dermabrasion, Botox, silicone and collagen. The list goes on. Basically, the entire human body can be re-done so that your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. Now, why would I want that? It’s taken me all these years to get her to notice me in the first place. But that’s another story. Right now I think I’ll just stop believing in all the hype I read about or see on television and be content that I’m getting older (and hopefully wiser), and I have the looks to prove it. In the meantime, be careful what you believe in. There are a lot of advertisers out there with a lot of hype and mostly they can say what they want and charge what they will. Buyer beware!

THIS WRITERS LIFE

2009-09-02T07:36:00.000-07:00

I'm often asked about my process as a writer. Oh, boy—that’s a hard question to answer. I’m sort of an organic writer in that I first hear my protagonist’s voice in my head and it’s always very loud so I listen closely to it. My family thinks I’m totally crazy because I’m hearing voices and they don’t pay me any attention other than to inquire now and then if I am seeking therapy. I pay them no attention, either. I keep listening to my voices.

When my protagonist first speaks, I listen carefully to what she is saying and try to determine where she’s at in her life. From there I hit the keyboard and keep going until I come to a complete stop and then I usually say, “Oh, shi—now what? That’s when I start a sort of outline. By sort of, I mean I think of events that would naturally occur in this particular protagonist’s life and then try to think of ways to expound upon them that will have relevance to the story arc, which I have yet to determine, but am working on. Basically, I’m a total mess and get depressed and walk around the house in circles until I come up with something. Then I sit back down to the keyboard and pound out some more words and low and behold some days it’s pretty good, which gets me going and then I keep going until I hit another pothole and then I start walking around in circles again.

Once I get to the halfway mark I start thinking about what the climax to this story should be and why, and then I take a hammer and kill myself if I can’t come up with something really good. If I am still alive in the morning I continue on and write down what the climax should definitely be and head to the resolution. Sometimes it works out pretty good. Then I discard the hammer and open a bottle of wine and sort of celebrate because I’m almost there.

Right now I am NOT almost there. I’m just beginning. I have started a new novel, SUMMER CREEK. In this novel, twelve-year-old Mary Alice Munford struggles with the knowledge that her mother plans to marry her father, a man who abandoned them before she was born. I love the opening:

When I was very little my mother would tell me stories about why my father wasn’t with us. First she said he was away in the war going on in Asia. Vietnam. Then she said he was trying to heal from the wounds in his head that made him forget us. Later she said he was on assignment with the Secret Service. “Hogwash,” Granny Ruth said. “She’s filling your head with garbage.”

Granny never agrees with my mother. She is also convinced she has a bad heart and is busy planning her funeral. Ours is not a happy household. There is me, my mother, Granny Ruth, and Aunt Josie, whose husband, my Uncle Earnest fell under a combine so I never met him. Aunt Josie believes in reincarnation and thinks Uncle Earnest could turn up in any form. “You never know,” she says.

So, mostly my family is crazy. My mother thinks marrying my father, even though he abandoned her when she was pregnant with me and never looked back, is the answer to her prayers; my grandmother thinks she’s dying every other hour, and my Aunt Josie is convinced Uncle Earnest could come back as a frog or some stranger who will bring home a paycheck. I’m right in the middle. You tell me how I am to survive this and be okay.

So now I have the opening and am walking in circles with the hammer close by. Hopefully I will get some ideas before I have to use it.

In the interim I have some good news to celebrate. Sourcebooks has bought my latest project: ALL THAT’S TRUE. They call it “an authentic coming-of-age novel with a terrific takeaway.” It follows Andrea St. James, Andi for short, whose privileged life is interrupted in the summer of 1991 during the first Desert Storm, when she discovers her father is having an affair with her best friend’s sexy new step-mother. With an equal mix of joy and sorrow, it follows Andi’s poignant and sometime laughable journey to young adulthood where she struggles with the elusive nature of truth and the devastating consequences of deception. Look for it in 2010.

In the meantime I’m back at the keyboard. I have an idea on how to continue SUMMER CREEK, so for today I’ve set the hammer aside. This is good news. I have enough dents in my head.

ADVICE I'VE BEEN GIVEN

2009-08-01T06:31:00.000-07:00

I'm often asked what advice would I offer new writers? That's a scary question. I’m not usually handing out advice. I’m in search of it. And the first person I contact on my search is my friend and author Karin Gillespie. She truly has all the answers and is eager to share all that she knows when you ask. She’s an angel and a god-send.

So what do I know about writing and what can I share with writers who are eager to be published? First off, let me tell you five things I’ve been told and then I will share with you five things that I actually do. I’ve been told to:

Write everyday.

This is very good advice. It reminds me of what my mother used to tell me, “If you want to keep riding, better stay on the horse.” Writing everyday keeps your muse in touch with your brain. If you don’t write everyday you will get rusty. You will get lazy. You will have trouble connecting to your muse. Actually, I was told to write everyday. All the other sentences above are ones I filled in on my own, because that is what that sentence Write everyday did to me. It made be very fearful. When the experts said write every day, I figured if I didn’t, I was doomed. I was a goner. I’d never produce anything. So I try to write everyday.

Write what you know.

This too, is good advice. If you write what you know there will be less research you need to do. You can finish your manuscript faster. If you write what you know you will never look stupid; you won’t have to make things up, you can pass on what you know. This particular instruction to write what I know scared the he-be-ge-beze out of me because I really don’t know all that much. I know I just like to write.

Write in a journal.

All good writers I have met at book conferences and book festivals insist that they write in journals. And they insist that they have done so since second grade when they learned cursive. Obviously, writing in a journal is a very valuable experience. The contents can be mined later for all sorts of information to put in your novels. You will not forget tidbits from your past that could be useful when constructing them. Obviously writing in a journal is very important.

Join a critique group.

And the sooner, the better. They will let you know if you are running astray. They will offer valuable information that will tell you if your novel is going in the right direction or not. Critique groups are essential for your literary growth. You will become a stronger, more prolific writer by having a critique group to analyze your work.

Do not edit while you are writing your first draft.

This is very important guidance. It is an important rule and it is a pity that I do not follow it. But then I’ve always had trouble with rules. Aren’t they meant to be broken?

Okay, now for five things that I do:

Consider the first rule: Write every day.

I write every other day. The day in between I read. I read what I’ve written. I read from books that are like mine. I read from books that have a similar voice to mine. I read from books that are different from mine. I just read, read, read, period and see where it takes me. By the next day I am more than eager to write. I am anxious to write. Why not? I’ve been reading, reading, reading.

The second rule: Write what you know.

This is a good rule. I don’t follow it. I write what I love. I figure what I don’t know I will promptly find out. When you write what you know, it’s too easy. The words fall onto the page. What joy is there in that? When you write what you don’t know you spend hours researching. The words spill onto the page like they’ve been drained from your blood.

The third rule: Write in a journal.

I have never kept a journal. I do not want a reminder of all my days. The good ones I remember all on my own. The bad ones I’m hoping to forget. Like the time I almost let my sister drown. Or the day she nearly choked on a jelly bean. These memories are fifty years old. I don’t need a journal to recall them. These and memories like them come visit me all on their own.

Number four: Join a critique group.

This is excellent advice. I believe in critique groups. And I even joined one once. That particular one was too far away to continue, so I quit going. I should have searched for another group and I didn’t. And then I had no trouble getting published, so I figured why bother. Again, do not do what I do, do what the experts say: Join a critique group. You won’t be sorry.

Lastly: Do not edit while you write your first draft:

I do not follow this rule, either. I edit constantly as I am writing, but do not do what I do, do what the experts say. Editing while you write means it will take you forever to finish your novel. It did not take me forever, but then I am weird, so again do not edit while you are writing. It’s a written rule that I have read many times and I believe that it is true. I just can’t follow it. I naturally edit while I’m writing and immediately after I write, especially if I am re-reading what I’ve written. Besides, I have always had trouble with rules. Aren’t they meant to be broken?

One major rule that I believe in and one that I feel should not be broken is to:

Read, read, read—everything you can get your hands on. Read all the genres that are like the genres you are writing in. Read genres that are unlike your own. Read all of the best sellers. This is what the public is buying. Read all of the literature of old that teaches the way the written word should fall upon the page.

My last rule is for you not to take too seriously anything I say. Who knows how far I will get in my writing career? Exactly. So dear writer: beware. And God speed and God bless you on your writing journey.

SPRING CLEANING by Jackie Lee Miles

2009-04-16T07:29:00.000-07:00

I was doing a little spring cleaning when I realized how crazy I must be. Every cupboard is stock full of things I’m afraid I’ll run out of. Take toilet paper, for instance. Every bathroom in our home, which is two and a half, but when it comes to toilet paper that half-bath counts as a whole, because it’s got to have toilet paper. So anyway, every one of those bathrooms has a roll on the holder and ten rolls in the cabinet underneath the sink. That’s so we won’t ever run out. When any under-the-cabinet-toilet-paper stash gets down to four rolls it’s time to replenish, so then toilet papers goes at the top of my grocery list.

Next we come to Tide, I always prefer that when I do the laundry. There is a large box in the laundry room and two extra boxes stacked in a cabinet in the garage, next to six boxes of Kleenex, two bottles of fabric softener, three boxes of cling free sheets, eight rolls of paper towels, two extra large bottles of Head and Shoulders for my husband, alright I admit it, I use it once in awhile myself. Next to the shampoo are three jars of Pantene Restorative conditioners, which I can’t live without or my hair looks like a broom that has seen better days. Parked next to the conditioners I have neatly placed three large plastic bottles of various hand and body lotions that all promise to keep my skin smoother than silk. When I’m replenishing hand lotion, I can’t ever decide which one I should try next, so I usually select three and go from there.

In the pantry I have several large cans of coffee on the top shelf and enough Cremora to serve every Starbucks customer who desires it for the next two years. I have back-ups on mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, grape jelly, strawberry jam, pancake syrup, spaghetti sauce (I always doctor up the store bought kind and pass it off as homemade.), and scads of soup. Five kinds of Campbell’s for every flavor they make. God forbid I should run out of Cream of Mushroom. I might want to make a tuna noodle casserole and then where would I be?

This predisposition to hoard extras of what I consider to be essentials is probably a sign of a serious mental disorder. And it probably runs in my family. My mother has the same illness. Her pantry puts mine to shame. Mine has enough to stock a mini-market. Hers could easily stock Kroger.

This problem definitely spills over into other areas of my life. If my car even approaches the half-full marker, I am at the gas station pronto. And my office closet is fully stocked with two and three boxes of everything, along with two cases of copy paper. I have eight boxes of large paper clips, two boxes of six dispensers each of scotch tape, three boxes of file folders and four boxes of pens. There is a case of Pendaflex folders and four boxes of various size labels along with a half dozen boxes of various size envelopes. Need I say more?

I probably need to call a psychiatrist immediately and make an appointment. But then all I could tell him is that I have a fear of running out of stuff. How serious can that be? It’s not like I harbor a secret desire to kill my husband or my mother, right?

Lately, I’ve noticed that I have a fear of running out of words. This is a much more serious problem than running out of toilet paper. I’m in the middle of my next book and middles scare the he-be-ge-bee’s out of me anyway. So now where am I? It’s not like I can go to the store and stock up on words. Each night when I go to bed, I do a word count of how many I’ve typed for the day. It always sends a shiver up my spine. Have I filled up my four pages for the day? Are they any good? Will I find enough for the next day? Is there a closet I can store them in while I sleep that I can raid in the morning and get a major head start?

I always wonder how other writers manage to put so many words on the page. Do they have a secret stash somewhere that nobody has told me about? Is their brain riddled with more words than they can possibly put down on any given number of pages in their lifetime? Do they have an endless supply from some part of their brain that automatically manufactures words while they sleep?

Hey guys, let me know. I’m sick of hoarding soup and shampoo and coffee. I’d love to find a way to hoard words. So let’s trade. I’ll gladly give you what’s stashed in my closets. I guarantee that you will never run out of toilet paper.

Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River and Divorcing-Dwayne. Look for her next novel All That’s True in the spring of 2010. Email her at Jackie@jlmiles.com. Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com

PUBLISHING STRATEGIES AND THE PUBLISHING GAME

2009-03-02T13:45:00.001-08:00

Sourcebooks bought Cumberland House, my publisher, and everyone, except those that were let go, of course, are very happy and excited. Lots of changes are in the air, some of them pretty amazing. That said there is one change that’s not sitting too well with me. First, let me explain. With Cumberland House I broke the cardinal rule. I wrote under two different genres. If you go to my website jlmiles.com, it says Introducing J. L. Miles— featuring Southern Drama and Southern Sass.

Cumberland didn’t mind that I was splitting my readership and happily allowed me to continue my genre adventures. Sourcebooks doesn’t see it that way.

Sourcebooks likes the drama. They’re not so enamored with the sass. They want the Dwayne Series to go away. Divorcing Dwayne, the first book in the series, debuted April 2008. Dear Dwayne, the second in the series was to release April, 2009, with Dating Dwayne to follow. The series is centered around Francine Harper and her no-good husband Dwayne. In the first book, Francine is under felony assault charges for shooting at Dwayne and his stripper/lover Carla from the Peel ‘n Squeel. In the second book, Francine who is newly divorced, discovers she’s pregnant and is all set to marry the mayor, a Danny Devito type character who is good husband material, even if he does only come up to her navel. In the third book, newly widowed, Francine takes comfort in Dwayne’s arms. Good grief! Well, not good, but lots of grief. There’s a cast of zany characters to aid Francine in her search for true love, including her energetic and eccentric grandmother, Nanny Lou. There’s also her best friend Ray Anne, who upon discovering Francine is seeing Dwayne again, says, “Francine, have you got a boulder in your head, or what?”

Initially, I was told the only thing that would change would be the release date for Dear Dwayne. It was moved ahead to October. But after a major strategy session, it was decided that it was not in my best interest to continue to write down two paths. Now I must put Francine and her cohorts away. But it’s like taking them out in the backyard and shooting them. I’m just not sure how to let them go. They’ve been stumbling around in my head for the last three years. They’ve been cavorting around Pickville Springs, Georgia, where they reside, getting involved in all sorts of adventures on a daily basis for quite some time. They have conversations with me in my sleep. We’re talking “real” people here. Just how do I end their well-developed lives?

Well, to begin with, I’ve buried myself in new projects. I’ve finished The Heavenly Heart, which my agent is shopping. It was inspired from an actual CBS news program where a man received his daughter’s heart. After a fatal accident sixteen-year-old Lorelei Goodroe follows the lives of five people who receive her organs, including that of her father who gets her heat. Lorelei’s untimely demise has left her in turmoil. She finds she is unable to move on without first letting go, and letting go is the last thing on her agenda.

I moved onto to All That’s True and did a final edit. Andrea St. James’s (Andi for short) privileged life is interrupted in the fall of 1991, when she discovers her father is having an affair with her best friend Bridget’s sexy new stepmother. With an equal mix of joy and sorrow, the novel follows Andi’s poignant, yet amusing journey to young adulthood, where she struggles with the elusive nature of truth and the devastating consequences of deception.

Now I’m immersed in Radio Girl, the tale of a southern lass who marries and divorces all the men in her life and discovers they’re basically all the same man. All of this should be enough to keep me from grieving the loss of the Dwayne series.

Plus, in my heart I know Sourcebooks is right and on the correct path. They want to promote me as a serious writer. Not to say I’m a totally happy camper, but I’m getting in the swing of it. I’ve said goodbye to Francine and Dwayne and Ray Anne and Nanny Lou: It was nice knowing y’all! And I’ve developed a mantra to see me through: Onward and upward.

Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek. Write to her at Jackie@jlmiles.com. Visit the website at jlmiles.com

2009-03-02T13:43:00.000-08:00

Blown Away

2008-12-19T07:15:00.000-08:00

I spent the month of December in Florida. Most mornings I was up at daybreak watching the sun climb over the horizon. Not one sunrise was ever the same. How can this be—three-hundred and sixty-five mornings a year with never a repeat? Year after year of sunrises, thousands and thousands of days bursting forth, not one ever the same as the one birthed before it?

During morning strolls on the beach I watched as the waves pummel the packed ground. Some waves gathered strength quickly and pounded the shoreline. Others rolled in slowly and barely kissed the sand. As the waves rolled in I saw its many personalities. Sometimes it was angry and attacked the shore with a vengeance. Other times it was timid and licked at the sand like a kitten lapping up milk.

No matter how many waves rolled in, they were unique in their formation—another amazing spectacle of nature. How many millions of waves have rolled onto the shoreline, not one a repeat of the one passing before it?

That got me thinking that no matter what the sunrise looked like, or the sunset for that matter, or what the wave formations were for any particular day, I didn’t want them to end. They all took my breath away.

Some books are like that. You want them to go on and on. The authors are gifted word-painters whose prose grabs hold of your heart and squeezes firmly, and you have to gasp to get another breath of air in place. It’s that way for me whenever I read Elizabeth Berg. I just finished True to Form, such a simple little book with a sweet message of how important it is to be true to ourselves. Berg’s words positively dance on the page. I knew I was in for a treat as I read the opening pages. The protagonist, Katie is describing her aunt’s kitchen and how people exclaimed they could eat off of the floor. And she says, Why would you want to do that? And I picture my uncle Harry, sitting there crossed-legged with his napkin tucked into his shirt, leaning over awkwardly to lift his scrambled eggs from the linoleum.

There are so many parts in this book to savor. In one particular chapter, Katie is feeling rather distant from her father who has recently remarried. (Katie’s mother died of cancer.) Katie likes her new step-mother who’s name is Ginger. Katie says two miracles have happened. First Ginger has just won second place in a jingle contest. Katie considers the second miracle to be the fact she may be getting a scholarship to the prestigious Bartlett School for Girls. So, Katie and Ginger are sitting out on the back porch. Katie leans back on her elbows and eyes the night sky. She says: Sometimes I get this feeling of a wink coming down from the heavens to me. After a while the screen door bangs shut, and here comes my dad. He’s heard our voices. They’ve called him out. Seems like summer nights just do that to a person, make you kind of sociable. There you are, watching “Rawhide”, and the voice of your wife and your daughter curl around you like pie smells in a cartoon. All he does is sit down and light up a cigarette. But it is a lot.

Katie has a summer babysitting job taking care of the three Wexler boys, Henry, Mark, and David. Only on this particular night Mr. Wexler forgets she is coming and Mrs. Wexler isn’t even there and the boys are at his sister’s house. Mr. Wexler answers the door in his pajamas and invites her in. Here’s the rest of the scene:

“Now I know we hired you for the summer,” Mr. Wexler says, “and I’m going to pay you what you would have earned if you’d worked for me.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay.”

Mr. Wexler holds up his hand and says, “I would feel much better if you’d let me.”

“Well, I don’t really. . .maybe I could help you clean up a little. That way I could earn it.”

He looks around like he is seeing the place for the very first time. And then he says, with a kind of dignity, “It’s all right. I’ll get to it.”

“I could just do the dishes for you.”

“Katie,” he says. “Mrs. Wexler has left me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m afraid I’m at a bit of a loss, here.”

“Well, if you. . .I’d be glad to help you. I mean, clean up. I can help you do that. And also, I. . .”

“Yes?”

“Well, I just want to say I think you’re a very nice man.”

“Ah.” He leans his head back and I get the terrible thought that it’s because he’s crying.

“Mr. Wexler?”

He clears his throat and quick wipes away the tears. “Yes?”

“Do you want me to wash or dry?”

He looks at me with such gratitude it’s as if I have knocked on his door and said I am from The Millionaire.

Katie’s other summer job is helping an elderly man, Mr. Randolph care for his ailing wife. On this particular morning Katie is helping this sweet lady with her morning sponge bath.

I take off her glasses and hand her the washcloth. This part she can do—she washes her face and I wash her glasses. It makes you feel so tender to see someone wash their face with such trembling hands and then hand you back the washrag, looking up at you like they’re waiting for you to grade them.

You can see what I mean when I say her words just dance on the page. She is such a talented and gifted storyteller. And of course there are sooooooo many others out there as well. I marvel at the uniqueness of each of their voices. Though some may sound familiar, they’re never, ever exactly the same. And, of course, the stories themselves bare witness to the creative powers of each of their wondrous minds. Good, golly, Molly, it keeps me ever humble.

J. L. Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River, Divorcing Dwayne, and Dear Dwayne, releasing in April of 2009. Dating Dwayne will follow. Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com. Write the author at jackie@jlmiles.com.

Where The Heart Is

2008-09-28T16:58:00.000-07:00

I’m in the middle of my latest novel and have no idea how to fill up the additional pages I need to complete it. I have two hundred pages that I love and the ending in place that I’m more than satisfied with. I know where the climax is going and what it must contain. I have an understanding of exactly what it is I’m trying to say. Still I’m stuck with eighty blank pages. I’ve reread what I’ve written, so far, thirty-three times. I’ve left the manuscript alone for two entire weeks. Nothing—the pages sit there, large and inviting, but with no spark to ignite them.

I decide I need a distraction, something fulfilling and enriching. My daughter comes up with the perfect solution. She’s coming to Atlanta for a trade show. (She has a clothing line for little girls called Isabel Greika in honor of her firstborn daughter.)

“I’ll leave the kids with you,” she says. “It’s just the distraction you need. It’ll put everything into perspective. You’ll be so glad to get back to your writing the words will fly onto the page—guaranteed.”

She’s very convincing. And of course, I’ll be so glad to see them. They live five hundred miles away. It’s not like I can dash down the street like I used to and catch a glimpse of their latest antics. I have a one-year-old grandson and a four-year-old granddaughter coming to my rescue that I haven’t seen in over three months. It’s perfect.

Isabel arrives with her suitcase in hand. She’s a big girl. “I can carry it myself,” she says and drags it across my newly polished hardwood floors. I’m thinking if I can’t write next week when they’re gone I can at least re-polish the floor. This plan is working already.

Dolan, my one-year-old grandson is sound asleep and doesn’t realize he’s being handed over to the grandmother he hasn’t seen since he was nine months old. I swallow the lump in my throat and glance in the mirror in the entry way. My hair is combed and I have lipstick in place. I'm certain he won’t remember me, but hopefully I won’t scare him.

My daughter dashes off to her show. With Dolan asleep, Isabel and I sit on the front steps. It’s a beautiful day. She saunters down the circular driveway and examines a large crack in the cement. A colony of ants is pouring forth from a crevice.

“Nana,” she says, “Ants are really kind of cute, but I just gotta kill’em!” She proceeds to stomp on the crack. I burst out laughing. Kids really do say the darndest things.

Later we’re unpacking her suitcase and she hands me a small stack of photos sealed inside a plastic baggie. “I’m taking gymnastics,” she says proudly and eagerly pulls a hand full of pictures out of the plastic bag. “This is my friend Charlie,” she explains. “She’s taking gymnastics, too. She’s four, like me.”

Charlie towers over Isabel by a foot and a half.

“My, she’s a big four,” I say, realizing it may be true, but noticing also that Isabel is a petite four which makes Charlie’s height all the more pronounced.

Isabel examines the picture. Her brow is furrowed and her lips are pinched tightly together. “Well, next year when I’m five,” she quips, “I’ll be a big four, too!”

Hhhmmmm, wonder how that works? I take hold of her and give her a hug. Dolan’s awake now and crying. I go to the port-a-crib and pick him up. He takes one look at me and starts howling even louder. I decide to start with a clean diaper and go from there. In no time he’ll be used to me. But it’s not to be. Clean diapers and an offer of apple juice and a bottle bring no relief. He continues to howl.

“Don’t be scared, Dolan,” Isabel says. “This is my nana!”

Now that the introductions are out of the way, I spend the afternoon staging a puppet show. It works. Dolan is laughing and running around the family room, his tears long forgotten. Next we settle down on the sofa. Isabel produces a handful of storybooks. One by one I read each of them. Then I read them again. It’s time for a snack. I settle on bananas and crackers and fruit juice. It’s a hit. Movie time follows. Isabel produces her portable DVD player and slips a disk into the slot. Cinderella and Prince Charming
fill the small screen. Dolan’s not impressed. He sits and attempts to stack his assortment of blocks. I join him and show him the way to stack the blocks one on top of the other. He quickly knocks them all down. He thinks it’s hysterical.

“Nana,” Isabel says, “Come and see Dumbo.” She slips another CD into the slot. I plop down next to her on the sofa. These little tykes are starting to wear me out. Maybe it’s time for a nap. I put Dolan back in the port-o-crib and join Isabel on my bed. She’s curled up on her side, her favorite doll beside her. Before long they’re both asleep. I tiptoe down the hall to my office and check my email. I pull up my manuscript expecting a creative burst of energy to spill onto the page. Nothing. I tell myself I need more time with the kids. I’ve simply returned to the project too soon.

Two days later my daughter returns. Now I’m completely worn out and realize, if we’re smart, why we have children when we’re young. We pack the car and say our goodbyes. We load Dolan and Isabel in their car seats and fasten the safety harnesses.

I hug and kiss each of them one last time. I turn and hug my daughter, pat her head and pepper her face with kisses.

“Good luck with your writing,” she says, snapping her seatbelt in place. “I know whatever you do, it’ll be great.”

I wave and watch as they drive away. As the car disappears down the street I realize I don’t care whether or not the experiment worked. I’ve had three absolutely, positively, wonderful days. I’ve staged puppet shows, poured bubble baths, baked cookies; finger painted, played in the park, watched Cinderella three times, and read enough children’s books to know them by heart. I’ve soothed numerous boo-boos and kissed um-teen owies. I’ve tucked tiny toes under the covers and kissed little fingers poking out from above. And, I’ve collected more hugs and received more kisses than I ever thought possible. Nothing can top that—not even finishing a bestseller.

Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Dear Dwayne, Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River, and Roseflower Creek Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com/. Write to the author at Jackie@jlmiles.com

A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO GETTING PUBLISHED

2008-07-22T07:16:00.000-07:00

My agent is shopping my latest manuscript and let me tell you the waiting is killing me. As a matter of fact, just this morning I noticed my hair is definitely grayer than it was last week.

When she first sent it out, we got an immediate response from a major publisher and boy was I excited. They raved about the author voice and the premise. They asked if the author had another book that could be packaged with it. Then they took it to committee, whatever that means, and the next thing you know they were saying things like, “It’s not for our list after all.”

Bummer. I felt like dumping my head in the washing machine while it was on the spin cycle. That got me thinking about all the authors out there that now have N.Y. Times bestsellers. Did they ever want to stick their head in the washer? I’d call them up, but I don’t have there numbers. Plus they’d think I was crazy so I’d probably just tell them how much I enjoyed their book and not mention their washing machine.

Maybe placing a project is so frustrating because of the way I first got published. I went to this book conference. At the reception I literally bumped into Ron Pitkin, the president of Cumberland House Publishing. He was kind enough not to notice I spilled his drink and asked what I was working on. When I told him fiction, he promptly replied, “That’s a crap shoot.” Definitely not what I wanted to hear. I mean, I’d paid good money to come to this conference and he’s raining on my party, big time. “Well,” I said, “that’s too bad, because I have a dynamite opening line.” I was prepared to walk away, when he gently took hold of my elbow and said, “So what’s your opening line?”

“The morning I died, it rained.” Keep in mind this was long before The Lovely Bones.

“God! I want to see that book,” he said, doing an about face.

“Ah, I don’t have a book,” I said. “I have a great opening line and a hundred pages.”

He asked if I had it with me. “Of course. I’m getting it evaluated in the morning. It costs forty-five dollars.”

He told me to give it to him, he wouldn’t charge a thing. I immediately went to my room and brought back the pages. I had a prologue, and the last chapter and the epilogue along with the rest of it. It wasn’t finished, but I knew where it was going.

Mr. Pitkin thanked me and went on his way. Come Sunday morning with the conference over, everyone was checking out. I spotted Mr. Pitkin making his way toward me and thought, oh-oh, this is where he’s going to pull the rug out from under me and tell me to get a real job. To my surprise he handed me the manuscript and said, “I want this and I want it yesterday. Go home and finish it!”

I figured if I took forever to finish it he’d never even remember that he liked it. I stayed up and wrote around the clock for the next five days, took the weekend off, stayed up again and wrote around the clock for the next five days and sent it off to Mr. Pitkin. I marked my calendar for three months, thinking it might take that long for him to get back to me. I started in on my second book. Just like all the books on writing said to do. The following Friday evening my phone rang. I answered. A voice said, “This is Ron Pitkin at Cumberland House and we’re going to bring your book out in hardback.” I said, “Ya? And I’m the tooth fairy.” And I hung up on him. The reason I did this is that the only person other than my husband who knew I’d sent off the manuscript was a good friend of mine who can mimic any voice he’s ever heard. He’d been going to this conference where I’d met Mr. Pitkin for years and has heard him speak many times. It had to be this friend playing a joke on me. Not a very funny one either. I wasn’t amused.

I went upstairs to comb my hair and put some lipstick on. My husband was starving and wanted to go and get something to eat. Poor thing, he probably was starving. I stopped cooking when the kids left home and I took up writing. No sooner did I get to the bedroom when the phone rang. This one has caller ID, the others don’t. I leaned over and saw CUMBERLAND HOUSE flashing on the screen. I’d hung up on Mr. Pitkin for real!
I picked up the handset, leaned into it and barely whispered “Hello?”

“What’d you hang up on me for?” he said. “Ah, it’s a long story, a very boring story,” I said.

“Well, we’re bringing out your book in hard back and bumping back our memoir piece on Dale Earnhardt (he’d been tragically killed), to make Roseflower Creek the lead book. What do you think of that?”

I was hyperventilating and finding it impossible to speak. I did my best. “Didn’t you say fiction was a crap shoot?” I asked

“Yes—and it is,” he said.

“Then I think your crazy or my protagonist got herself a miracle. What do you think of that?”

Mr. Pitkin laughed and said he’d be seeing me. This is a true story and a pretty amazing way to get published. I should have known there’d be rocky roads ahead. It brings to mind the old adage if it sounds too good to be true, it usually is. Oh well, maybe after the storms pass, I’ll find a rainbow. One can always hope. In the interim I’ve got everything crossed, including the hair on my husband’s head—all three strands.

Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River and the newly released Divorcing Dwayne. Dear Dwayne debuts April 1st, 2009. Visit the website at www.jlmiles.com. Write to Jackie at Jackie@jlmiles.com

.

2008-07-21T16:08:00.000-07:00

I’ve noticed lately I’m getting more and more wrinkles. If this keeps up my face will look like a roadmap. I saw this ad on TV that said I could turn back time—just by buying their product. I bought three jars. They lied. The only thing that got turned back was the check I wrote to pay for their products. It didn’t quite clear my bank. I called them up (the product people, not the bank) and told them it would be alright. I was going to ask for a refund anyway. They weren’t amused.

I think that any and all products being advertised should do exactly what they say they’ll do or the people advertising them should immediately suffer serious and permanent consequences, like getting a case of incurable dandruff, or developing uncontrolled facial ticks. Take the skin care folks—at the very least they should be hit with a terminal case of zits.

The problem is, before long thousands of people would be running around with dandruff and pimples and facial ticks. I say this because it seems everyone selling something lately exaggerates and gets away with it. I went to this laser clinic for hair removal. They promised with six treatments I’d never shave my legs again. They said it was virtually a painless procedure. Always listen up when someone uses the word “virtually”. It means the same thing as when a doctor says there might be some discomfort.

The only thing the laser clinic didn’t lie about was the price. It would be three mortgage payments, payable in advance. You’d think I would have learned my lesson after that fiasco, but oh no, I’m still out there reading and believing all the hype slick advertisers hand out. Just last month, I read an article in the newspaper—well, it looked like an article, but was actually an ad for weight loss camouflaged to look like an article written by some prominent doctor I’d never heard of. Anyway, their product guaranteed that you would lose seven pounds in your sleep the first week alone. I bought some of that, too. And I did lose seven pounds, just like they said. Mostly because I lived with my head stuck in the toilet for eight days straight. The product made me sicker than my cat when she swallowed a year’s supply of fur balls in one setting.

And that’s just one of the weight loss products on the market. There are approximately three millions others that claim you can achieve the same results. In addition to weight loss, skin care, and hair removal, there are scads of other companies promising to remove cellulite, firm your under arms and whiten your teeth, not to mention give you fingernails stronger than nails, erase under-eye circles and stop you from ever passing gas. Right, like I believe that. But, you name it, and there’s a product out there promising to fix it. And that’s just products. What about all the procedures being touted as a total cure-all for what ails one. There’s liposuction, micro-dermabrasion, Botox, silicone and collagen. The list goes on. Basically, the entire human body can be re-done so that your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. Now, why would I want that? It’s taken me all these years to get her to notice me in the first place. But that’s another story. Right now I think I’ll just stop believing in all the hype I read about or see on television and be content that I’m getting older (and hopefully wiser), and I have the looks to prove it. In the meantime, be careful what you believe in. There are a lot of advertisers out there with a lot of hype and mostly they can say what they want and charge what they will. Buyer beware!

J. L. Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek. Visit her website at http://www.jlmiles.com/ or write to her at Jackie@jlmiles.com.

2008-05-31T07:47:00.000-07:00

When it comes to words, whether written or spoken, I believe women automatically need more of them to convey whatever it is they wish to convey. I’m not trying to be sexist, mind you, just honest.

If I want my husband to take out the garbage I might say, “My hands are full and the kitchen trash is overflowing the bin! Can you be a sweetie and take it out for me?”

Were the situation reversed he’d say, “#%!! damn!” And of course I’d come running. That’s his two words to my twenty-three.

And if I’m feeling rather tired and don’t feel like attending the neighbor’s ballyhoo, I might say, “You know I’ve had a tough week and I’m feeling really beat. Do you mind if we send over a bottle of wine and our apologies?” If he were the one not wanting to go he’d simply say, “Tell’em we’re not coming.” His four words to my twenty-six.

When I share my thoughts with him on why I feel the world has gotten too commercial and ask him why that is—hoping to coax him into a meaningful conversation about the shifting times—he says, “Dunno.” One word and he’s back to his newspaper.

A woman’s need for an abundance of words not only includes the ones spoken, but those written, as well. I read this story that totally supports this hypothesis. Apparently, Sally and Frank—both writers by profession—kept daily journals. Upon their untimely demise my friend was sorting through their papers and discovered the following entries dated January 26th.

Sally wrote:

The New Year is not even one month old and Frank is acting very strange. We made plans to meet for a drink right after work. I got tied up and arrived late. He didn’t say anything, but seemed very distant. I asked if anything was wrong. He said, “No.” I asked him if he was upset that I was late and hadn’t called. He said, “No.” When we got home, he immediately turned on the television and started surfing channels. I’d counted on a romantic evening in front of the fireplace. I sat down and tried to cuddle up to him. He smiled slightly, but never said a word. I felt like he definitely had something on his mind, but was hesitant to discuss it. The silence was too much for me. I went to bed. Soon he joined me and much to my surprise he responded to my caresses and we made love! But afterwards, he fell asleep immediately. I lay there and cried. I’m almost sure that his thoughts are with someone else. It’s like he no longer wants anything to do with me. My life is a disaster. I just know I’m losing him and I don’t know what to do.

Frank wrote:

Didn’t get the promotion, but had a great roll in the hay.

Words—too many or not nearly enough? Either way, I rest my case.

J. L. Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne (April 2008, Dear Dwayne and Dating Dwayne to follow), Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek.

http://www.jlmiles.com/

Jackie@jlmiles.com

HAVE BOOK. HAVE AGENT!

2008-04-14T08:51:00.000-07:00

I have an agent! Somebody who believes in me. Well, in addition to my mother, that is. Her name is Rachelle Gardner—my agent, not my mother (her name is Lois). Rachelle’s with WordServe Literary and if you look on Google under agents that are incredible, you will find her. And she has a great blog. Check it out at My Blog.

Having no representation, I was sort of desperate, but not completely. I mean, I had an agent, once. She left the industry when she birthed two babies back-to-back at age thirty-nine. Personally I would have killed myself—I always left at least twenty-one months in between child tearing, ah, I mean child bearing, but we’re talking New York, so what can I say? They move real fast up there.

But that was then; this is now! And I’m in heaven. Rachelle is shopping my latest project The Heavenly Heart, which was inspired by an actual CBS News program where a man received his daughter’s heart. You can read more by clicking on this link: Saved By His Daughter's Heart - CBS News. Of course my story is fiction. The tagline is as follows: After a fatal accident, sixteen-year-old Lorelei Goodroe follows the lives of five people who receive her organs, including that of her father who gets her heart. Lorelei’s untimely demise has left her in turmoil. She finds she is unable to move on without first letting go. And letting go is the last thing on her agenda.

It’s kind of like It’s a Wonderful Life in reverse. Lorelei gets the opportunity to view her life as though she hadn’t died and makes some remarkable discoveries in the process.

While Rachelle and The Heavenly Heart make the rounds, I’m busy launching the first in my Dwayne Series: Divorcing Dwayne debuted April 1st. It features Francine Harper, who’s under felony assault charges for shooting at her husband Dwayne and his stripper/lover Carla from the Peel ‘n Squeal. Francine discovers her strengths and regains her dignity via a trail and many errors. Dear Dwayne and Dating Dwayne will follow.

In Dear Dwayne Francine’s not doing too well after the divorce. Her therapist suggests it might be helpful to her recovery if she pretends to write letters to Dwayne and gets everything off her chest. But it’s not her chest that has her worried. It’s her belly; she’s pregnant. And if that’s not bad enough, while divorcing Dwayne she had a fling with a Hollywood cad (as portrayed in Divorcing Dwayne). She also had a close encounter of the intimate kind with Dwayne during that same period. And wouldn’t you know? She’s expecting twins. WHO’S THE FATHER??? I should say fathers. But, not to worry, Francine’s now dating the mayor, a Danny DeVito-type character who Francine insists is good husband material, “even if he does only come up to my navel.”

In Dating Dwayne things don’t work out for Francine and the mayor. On their wedding night, in all the excitement, he has a heart attack. (Think Goldie Hawn in Private Benjamin). Soon Francine takes solace in Dwayne’s company. Good grief! Well, not good but, lots of grief. Ray Anne, her best friend since first grade says, “Francine, have you got a boulder in your head, or what?” Will the struggling new widow with toddler twins come to her senses or end up, once again, married to Dwayne?

You can check out my touring schedule by going to my website at http://www.jlmiles.com/. Hope to see you! In the interim, please excuse me. I need to call my mother and let her know she was right. I do have some talent. It just took the right person to notice. Praise the Lord! I feel like Rodney Dangerfield. I’ll finally get some respect.

2008-03-01T13:29:00.000-08:00

Life and Death in a Big City

My daughter-in-law just died. She was thirty-two years old. Not an up subject, I know. But, there it is, right in your face—for real—as in dead and she’s gone, and it hurts so bad, and how can we stand it, and will this never end, and we’re all gonna be there someday, so get ready.

Alana came into my son’s life when she was fifteen and he was seventeen. She had the smile I wanted all my life. Big and bold and beautiful with perfect teeth. She was traveling with her dance company that she’d been part of since she was five years old. My son was traveling with his wrestling team. Amidst a backdrop of teenage ballet dancers and wrestlers they made an undeniable connection. Several conversations and a farewell breakfast at Perkins later all my son had was her address on a piece of hotel stationary and an empty bottle of Sundance Raspberry Sparkler they’d shared the night before.

They each went back to their respective home towns. A week later a long-distance romance began with a flurry of letters flying back and forth. For a year and a half the letters and a handful of phone calls sustained them. Then the unexpected happened. Alana’s Grandmama offered to pay the airfare for my son to visit. She put him up in her condominium, probably to keep a watchful eye on the lovebirds. The sparks were flying.

He brought back all these really cute pictures of them, but my son moaned around the house, one lovesick pup. Then we’d grant permission for another phone call—long distance charges in those days were horrendous—and he made pancakes for breakfast and whistled Dixie—okay we lived in the north, he whistled something else I can’t remember—and then they’d be back to their letter writing and so it went.

My son graduated high school and went on to college. More time passed. The young couple never wavered in their devotion. Alana graduated from high school six months early and they decided to move to Salt Lake City. There she would continue her dance career at the University of Utah, and my son would decide what to do when he got there. Being with Alana was all that mattered to him at the time.

They were doing great and then sort of great and then not so great. Alana had many goals in her life that included becoming a professional ballet dancer, traveling the world, and earning a PhD in medicine or science. And my lovelorn son aspired—well, frankly—to be with her. Young love is like a soap opera. You never know what will happen next.

She ran off with a professional football player. And she became a professional dancer and she went on to get her undergraduate degree in Biology. My son kept in touch as best he could. Years went by. They exchanged two letters, eight phone calls and got together for a single twenty-five minute visit when she had a lay over in Phoenix where my son was living at the time. Then Alana went about pursuing her dreams. Meanwhile my son mostly went into depression. He recovered from the heartbreak of his first grown up love but never married and continued to compare all the other women in his life to her—sad and so futile, right? I wrote many letters to no avail.

Then, the unexpected happened. When he was in his thirties, still a bachelor, he typed in her name and did a google search, but used her maiden name for Petey’s sake. Good luck! But up she popped, freshly divorced and back to her maiden moniker. Go figure. They conversed. Thirteen years had gone by—lots to talk about. She never married the football player. She married and divorced a doctor. She was in Minneapolis. He was in Phoenix. They flew back and forth. They clicked. Here’s where the drama comes in.

She’d been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. That’s how he happened to find her. The article on google said she’d defied the odds, gone on to Princeton, and gotten her master’s degree as a Molecular Biologist all the while smitten with a brain tumor. All the while my son was still smitten with her.

They married. She moved to Arizona. They bought a house. And the cancer grew. Two years went by. The doctors said, “Look’n good.” And the cancer grew. They decorated their home. They met the neighbors. The doctors said, “Doing fine.” And the cancer grew. They painted and laughed and cooked spaghetti. The doctors said, “No problem.” And the cancer grew. They bought two miniatures dachshunds. They named them Dave and Jack. And the cancer grew. The doctors said, “Way to go!” They climbed Mount Sonoma and camped out and made love. And the cancer grew. The doctors said, “You’re amazing.” And the cancer grew. They danced and planted their yard and bought a new car and had company visit. And the cancer grew. The doctors said, “You’re doing great.” And the cancer grew.

But, one day her back hurt, and her head hurt, and she collapsed, and they took her to the hospital, and the doctors said. “It’s bad. The cancer’s back. And the cancer said, “That’s right! And I’m going to kill you.”

And it did.

If you’d like to read Alana’s story go to www.helptgen.org. Scroll down to the bottom of the screen and click on Alana’s Story.

J. L. Miles is the author or Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River, and Roseflower Creek. Email her at jackie@jlmiles.com. Or check out her website at www.jlmiles.com.

2007-12-01T11:25:00.001-08:00

HAVE BOOK, NEED AGENT . . .

Yikes—I’ve been orphaned! Let me explain: I had what I felt was a great agent—with a New York agency no less, but she left the industry after birthing two babies back-to-back, and she did so without telling me, so now I’m thinking maybe she wasn’t so great or maybe I’m not so hot, depending on what time of day it is I’m thinking it. In the morning I tell myself, “Hey, no problem! You’ve given a workshop titled The Art of the Query: Getting An Agent When Others Don’t at least five times to critical acclaim for petey’s sake—piece of cake.” By nightfall, and two more rejection letters later that slice of cake is getting hard to swallow. I get my good friend and Dixie Diva touring comrade Karin Gillespie of Bet Your Bottom Dollar, A Dollar Short, and Dollar Daze fame to read my query. “This is great!” she says. So what gives on this agent thing? I have two books out in hard cover (Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek), both in their second printing, a three book series sold to Cumberland House (The Dwayne Series), Divorcing Dwayne debuting April 2008, with Dear Dwayne and Dating Dwayne to follow, and I tour with the Dixie Divas, four nationally published book-writing belles with a passion for promotion serving up helpings of down-home humor and warmth. (It says so in our press kit.) And I’ve just completed The Heavenly Heart, inspired by an actual FOX News Network program: After a fatal accident, sixteen-year-old Lorelei Goodroe follows the lives of five people who receive her organs, including that of her father, who gets her heart. Lorelei’s untimely demise has left her in turmoil. She finds she is unable to move on without first letting go—and letting go is the last thing on her agenda. Sounds good to me. Anyone else think so? Hollywood finds the subject matter appealing and is developing a one-hour drama featuring organ donors and recipients with enough weekly pathos to bring a tear to even the most hardened eyeball. And the United Network of Organ Sharing (UNOS) is launching a national campaign on the need for organ donation (eighty thousand Americans will die this year before finding a match), so the subject is timely and rife with radio and television publicity possibilities. My good friend, bestselling author Barbara LeBey (Remarried with Children: Ten Secrets for Successfully Blending and Extending Your Family, and Family Estrangements: How They Begin, How to Mend Them, How to Cope with Them), thinks so and recommends me to her agent. I send her my query along with copies of my books and a couple of chapters of The Heavenly Heart. She calls me immediately! Boy, am I flying, let me tell you. “This is great stuff,” she says. I’m on the ceiling. “But I only do non-fiction,” she adds. I crash land on my hard wood floor. Luckily, she thinks enough of my work to recommend me to a colleague who does represent fiction. I send her my query along with copies of my books and the complete manuscript of The Heavenly Heart. I’m now waiting (and watching the calendar and swallowing my nails whole), to hear from her. I once bumped into the former president of a major New York publishing house at a book festival and mentioned to him I’d recently been orphaned. He said, “That’s worse than losing your mother!” I’m not going there. But speaking of mothers, when I commiserate with mine she says, “It doesn’t matter if you win or lose, honey.” Right—until you lose. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, if anyone likes my work and has an agent scouting for new talent, let me know. I have a large section of my will made out to you.

http://www.jlmiles.com
Jackie@jlmiles.com

2007-12-01T11:17:00.000-08:00

BEST-SELLER BLUES

I started my writing career when our children left home and my husband insisted they weren’t coming back unless they needed money. Previously, I wanted to be a movie star, but when the mirror confirmed that my theatrical-clock had not only stopped ticking, it was at the cemetery, I thought writing might be a better choice. While at the dentist waiting on a root canal—never make career decisions while waiting on a man with a knitting needle who intends to stab you in the mouth with it—I picked up a tattered paperback entitled The Writer's Little Instruction Book.

Spooky! I was merely contemplating the idea of becoming a N.Y. Times bestselling author and the perfect manual appeared. Surely God, his angels, and all the saints were trying to tell me something, right? I didn’t consider that maybe the devil and his deceivers were having a good laugh. The book listed 365 (give or take) secrets for writing and getting published. Perfect! It was an omen. In 365 days I’d be on the bestsellers list. I simply needed to master one little ol’ secret a day. The first one I came across was the key to a successful story. It was threefold: 1. Get your protagonist up a tree. 2. Put a tiger under the tree. 3. Get your protagonist out of the tree.

Elementary! I was on my way and about to discover secret #2, when the receptionist called my name. It was time for my root canal. Piece of cake—I was on a mission to greatness. Not even that flashing knitting needle held high in Dr.I-Forget-his-name’s hand would stop me now. Four injections (the first three didn’t take), and two hours later I drove home not the least bit interested in the N. Y. Times, its bestsellers list, or who was on it.

Tomorrow, I’d begin the great American novel, the minute my feet hit the floor, the instant my brain met the coffee. However—don’t you hate that word?—I forgot about one character defect I’ve struggled with most of my life: I’m a world class procrastinator. If they ever give out Pulitzer’s on the subject, I’ll be a major contender. Not to say I don’t get things done. I do. But I tend to do them one minute before time’s up.

Procrastination is not a good attribute for an author. All the best books on writing (there are slews of good ones; here are my favorites: Anne Lamott, Elizabeth Berg, Julie Cameron, Stephen King—and Walter Mosely's brand new contribution), state clearly that writers are to place themselves before the computer (or notepad, or typewriter) at precisely the same time each day for precisely the same amount of pre-determined hours each day (weekends and holiday included), in order to not only hone one’s craft, but to complete the manuscript at hand. Ahhh. . .that might be a problem.

The moment I get out of bed, I tend to explore the world around me and assess the damages, making a list as I go. Stupid little things like, I forgot to do the laundry, again and there’s no clean underwear, the milk’s sour, there’s nothing to eat but cat food, the garbage hasn’t been dragged to the curb in a month, and the refrigerator filter hasn’t been changed since we invaded Iraq. The list grows as I walk from room to room. Are those fur balls under the dining room table really having grandchildren? Can’t be, last week they were barely parents. I climb under to investigate. I meander from room to room, procrastination taking over the morning. I get out the phone book. Surely there’s an organization that can assist me. There has to be. I’m on the verge of being a bestselling author! I need recovery.

The yellow page lists Alcoholics Anonymous, Overeaters Anonymous, Cheaters Anonymous, Kleptomaniacs Anonymous and Sex Addicts Anonymous. There are groups for Obsessive Compulsion Disorder, Attention Deficit Disorder, and Bi-Polar Disorder, but absolutely no procrastinators support group. There must be an organization meeting somewhere. Actually a helpline would be my choice. A number I could call the moment I find no underwear I’m willing to wear or encounter a chore I’m tempted to do—featuring a commanding voice like my mothers that will instruct me to immediately march over to my computer and bolt myself to the chair for a minimum of three hours, and call her in the morning.

I look through the entire collection of yellow pages I’ve amassed, as well as the local newspaper’s classified ads and find nothing to assist me. Obviously, I’m one of a mere handful of major procrastinators in existence. There are simply not enough of us to require a network of supporters. Yikes! I’m on my own. I search the room for answers and spot my computer. It’s waiting, perfectly able to do my bidding. And I only have 364 more secrets to master. Glory be—I’m ready to discover them!

I dash to the computer, sit down triumphantly, and put my hands on the keys. At last! I’m ready to write the great American novel. However—the phone rings. It’s my mother. She’s waiting on me. “Did you forget you need to take me to the dentist?” Ahhh. . .yeh, I did, but I don’t tell her. “I’m on my way!” I say instead. I get up from my computer and grab my car keys.

Tomorrow, I’d begin the great American novel, the minute my feet hit the floor, the instant my brain met the coffee.

J. L. (Jackie Lee) Miles is the author of Cold Rock River, the critically acclaimed Roseflower Creek, and the soon to be released Dwayne Series. Divorcing Dwayne debuts April 2008. Dear Dwayne & Dating Dwayne to follow.

Write to Jackie at mailto:jackie@jlmiles.com.
Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com/