Happy Holiday Weekend!

Bunnies are hopping around in the backyard. Birds are singing in the trees and a Carolina wren couple built a nest on the balcony. It's spring!

I think I'll take a break from writing and spend a romantic weekend with my hubby, cycling on our tandem.

How do you plan to spend the holiday weekend?

Have a Happy Holiday!

Hi,


Today I'm going to let a friend of mine post about Publishing Law. Something I think all writers should be knowledgeable about.


Please welcome, Marion Browning-Baker w/a Ella Quinn.  http://ellaquinnauthor.wordpress.com/  


Thank you!  Enjoy!

Thank you for having me, Denise. I’ve been a practicing attorney for twenty years and have done everything from military prosecution to divorce law. But when I started to write, I became interested in the legal aspects of publishing.  For the past year, I’ve researched publishing and agent contracts. Studied entertainment business law books and taken a class or two.  What I’ve learned is that this area of law, in some respects, is an ever shifting platform.  Both publishing and agency contracts range from very user friendly to legal gobbley-gook. I like the ones that are simple but complete. And although is most definitely buyer beware time, most of us are so happy to have one offered, that we don’t really read or understand them.

When I received my agent’s offer I was so excited I couldn’t keep my heart from thudding and all I wanted to do was sign the contract and talk to her right away. But I did tell you I’m an attorney. So instead, I told her I couldn’t talk to her on Friday, but I was available on Monday. Downloaded the contract, reviewed it and made notes and sent it to one of my CPs who is also a lawyer. By Monday, even though my heart was still pounding every time I thought about it, I had my questions prepared and was able to sign the contract with no qualms. When she got her offer, I returned the favor. I’ve also reviewed publishing contracts, both new and previously signed for other CPs.  It was about then, that I realized very few attorneys were offering contract advice at a reasonable rate.

There are many clauses an author should beware of when preparing to sign a publishing contract. One of them most fundamental is any clause dealing with royalties.  Usually, an author is paid royalties based either on the publisher’s net or gross sales for the book. Gross is preferred. But lately I’ve seen a number of contracts that state “gross after expenses.”  That is problematic. Everyone knows what “net sales” are. But “gross after expenses” is no man’s land and you should make the publisher state with specificity in the contract which expenses they mean. 

Many agents use standards contracts, however, with the rise in indie-publishing, some of the contracts haven’t been revised, either through oversight or for another reason. Again, it’s your purse that can take the hit. Be very careful that you’re not signing a contract that allows your agent to be paid the standard 15% of a book you self-publish. Or at least, go into the contract with open eyes.

I could go on for a long time, but I’d prefer to answer your questions and I’ll be available for the next hour to do so.

WHERE DO YOU GET YOUR IDEAS?

I smile when people ask me where I get my ideas. When I tell them, they take a step back and their eyes dart around the room as if looking for the nearest exit. I know I can be a tad different, but aren’t we all? Usually the men come to me and tell me what to write. I shared the following post on another blog and thought I’d share it with you, too. I’ve never double-dipped with a post before, so forgive me. Calvin suffered a bad fall resulting in broken ribs and disc damage and I've been busy playing nurse. He's able to go the bathroom alone now, which is a wonderful thing, believe me. Thus the repeated blogpost.

I might be coasting into sixty-four, but I have more men in and out of my bedroom than women half my age. I’m also lucky my husband Calvin doesn’t seem to mind. No, we aren’t into ménage a trios, but we’re both writers and understand how characters from our stories come to visit us at night.

Take the tall, wide-shouldered Texan who sauntered into our bedroom, wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and a pair of boots. Calvin barely noticed, but I was certainly paying attention--and drooling, too, if I remember correctly. He became my hero in my debut book, Storm’s Interlude.

When an ex-Marine roared into our bedroom on a Harley, I merely groaned and rolled over. I was too tired to be bothered. Not to be ignored, he drove into our bedroom again, took off his helmet and struggled to adjust his stance to accommodate his prosthesis. Now, he had my attention. How had he lost part of his leg? What or who put that haunting look into his eyes? His name was Win, he told me, and would I write his and Evie’s story? Those Violet Eyes will be out June 27^th.

I was writing my first romantic suspense, set in Paris involving a band of terrorists, an older American woman and a younger French government agent. I'd just finished chapter eight, when somewhere around three in the morning, someone slammed our bedroom door. I sat straight up. What the heck? Bleary-eyed, I glanced around; everything was fine. I must be dreaming. I lay back down and snuggled next to Calvin.

Once more, the bedroom door slammed and Niko charged in, mad as hell. What is his problem? He stood there glaring at me. I was dead tired, so I glared right back. At least until I fell asleep on him. Determined to get my attention, he charged into my bedroom again and slammed the door.

“What is it?” I growled.

“Watch,” he commanded.

He shared a vision of his walking down a hall, his fists clenched. Then he opened the door to an interrogation room, stepped in and slammed the door. My heroine was blindfolded and tied to a wooden chair. Her head swung in the direction of the noise. That quickly the vision was gone.

“That’s it? You woke me for that piddlin’ little bit? Why are you angry? Why is she tied to a chair? If you want me to write about that scene, I’m going to need more info.” I realized I was talking to air; air punctuated by my husband’s snoring. It took me four chapters to set up that door slamming scene in Mona Lisa’s Room. I was not a happy camper, believe me.

                          

Tumbleweeds blew into our bedroom one night, chased by a widowed cowboy and his three-year-old son.  The little boy, Eli, had a tactile personality and loved touching and rubbing materials with textures. He crawled onto our bed and rubbed our fleece blanket against his cheek. Last week I signed the contract for Tumbleweed Letters, a novella set in Deadwood, Dakota Territory in 1879. It's part of the Love Letters series at The Wild Rose Press.

I was struggling with the beginning of Rain is a Love Song, the second book in my romantic suspense series after Mona Lisa’s Room. One night I dreamed of Calvin and me sitting at a sidewalk café in Paris, across the street from the Pompidou Museum. A man coasted by on his motorcycle, his angel wings trailing on the pavement. It was a comfortable dream since we’d seen that very thing while in Paris. Then the man got off the bike—all muscles and attitude. He strolled over to me and got down on his hunkers. “I’m here for you, Vonnie. Your hero for your next book.” Now, we’re talkin’!!!! I'm to hear from my editor in a month regarding this book.

Book three of the series has a saxophone player wailing out some soulful jazz notes, the kind that make you want to sigh and cry. One night after playing a song at the foot of my bed, he told me he was also a German counterterrorism agent workinig undercover in Paris. Really? Oh, the possibilities. I’m on chapter six of Jazzbeat of Surrender right now.

Unfortunately, that book is sharing my writing time with a pair of eyes that glowed fiery golden in our bedroom one night. I nearly wet the bed when I first saw them—especially when I realized they were set in the head of a huge bear. Then the bear morphed into a Scottish man in a kilt. I shook my head. “Sorry, you’re in the wrong bedroom. I don’t write paranormal stuff.”

 He lifted the covers and slipped into my bed. “Aye, I am in the right bed chamber. Let me tell ye why bears are extinct in Scotland and about me family’s curse.” Did I listen? Of course! I mean, what woman would chase a man in a kilt out of her bed? So, like it or not, I'm writing my first paranormal, When Paisley Meets Plaid....my heroine is named after a certain sweet lady on our blog...**grins**

Then there’s the polite World War II pilot who occasionally sits on the edge of my bed, leans over me and whispers, “Let me tell you about my gal, Pearl. She’s really swell.” I run my fingers through his dark hair. “Not yet, Ben, you’ll have to wait your turn.”

You see, a woman can only handle so many men.

So tell me, how do you get your ideas?

April Fool's Day

April Fool's Day - according to Wikipedia - April Fools' Day is celebrated in different countries on April 1 every year. Sometimes referred to as All Fools' Day, April 1 is not a national holiday, but is widely recognized and celebrated as a day when many people play all kinds of jokes and foolishness. The day is marked by the commission of good-humoured or otherwise funny jokes, hoaxes, and other practical jokes of varying sophistication on friends, family members, teachers, neighbors, work associates, etc.

I remember as a kid in elementary school we would do the infamous "your shoes are untied," the person would look at their shoes, and we all laughed "April Fool's." Not quite sure now as a grown-up why we thought that was so darned funny. :)

When I worked in an office there would be the inevitable gag jokes like whoopee cushions and hand buzzers. I'm probably a great joke victim because they just piss me off and then everyone just laughs more.

Have you pulled one over on someone for April Fool's Day? What is your favorite joke for the day?

Jill James

Nerves of Steel?

Why did I say I'd do this?

The Steinway looms at the front of the room. I know it's waiting to devour my fumbling fingers whole. Why did I think I needed performance experience?

"Thank you, Christopher, nicely done," says Ann, the lovely teacher. "Joan, your turn."

Ack! Why did I say I'd do this?

I clench my books in my hand. They're really more of a security blanket. I know the pieces cold.

Don't I? Ack!

Did I really honest-to-god say I'd do THREE pieces?

What HAD I thinking been with? Surely not my brain.

Okay, chill, babe. You can do this. You've practiced and practiced and practiced some more. You own those pieces. I set myself on the stool, put the music book on the rack and open it to the appropriate page. I address my completely sympathetic audience of seven other adult students and their guests.

"Tonight I'm going to play three pieces. The first is Bouree in A minor by Christoph Graupner."

The first two bars (eight notes) go smoothly-ish. Oh no, that was supposed to be a B flat, not a B natural. 

Keep going. GACK!

I grin sheepishly at the audience. "Let's pretend that never happened." I get a good chuckle out of them and begin again. Oh, yes, this is SO amusing.

This time it's worse, so much worse. My fingers are trembling so badly, they won't do a thing I tell them. Their memory has vanished. A few bits come out the way they're supposed to--just a few. It's the longest minute-and-a-half of my entire life.

I want to flee the room in ignominy. But I have two more pieces to go.

"My second piece is Minuet in C major by Johann Wilhelm Hassler." Try saying that with the correct German accent when you can barely speak.

Okay, babe, pull yourself together. Take a deep breath and release to a count of 5-4-3-2-1. Go.

Slow and steady to start. Hit the G. Yes, that's good. Pick up speed. F sharp. Oh yeah, baby. Slow it down again. Now the fun bit. Watch those tricky chords. YES! PERFECT! I OWNED THAT! The fastest minute of my life.

One more piece to go.

"My last piece is Celebration by Anne Crosby. I'd like to dedicate this piece to our teacher Ann because she helps us all to celebrate the music within."

Take a deep breath and release to a count of 5-4-3-2-1. Go.

Easy peasy beginning. Danger, danger, finger twisting section ahead. Ack! Repeat the easy bit.  Ack! More chords, hand-over-hand this time. Do the last two bits over again. Easy repeat. Final staccato chord. YES! OH YES!

I give the audience a big honking grin. They clap and grin back.

I came, I played, I conquered myself.

"Thank you, Joan. Nicely done recovery. And now we have..."

The next victim of the Steinway--er, performer--rises from her seat.

x-posted at joanleacott.com

Have a Roaring Good Time!

This came up on Flickr this morning...and I didn't know that it had a blurb yet, so here 'tis! I have one more final look at it before it goes to press! Woohoo! I'll give a little roar with excitement!

October 2012 by Sourcebooks Savage Hunger (Heart of the Jaguar #1) by Terry Spear

In the heat of the jungle, jaguars are clawed, dangerous, and hungry for love. With hopes of overcoming night terrors and thanking the man who saved her life, Kathleen McKnight returns to the Amazon. A jaguar at heart, Connor Anderson doesn’t just protect her, but wants to claim her for his own.

And Donna shared this with me and I had to share it with you all!!! It just goes to show that dogs better stay out of a wolves' territory, unless they're invited! :)


I'll be at the Book Boost some time today.

I've autographed books at Hastings last night, a couple at B&N, though am trying to set up a book signing, and hope to do some more today at Walmart and Books-a-Million!

I was supposed to be off today, but have to run to work to help out. Argh.  I need to write!

Have a wonderful Monday!!!

Terry
"Giving new meaning to the term alpha male where fantasy IS reality!"
www.terryspear.com

An auspicious day, this: birthdays!

It's my sister's birthday (happy birthday, Sisty Ugler [just kidding]).

And it's the birthday(s) of my kittens.
My sister is at that age where we don't like to count any more, so I won't focus on her. I'll focus on the kittens. Not kittens any more, really. They are 3 years old today.

I know the exact date because we adopted them from a group that fosters animals (Last Hope, in Minnesota) and the lady who had the pregnant mama knew exactly when she gave birth. So happy birthday, Pandora, the Paw of Destruction (shown in the yoga pose above). And to Opie Dopey, her intrepid sidekick.

Long may they run!

UNUSUAL WORDS

Written by Paisley Kirkpatrick One of my children sent me an email this week using whopperjawed, a word I'd never heard before. She lives in Florida and I live in California. I thought maybe it's a regional word.

WHOPPERJAWED means slightly off kilter. By the content of the sentence it was fairly easy to figure out its meaning. It got me to thinking about unusual words that have been around for a long time. Some of them are fun to use and have become favorites of mine.

DUNDERHEAD: blockhead - dunce - fool - dolt,
ADDLEPATED: confused - eccentric,
HOGWASH: nonsense,
DUMBFOUNDED: astonished - speechless

Since I write western historical romance, I've started looking for unusual words used in my time period to give my stories a bit more 'flavor' and fun. It's like adding spice and at the same time it makes me smile.

Do you have favorite words? My most favorite is propinquity, which means togetherness. I taught my Dutch grandsons the word and they went home and taught it to their teacher.

Three weeks in Bayawan

Have you ever spent time in a tropical third world country? My husband and I recently visited my brother who lives in Bayawan on Negros Island in the Philippines. You won’t find this city listed in any tour book. It’s off the beaten path with the closest airport over two hours away in Dumaguete City, the capital of Negros Oriental.

I took copious notes and photographs and plan to use our experiences in a future story. In this blog I’ll share how we got around the city of Bayawan. That was an adventure in itself.

Cars are expensive to operate so you see few on the streets of Bayawan. The common type of transportation choices if you don’t own a motorcycle are riding in pot-pots (pronounced put puts) or tricycles. I’ll describe both. Here is a typical pot-pot looking for passengers.


Believe me when I say that padded narrow seat is designed to fit narrow-hipped Filipinos, not two broad Americano behinds! After several rides my husband and I learned how to wedge in nicely. Admittedly they aren’t comfortable but definitely very cheap. Cost: five Philippine pesos per person anywhere in town. The currency exchange rate is approximately 42 pesos to a U.S. dollar.




Tricycles are motorcycles with semi-enclosed sidecars which can carry up to seven people. It’s a wonder the bike’s gears don’t fail carrying these heavy burdens through town. You load people until there isn’t an inch of space left, and you can side sideways behind the driver too!

Bayawan is basically flat, has no stop signs, many four way intersections and pedestrians do not have the right of way. The ballet of pot-pots, tricycles, motorbikes and cars at intersections is amazing to watch and an unforgettable experience. Pot-pots have small bike horns they squeeze at intersections and when they want to pass or alert someone. Every time we crossed the busier highway riding in a pot-pot I closed my eyes and waited. Why see what you can't avoid? In my next blog I’ll discuss the exotic foods we ate in Bayawan such as buko, jackfruit, dinuguan, sisig, and biko.

What has been your most frightening ground travel experience?

Opening lines

Plagiarism? No Way!

My MFBRN (most favorite book right now) is Hooked by award-winning author Les Edgerton. Here’s what I read last night from Chapter Four ‘The Set-up and Backstory’:

T.S. Eliot said, “Mediocre writers borrow; great writers steal.” That doesn’t mean we plagiarize. He meant to take a close look at how great writers achieved an effect, and use that technique ourselves.

Edgerton goes on to say, “When I’m writing a novel, for instance, I’ll have an average of perhaps thirty novels open, and I constantly look through the to see how others achieved the effect I’m looking for.”

Which would spark an editor, agent or contest judge to read on?
This? The man had a reputation around town for being a brawler and a mean-spirited drunk. Ever since high school, when he had bullied just about every kid littler than him, he’d been known as a person to avoid. It might have been his parents who created his personality. His father spent a lot of time whaling on his son with whatever he found handy. A belt, a stick, whatever was available. One time he clopped him upside the head with an iron he snatched off the ironing board behind which his mother stood, helplessly wringing her hands. It might have been the dead-end factory job he’d found himself stick in for the past thirty-two years.
(…lots more backstory….)
Right now he found himself about six blocks from his home with his dead bride in his arms. On State Street just past Maplecrest, in the Georgetown Shopping Plaza. Behind it, actually, back by the dumpsters behind the Cap ‘N Cork.

Or this? He was so mean that wherever he was standing became the bad part of town.
At that moment, the bad part was State Street just past Maplecrest, in the Georgetown Shopping Plaza. Behind it, actually, back by the dumpsters behind the Cap ‘N Cork. Into one of which he was stuffing the body of his wife.

Here are some openers he recommends:
***A smell of spilled gasoline: when Saul opened his eyes he was still strapped in behind his lap and shoulder belt, but the car he sat in was upside down and in a field of some sort. (Charles Baxter’s “Saul and Patty are Pregnant”)
***They had dug coal together as young men and then lost touch over the years. Now it looked like they’d be meeting again, this time as lawman and felon, Raylan Givens and
Boyd Crowder. (Elmore Leonard’s “Fire in the Hole”)
***He made her feel uncomfortable, and she didn’t like that. (Raymond Carver “A Small, Good Thing”)
***Tucker Case awoke to find himself hanging from a breadfruit tree by a coconut fiber rope. Like most of the big missteps he had taken in life, it had started in a bar. (Stephen Moore “Island of the Sequined Love Num”)
***It’s true, he put his hand on my ass and I was about to scream bloody murder when the bus passed by a church and he crossed himself. (Luisa Valenzuela’s “Vision Out of the Corner of One Eye”)
***Even when she was very little her hunger was worth something: hunger taught her to dance, and her father noticed. (Robert Hill Long “The Restraints”)
***Looking back, I should have realized something was up as soon as I opened the bedroom door and found my wife asleep on top of the sheets with a strange man curled up like a foetus beside her. (Douglas Glover “The South Will Rise at Noon”)
***“You must not tell anyone,” my mother said, “what I am about to tell you.” (Maxine Hong Kingston “The Woman Warrior”)

Here are some romance openers from books on my shelf:
***It was the rain that made him think of the tale. (Nora Roberts “Morrigan’s Cross”)
***He understood his power early. (Nora Roberts “Entranced”)
***Claire Lancaster sat in the café of a large bookstore in Phoenix, Arizona, waiting for the half sister she had never met. (Jayne Ann Krentz “White Lies”)
***This wedding was no small affair. There were seven bridesmaids, seven groomsmen, three ushers, two alter boys, three lectors, and enough firepower inside the church to wipe out half the congregation. All but two of the groomsmen were armed. (Julie Garwood “Shadow Dance”)
***“What the hell d’ye mean by ‘marry without delay,’ Father?” (Bertrice Small “This Heart of Mine”)
***On the sixth of April, in the year 1812—precisely two days before her sixteenth birthday—Penelope Featherington fell in love. (Julia Quinn “Romancing Mister Bridgerton”)
***The coach belonging to the duchess of Magnus pulled up to the tall house on Berkley Square, and an impostor stepped out. (Christina Dodd “One Kiss from You”)
***Silver Ashcroft slipped through night and shadows, heart pounding and rage simmering. (Cheyenne McCray “Forbidden Magic”)
***It was a crime that Amelia Willoughby was not married. (Julia Quinn “Mr. Cavendish, I Presume”)
***Mathias was rudely awakened by a woman’s bloodcurdling scream. (Amanda Quick “Mischief”)
***I am going to die tonight. (Allison Brennan “Cutting Edge”)
***The boom-boom-boom of the distant lali—huge wooden drums—emulated the pounding of madcap hearts in the darkness. (Terri Valentine “Paradise Promised”)