Another one bites the dust…

That sounds more depressing than I meant for it to. I am actually happy to say that All the Right Reasons is complete. This story is the third in what I now refer to as the “Trilogy.” Of all of the books I have worked on, this one required the most research. And, trust me, you cannot skimp on research and write a good novel. I seriously think there are people out there just looking for an author to make a mistake, then they pounce. Scary, scary stuff.

This story was very emotional for me. The horror of the Holocaust and how it affects families even generations later. The suffering of the Roma and Romungro at the hands of their own government. Now, I know that sounds like awfully serious stuff for a romance novel, but you’ll just have to trust me here. It makes for a moving story. I suppose it’s up to my beta readers now. I’ll let you know when they weigh in. My mother, of course, was the first reader, and she loved it. Gotta love a mother who is that supportive!

I intend to focus my efforts on a couple of new story ideas that I’m fleshing out — one about a faith healer and a reporter, the other about a true-crime author and a lawyer defending a murderer. We’ll see if they work out. In the back of my mind, Janos (from All the Right Reasons) is whispering to me that he would really like his own story. I might just take him up on that. The other project I will be working on is the historical — To Heal a Heart. I would love to be able to “save” this story, because the heroine is my favorite of all the women I’ve written.

Wish me luck.

Today is my twenty-fourth wedding anniversary.

I get the oddest comments whenever people ask me how long I’ve been married. People say things like, “No one stays married that long anymore,” or “How can you stand being with one guy that long?” I just shake my head and grin. I haven’t been married to one guy that long. I’ve been married to several.

Now, before you accuse me of bigomy, let me explain. In the twenty-odd years Jeff and I have been together, we’ve both changed. Probably more times than I could count. We saw each other through our twenties as we struggled to grow up after starting a family at a very young age. We fought, we loved, and we muddled through. Those years made us stronger.

We saw each other through our thirties when we questioned if we made the right choices and struggled with the physical and mental changes that occur with true adulthood. We grew closer, each learning more about ourselves and more about each other. We also saw each other through some horrible things. Jeff was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, and he went through a terrifying ordeal when his intestines burst. I cannot even describe to you how helpless I felt and how much I feared losing him. Then, not long after, I was diagnosed with lupus. These blows could have ended many a weak marriage. But they made our union stronger, made us appreciate the fragility of life and love.

Now, we’re in our forties. Odd. I am happier with myself at forty-three than I ever was in my first forty-two years. And Jeff is different too. More relaxed, more willing to share what he thinks and feels.

So, I haven’t been married to the same guy for twenty-four years, nor has Jeff been married to the same girl. But, even after all this time, we have stayed together, weathering the good and bad.

Here’s to the next twenty-four years, God willing!

It is horribly difficult for me to let other people read what I write.

I know that sounds goofy. I am, after all, a writer trying to publish. To me, it’s intimidating the first time I ship off a new manuscript for someone else to read — especially if that person is someone I love. I fear being a disappointment. I fear being seen as lacking.

I was the type of kid who never got spanked. Well, ALMOST never. My parents evidently figured out pretty quickly that all they had to do was shake their heads and tell me they were disappointed in me. That would cause me more hurt than a whipping. I have kept that trait to this day. I want to please everyone. Let me tell you, it’s impossible!! But, nevertheless, I strive for that kind of perfection.

The reason I bring this up is because the reactions to the new manuscript are filtering in from the people I sent it to this weekend. My mother loved it. Of course, she is my mother… But she said I actually made her cry. There’s not a higher compliment in my eyes! Thanks, Mom!! Another friend emailed this morning telling me I was robbing his sleep — again — as he tried to finish the story.

My sincere thanks and love to all of you who are brave enough to “beta” read for me! I couldn’t do it without you! So, it looks like I’ll just have to suck it up and keep sending my stories out for other people to read.

Maybe, one day, an editor will love one!

Writing is like giving birth.

Last night, if you heard a contented sigh drifting from central Indiana, it was probably me. I finished writing Turning Thirty-Twelve. It’s now on its merry way to my beta readers.

The first two books I wrote were like lightning. Boom. Boom. (Okay, maybe more like thunder.) Two months and they were done. Unfortunately, they were both technical nightmares. Head hopping is evidently one of my cardinal sins. So is info-dumping. Next, I wrote Murphy’s Law. From start to FIRST completion, that manuscript took me about three months.

Then I hooked up with Indiana RWA and my beloved Critters. Since then, Murphy’s Law has been rewritten no less than six times. I lost count after that. From start to acceptable, the time stretched out to nine months. Hence, the analogy of giving birth.

From my perspective, Thirty-Twelve seemed to take me forever. I didn’t understand why my fingers weren’t flying across the keyboard like they did with the first two. Just out of curiosity, I checked the file to see when I started the story. Nine months ago. Interesting. Suddenly, it dawned on me. Writing is easy. Writing well is not. Please refrain from the “Well, duh, Sandy!” comments. I feel dumb enough as it is.

Thirty-Twelve is officially the sixth book I’ve worked on, if we’re going in order. If we’re counting good stories that I feel comfortable sending out, it is the third.

So, now, I am the mother of three healthy, bouncing baby manuscripts. Feel free to congratulate me when you see me.

Contests are going to be the death of me.

My dear hubby is in Canada to watch his horse race, and I have been alone for several days. This is good because I am almost done with two manuscripts. This is bad because when I get bored, I get myself in trouble. By “trouble” I mean that I looked through my RWR and found a couple of contests to enter.

I really don’t enter very many. The main reason I contest is to target certain editors. The Heart of the Rockies, for example, got Murphy’s Law in the hands of an editor at St. Martin’s. She placed me second. In this case, I am after an particular editor who I would really like to see my stories. So, while Jeff has been away, I entered two contests trying to get more of my work in that wonderful editor’s hands.

I’m pleased with the success I’ve had in contests so far. I’m not one to pat myself on the back often, and I’m not saying that to be coy. I have a few “issues” in the confidence department. But of the few contests I’ve entered, I’ve been lucky enough to have three different manuscripts final in less than a year. That makes me feel good about my work. Other people believe I have talent. Well, people other than my mother, my sister, and my friends.

The reason contests will kill me is because the instant I dropped the Priority Mail in the box, I began to fret. These things take MONTHS to get the results, and the Type A in me doesn’t wait well. (Who’d have thought?) Now the waiting game begins. I’ll buzz to their websites — probably every day — to check for postings I know won’t be up. I’ll watch the caller ID. Waiting is agony.

I don’t intend to be a contest queen, but when a good one rolls around with an editor I’d like to get to know my work, there I’ll be.

Wow.

The wedding was wonderful. All the bother and bluster was a little wearing, but the ceremony was funny and very, very moving.

Laura and I started the day getting our hair and make-up done. Imagine a bunch of sorority girls and a couple of flower girls invading a salon. We ate donuts, drank coffee, and tried to get beautiful. Don’t even ask how much it cost me. I had my hair spiked and the lady that did my make-up put it on thick. Laura hated it. Everyone else loved it. It was a bit surreal looking like that all day.

I had two dresses that I couldn’t decide between, so I tried them both on for my mother and my sister. We went with mauve with sparkles that I didn’t realize would leave a glitter trail on everything I touched. My car is full of pink glitter. Jeff’s tuxedo was covered with it. Shows you how much I leaned on him all day.

The ceremony was wonderful. It was just so Jon and Laura. I did fine until Jeff walked Laura down the aisle. I could her him sniffing from the back of the chapel. Then when I saw them, they were both crying, and I lost it for a few minutes. The minister made everyone laugh only a couple of lines into his introduction, and that took the edge off of the melancholy emotion. The vows the kids wrote for each other choked me up again. But I made it through without weeping all over the place. It was just so clear how much they love each other and how much they belong together. Every word, every gesture screamed it. I was so happy for them.

The reception was a hoot. Loud music, good food, family, and friends. The only weepy moment was when Jeff danced with Laura. He was crying so hard he had to take his glasses off. I was a mess for a few minutes. It was so nice to see so many people I loved all together. I only wish I had time to spend individually with everyone. But I was the good hostess and tried to get a chance to visit with everyone by table hopping. By the time the Old Man and I made it home about 11pm, we were EXHAUSTED. Today is nap day for the old folks.

Today is the first day I’ve ever felt “middle-aged.”

My daughter is changing her name tomorrow. Laura James will become Laura Bergdoll. I’m so happy for her and for Jon, but there’s a bittersweet feel to this wedding. I realized that I’m now the mother of the bride. Wasn’t it just yesterday when I was the bride?

I’m sitting here blogging while I’m watching VH-1 Classics. Eric Clapton. Tina Turner. Madonna. Heart. Damn, I’m old. I’m trying to channel all this melancholy into Turning Thirty-Twelve. Finishing this book is my first priority after the wedding is over.

So, I’m off to a rehearsal dinner, a wedding, and a reception. Wish me luck.