I've Just Stumbled Out of Synopsis Hell by Vonnie Davis

My agent called last night. "The editor at ___ publishing loved your Christmas story, but they've already contracted their Christmas titles for this year. She did ask if you had anything else. I told her you were working on a parnormal romance and she requiested the first three chapters as well as the synopsis. How soon can you get them to me?"

Panic hit. My heart rate tripled. "But...but I'm only halfway through writing it."

"I told her you weren't finished. She'd okay with that. By the way, how soon CAN you finish it?"

My dinner did a slow roll in my stomach. "Ah..."

"Can you get the chapters to me tonight so I can start reading and editing it? I'll want the synopsis tomorrow. Okay?"

Spots floated in front of my eyes. I willed myself to breath. It seemed I'd just been crushed by a steamroller. "Sure."

Now writing a synopsis is not my favorite thing. I know few authors who enjoy the process. I liken reducing an 80,000 word manuscript to 2 pages to squeezing a size 20 behind into a size 10 girdle...while you're still wet from the shower. Such tugging and pulling and cussing.

I had the first page roughly pulled together by the time my agent sent back the three chapters with her tract changes. An hour later, I sent the chapters back with all her requested corrections made. She told me to update my bio and marketing plan. I beat my head on the keyboard.

Then started blankly at the synopsis on my monitor and sighed.

Did I mention I dislike writing these darn things?

Not only do I have trouble keeping the verbs correct--present tense only. I feel as if I'm merely writing this happened and then this...oh...and then that...

Can we spell boring?

And let's not forget this certified pantser was only halfway into writing the book. As a pantser, I had a vague idea where the story was going, but not the specifics. Now, I had to lay it all out. But what was "it"? How does one summarize something that's yet to be written? I kept telling myself some writers write their synopsis first. Surely if they could, so could I. Right?

My stomach wasn't having any of it...neither was my mind.

I laid out what I wanted to have happen in the last half of my story in bullet point format. Then transformed them into sentences that basically said this happened and then this...oh...and then that. I had it e-mailed to my agent by seven tonight. By eight, she'd sent it back with her track changes. So by nine, the whole mess was done. She'll email the submission package tomorrow.

Now that the rush is over, the doubt demons are knocking at the door. Why do we always feel we're not good enough?

~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~

What should be a wonderful trip to Paris turns menacing when Gwen Morningstar's daughter is kidnapped by The Red Hand terrorist group. Fortunately, Jean-Luc LeFevre of France's Counterterrorism Unit is there to rescue her little girl. Gwen is grateful, but her need to apprehend the abductors must override any desire she feels for the handsome agent with his own brand of justice...and danger.

Jean-Luc is not pleased when Gwen, a crime scene photographer with just enough training to get them killed, is assigned to work with him. Not only does she take too many risks, she drives him to distraction.

As Gwen and Jean-Luc track the terrorists, their feelings for each other grow as fast as the danger. Jean-Luc is determined to protect Gwen and her daughter, but the sinister grasp of The Red Hand is strong and far-reaching. It will take more than love to keep them all safe.

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Does Your Story Have An Awesome Beginning? by Vonnie Davis

Editors tell us they want dropped into the action from the "get-go." At a writers' retreat, an editor told me she expects dialogue on the first page. Another said she gives the writer three pages to make her care before she hits the delete button. Expectations like this make us tighten our writing--or curl up in the fetal position under our desks.

Our opening hooks must be powerful and sharp. Yet they must also showcase our creativity. Often this is hard when our storyline requires we set the scene. How much detail should we use? How can we pull our reader into the moment of our story--and keep them there? To this end, we examine the strength of every word, the need for every comma, the way we present our main character. We write and rewrite until we get it just so...only to go back and change it another six times.

IF CRAFTING OPENING HOOKS WERE ONLY EASY.

 

Our opening hooks often define our characters or showcase the literary world we've created for our readers' enjoyment.

 

Take the beginning paragraph of my Storm's Interlude, I needed to set the scene:

Someone swaggered out of the moonlit night toward Rachel. Exhausted from a long day of driving, she braked and blinked. Either she was hallucinating or her sugar levels had plummeted. Maybe that accounted for the male mirage, albeit a very magnificent male mirage, trekking toward her. She peered once more into the hot July night at the image illuminated by her headlights. Sure enough, there he was, cresting the hill on foot—a naked man wearing nothing but a black cowboy hat, a pair of boots and a go-to-hell sneer.

 

But what if our story takes place in another era?

 

Gunfire jarred Annalee Gallagher. She straightened in her seat, her heart pounding. Another bullet zinged past the stagecoach, and the older couple sitting across from her gasped in unison. Heaven help her, she’d escaped one nightmare only to find herself in the middle of another.

      

 

 

 

Or in a different country like the second book of my romantic suspense trilogy?

 

It wasn’t the hardened man who eased his motorcycle to the curb that snagged Gwen Morningstar’s attention. Nor was it the wide spread of his shoulders or the way his black jeans hugged his muscled thighs like a pair of lover’s hands. For sure, it wasn’t the long scar on his right cheek or the small silver cross that dangled from his ear. No, it was his pristine-white angel wings that dragged on the pavement.

Odd that Parisians hurried past without so much as a second glance. As if seeing a mountain of a man riding a Harley with angel wings flowing down his back was as common as citizens carrying unwrapped crusty loaves of bread in their hands. No one gawked as their feet tattooed a staccato beat on the busy pavements of the City of Light. Few things fazed Parisians, it seemed.

 

Can opening the story with internal dialogue work? I used it in Back Where You Belong: 

What the hell?

Tyler Desmond whirled away from the shot he was about to make at the pool table to grasp for whatever caused the sudden, stinging pain at the back of his neck. When his fingers closed around a dart, he yanked the offending object out, searching through the crowd in the Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk for the bastard who dared throw one at him.

 

In a short story, I needed to establish some things about my heroine right away.

 

      Her lungs stopped working. This couldn’t be happening. Hope Morningstar read the words on her cell’s screen once more. Black spots danced across her vision field, and she finally breathed again. “He broke up with me!” Her gaze jumped from the screen to her sister’s questioning face. “Barclay broke up with me…in a text!”

Gracie snatched the cell from Hope. “Let me see.”

Hope rested her elbows on the table and dropped her face into her hands. This can’t be happening—not again.

 

I can't tell you what version you're reading of each. I struggled with every one. What about you? How hard is it for you to create your opening hook?

Writing, Procrastination is thy middle name.

I think I have a phobia.

And like all writers, I think I have to give it a name. A title. A brand of some sort. I'm calling it "putoffititus."

You see, for the past three months I've been struggling to finish the last book in my Red Hand Conspiracy series. No, that's not true. I've been avoiding finishing the last book in this series. Oh, I open the document every week, add a thousand words, go back and read over earlier chapters. Delete this. Add that. Play with it. Massage it here and there, but work hard at it? Nah.

Both my agent and editor are asking me how soon I can have Jazzbeat of Surrender completed. I'm at 43,000 words with only 50-52,000 words to go. If I'd buckle down, I could have it done in a month, or so.

My problem? I can't stay focused on it. Oh, I'm writing. Writing every day. I'm just not working on the right project. I've written and submitted a novella. Submitted and sold two short stories. One publisher has asked for another short story set in the same historical town. And my creative mind is chomping at the bit to forge ahead on that project.

I also entered the Golden Acorn Contest and took third place in their paranormal division--and I've never written paranormal before. I mean, sometimes I think I live a paranormal existence, but write it? No. Never. At least not until I was supposed to focus on Jazzbeat.

So what the heck is wrong?

Short attention span?

Lack of discipline?

No direction?

You see, I'm coming up on something I'm not sure I can handle realistically. I have to reveal the head of this group of terrorists that have run rampant in the first two books. In short, I've painted myself into a corner. I've hinted and alluded to who the person might be, but of course the real villian is someone else. And I'm waiting for the rascal to cooperate. As if a terrorist would. Right?

Book one, Mona Lisa's Room, takes place in Paris and a small seaside community on the Normandy Coast. Release date is November 9th. The back cover blurb is in the form of an email--

Gwen,

You won’t believe this email. I’m sitting in a French safe house, eating caviar and drinking champagne with handsome government agent, Niko Reynard. He’s wearing nothing but silk pajama bottoms and mega doses of sex appeal. I’m in big trouble, little sister. He’s kissed me several times and given me a foot massage that nearly caused spontaneous combustion. I'm feeling strangely virginal compared to the sexual prowess this thirty-year-old man exudes. 

When I came to Paris for a bit of adventure, I never imagined I’d foil a bombing attempt, karate-kick two men, and run from terrorists while wearing a new pair of stilettos. I met a German musician, a gay poet from Australia, and the most delightful older French woman.

Don’t worry. I’m safe…the jury’s still out on yummy Niko, though. The more champagne I drink, the less reserved I feel. What an unforgettable fortieth birthday!

Alyson

 

Book two takes place in Paris and Budapest and has no cover yet, but I can share the blurb of Rain is a Love Song.
 

When Gwen Morningstar and her daughter travel to Paris for the birth of her sister’s baby, both step into a quagmire of danger. Her daughter’s kidnapping and eventual rescue propel Gwen to join in the pursuit of the abductors, The Red Hand terrorist group. She’s determined to keep her daughter safe, even if it means traveling undercover to Budapest with counterterrorist agent, Jean-Luc LeFevre, a Frenchman with his own brand of justice—and danger. 

 

Jean-Luc’s assignment, working with Gwen, an American crime scene photographer with just enough training to get them killed, does not please him. She takes too many risks and drives him to distraction. Never mind the eye-tick she gives him every time she makes him angry. As his feelings for her grow, he’s determined to keep both Mother and daughter safe.

 

But can he, when the tentacles of The Red Hand are far-reaching, both abroad and in the States?

 

So now the time has come to put on my big girl writing pants and finish this project. No more side-trips to other storylines. What about you? Are you your own worst enemy at times?