The Long Good-bye

Well, it has certainly been some time since I was here. For those of you who still check in from time to time, my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's December 2016, although I've been dealing with her forgetfulness for the last several years. First it was just writing lists so she wouldn't forget what she needed at the grocery store. Then it was taking care of the laundry. Then it became preparing meals (after she almost burned the house down.) Then it was driving her to and fro after she had a car accident. Then it became coming to my house every afternoon so she would have someone to talk to after her incoherent ramblings drove my father to not speaking to her at all.

Both of my parents vehemently denied that she could possibly get this awful disease (even though her father and sister both had it) so for the last 6 years I have shoveled crap against the tide trying, begging, pleading for some help and it was only on New Year's Eve this year that my father finally saw reason and allowed me to hire in-home help. Unfortunately, setting this up is taking time, and when my mother ended up with pneumonia over Christmas, it added a whole other layer to her already forgetful mind. She used to be able to concentrate on important things, but now...it's any one's guess where her thoughts go.

All of this has left me grappling through the Stages of Grief as I try to take care of her. My own life has taken a back seat--my daughter, my writing, my friends, housework--even showering on some days because my mother (God forgive me) is worse than a set of two-year-old triplets on steroids. I have been in therapy for the last several months just to have someone to talk to about my situation because I'm sick of bitching to my friends about the unfairness of it all.

My life wasn't supposed to be this way. I'm not supposed to be helping my mother take a shower. I'm not supposed to be cutting her food into little pieces because she doesn't know how to put her dentures in anymore. I'm not supposed to be cleaning pee off the bathroom floor because she can't remember to sit down on the toilet or worse yet can't remember what toilet paper is for (and refuses to wear Depends).

And I'm not telling you any of this to gain sympathy--I'm telling you this because if you know anyone who is caring for an aging parent or relative with dementia, to please help them. Cook a meal, offer to get groceries, offer to pick up dry cleaning. If they'll let you in their house, vacuum, fold laundry, do the dishes. Hell, just buy them their favorite coffee and a piece of pastry and sit with them for an hour and hand them a Kleenex when they start crying. You cannot know, unless you are living through this, what even the smallest kindness means to them.

Because in the back of their minds, as well as my own, is if we don't find a cure, or even a reasonable delaying of the disease, we too, will succumb to it. It's terrifying to me that Monster will only be thirty if my own mind starts to decay when my mother's did. And I don't want her to have to wipe my ass because I peed all over myself.

And so, it is with great sadness that I must say good-bye to all of you. I had a great run. I met some great people, found some great friends. I learned a lot about writing and publishing from all of you. But I just can't keep up with the blog anymore. I don't know what the future holds, but I do know that I didn't want to just disappear from the blogosphere. For those of you who may follow me on my other blogs, those too, will be closing down. (I only have enough energy to write this blog today while the nurse is with my mother.)

I wish all of you success in your careers. I will miss you more than you could ever know.

Take care of yourselves.
Love,
Anne

The Book I've Been Working On is Finished

I'm pleased to say the latest manuscript is finished. I shored up my last round of editing last night. Now it's off to readers to see what they think. I'm ready for a night like this.

The novel is somewhat autobiographical as the main character is a caregiver for an Alzheimer's family member. However, not all of the aunt's mental incapacity is from my own experience. I have several friends who are also dealing with aging parents and I took licence with their stories.

The most difficult scene I wrote was when I killed the aunt, by accident. She fell down the stairs. But then my cat took ill and eventually succumbed to pneumonia. Which is why I couldn't kill the darling aunt. It took too much out of me. Besides, it's romantic women's fiction. The ending wouldn't have been the same.

The most difficult thing I've had to do FOR the book is find a cover. I have gone through nine different covers. I had 12 friends choose. It was a 4-way tie. I found two more covers. I changed the title. I still don't have a cover. My friend Katrina has a camera. We took test pictures this morning. We're going to take more tomorrow.

I enjoyed the process of writing this novel. I kept track of how much I wrote and how long it took me. I think in total 45 days to write 104,000 words. 279 pages. An average 6 hour writing day was 4500 words. However, those six hours were broken up over the course of 14. It was a very rare occasion to get all six in one fell swoop.

This book was my summer novel. I started during Spring Break in April, and worked on it until the end of school in June. Then on and off during the summer. I was also working on another Regency as well, so time was divided. I had hoped that I would finish by the end of the summer, but things got a little hairy at my house-- the cat got sick, we went back to school, volleyball, and well, I finished the book last night.

I went through it I can't tell you how many times over the course of the last two weeks. I rewrote the ending three times. I'm still unsure of certain word choices, but for now they're staying. No, I did not drop the F-bomb. However, maybe I did have a few choice words, but they're in Italian. They give it flavor.

This is one of the covers I did for it. And the cover copy.

At forty-two, Abby Pryzbylowicz had everything she thought she ever wanted—nice apartment, nice car, nice life. A novelist by trade, she penned romance novels for the money, detective mysteries for fun, and the occasional piece of literary fiction to keep her name in the papers. A reclusive woman by choice, she only wanted to be left alone with her characters. However, when her cousin phoned and begged Abby to help with her mother she couldn’t say no. Abby loved Aunt Rose. Besides, it was only for the summer.

Upon her arrival to Rose MacLaren’s house, Abby found her aunt a ferocious hoarder, had frequent bouts of forgetfulness, and a penchant for choosing her clothing according to color rather than season. Conversations had to be pieced together to make sense. Convincing Rose not to drive proved to be a covert operation. 

When Abby set out to help her aunt, she thought it would be simple enough. All she had to do was clean the house and get it ready to sell. Rose was moving in with her daughter in September. However, as family skeletons started falling out of the closet, Abby’s only confidant was the mechanic next door.

Dealing with him was another story. 

So, this is where I've been and what I've been doing.

THE MECHANIC NEXT DOOR will be published SOON.

And for those of you who didn't know, yes, Robynne Rand is my other pen name.

Anne Gallagher (c) 2017

RIP Mike Wyczowski -- Eulogy for a Kitty

This is Mike. She was my 7 month-old kitty that Monster found behind the shed at school in April. She was scrawny and skinny, but crawled into Monster's lap on the car ride home and fell asleep. Once at the house, I fed her, starvin-like-Marvin, and then she climbed up on the couch and slept for two days. She was home.

Mike talked. Well, she talked to me all the time. I'd walk in, she'd meow. I would call her, she could come. Just like a little dog.

She would sit on the counter when I was in the kitchen and watch me do whatever it was I was doing. Cooking, making tea, washing the dishes. Didn't matter. She'd stare at me. Just the same way she is in the picture. Just sit. And watch. Never smelled anything. Never wanted anything. She just wanted to be wherever I was.

I set up my ironing board in the dining room. I have a large plant stand in the front window that Mike would climb up to sit and watch me iron. (Which I did every day.)

At night, I would sit downstairs in my office and catch the news. Mike would sit at the top of the stairs behind the baby gate and wait for me.

I don't know what it was about her. We have another cat and three dogs, but I have never felt for them what I felt with this cat. Don't get me wrong, I love my animals. But Mike was my familiar. I loved her, she loved me. She slept on my feet every night.

Mike took sick about three weeks ago. Really sick. She got better. Then she got sick again. And never recovered. I had to put her down. This morning. About eleven o'clock. An hour ago as I write this. Her loss is still fresh in my heart.

I am bereft because I brought her to the vet (after my vet couldn't fit her in -- knowing she was so sick, and calling three other vets in the area) to see if he could help her. He tried, but she collapsed on the exam table. I had to put her down.

I walked around the house just now picking up her stuff and putting it in the laundry. Her binky, her towel, and her rug. I took all her pots of grass (she was an indoor cat) and put them in the garden. (I know she appreciated the fact that I would go out in the yard and dig up fresh grass for her every week. If you have indoor cats, you should do this too. Just make sure it's the right grass.)

Mike was suffering. It was the right thing to do.

I want to blame someone and unfortunately, the vet I brought her to the first time, I believe, misdiagnosed her. But that's something I won't get into here, because I'm just bitter and sad and heart-broken and I have no idea what to do now.

I will never be able to be in the kitchen again without seeing her soulful eyes staring at me, her contemplative gaze meeting mine, sharing something that no one can explain.

I love that cat. Loved that cat with my whole heart and soul.

And I know she was just a cat, but she was my cat, my little furry person who hung out with me all the time. Like my best friend. And now she's gone.

And I am very very sad.




Anne Gallagher (c) September 11, 2017

Finding Characters for My New Book

Robynne Rand is my alter-ego, as some of you may know. I blog over here under that name as The Rhode Island Writer (Get it Piedmont Writer/ Rhode Island Writer). Anyway, as part of my writing process I need to have pictures of who I think my characters would be. This helps me focus. I'm now at 40k words, the half-way mark and have been writing blind, as it were. I couldn't really see who my characters were. In Chapter 12, Abby and Michael have to go to the 4th of July party in Bristol. Which brought me back here,

Remember Cathryn and Steve?

Remember Genna and Pete?

and this prompted me to start searching. Last night, I found these two. I've always loved Jeffrey Dean Morgan and when I found out he and Hilarie Burton were a couple, well, that was just icing on the cake. (Love her on the Hallmark Channel)

My main characters Abby Pryzbylowicz and Michael Rosetti

Don't they make a nice couple? And they're just the right age. And bonus on top of that, Jeffrey was born on my birthday - April 22 - and his character name in P.S. I Love You (with Hilary Swank -- great movie!) was William Gallagher. So, yeah! I think that is a good omen for this book.

This novel takes a lot from my personal life dealing with my mother's diagnosis of Alzheimers. Write what you know, right? I've been trying to keep it light, some lines are just laugh out loud funny, because well, if I can't laugh about it sometimes, I'd spend all my time crying and who wants to do that. I think I'd classify it as romantic women's fiction because, well, it's not chick lit.

Abby is a novelist who keeps to herself. She's a nice girl who got screwed over by her ex-husband, and although doesn't necessarily hate men, she's wary of getting taken again. (Again, write what you know.)

Michael has his own garage and works on classic cars. His ex-wife was a bee-yotch of the first water who promised him kids and then reneged on the deal. (There's more to this but no spoilers here.) He's Rose's next door neighbor, hence the title of the book.

Then there's Abby's Aunt Rose. Her kids are wanting her to pack up her house to sell it, so Rose can move to California and move in with her daughter Mandy. However, Mandy's in London with her husband and kids for the summer, so Mandy asked Abby to go help Rose.

Aunt Rose

Last but not least, there's Elwood. Michael's dog. Because who doesn't love a good Rotty.

Elwood Blues

Here's the cover copy.

At forty-two, Abby Pryzbylowicz had everything she ever wanted—nice apartment, nice car, nice life. A novelist by trade, she pens romance novels, cozy mysteries, and the occasional thriller. A quiet woman, she only wanted to be left alone with her characters. However, when her cousin phoned and begged Abby to help her out with her mother she couldn’t say no. Abby loved her aunt. Besides, it was only for the summer.

Upon her arrival to Rose MacLaren’s house, Abby found her aunt a ferocious hoarder, had frequent bouts of forgetfulness, and a penchant for choosing her clothing according to color rather than season.

Then there was the mechanic’s dog who thought of Rose’s back yard as his literal dumping ground, not to mention the barking, the hole in the fence, and the ruination of forty years of heirloom roses.

Helping her aunt get her act together was the easy part.

Dealing with the mechanic next door was another story. 

Here is the mock-up cover I did. Needed one of those as well. Don't know if if this is the image I'll use, but it puts me in the right frame of mind to finish the book. (Fonts are obviously not my strong suit.)

If you want to read more about places I used to go in Rhode Island, here's my latest post on Scarborough Beach in RI. For all the ex-Pat's out there.

Tell me -- Do you need pictures of your characters to help fill in the gaps of what's inside your head? Do you need a cover before you can finish? Have you ever been to Rhode Island?

Anne Gallagher/Robynne Rand (c) 2017

My Books Were Pirated -- How I Handled It

To add to the growing number of crappy things that have happened to me in recent months, I found out that several of my books were pirated and offered for free as a PDF download across multiple web-sites. Naturally, I was stunned, then angry, then depressed. It's been hard enough to write these days, now I had to confront this nightmare of a situation, which I didn't really want to do for a number of reasons:

1) It was wasted energy.
2) It was wasted time.
3) What was the point of writing and trying to sell books if some little piss ant was just going to steal them?

A few years ago, I found a blog post that gave step-by-step instructions as to what to do if you ever found yourself in this situation. Luckily, I had saved it in my bookmarks bar. I reread it, then searched for more answers. I read about a half-dozen more blog posts just to make sure I knew what I was doing. (Just search "ebook piracy" or "DMCA notices".)

I took nine days to get my act together to deal with it. Last Friday I sent out DMCA notices. (Digital Management Copyright Act). By Saturday night, after another Google search, the pirated books were gone. I kind of didn't think it would be that quick, but I guess when you mess with copyright infringement, pirates are scared they'll get sued for damages (which for some could be in the millions.)

It was a process to be sure because even though these websites are supposed to have a DMCA tab for such things or an email address on their site, most didn't. I had to look them up on WHOIS. And once I did, it was a nightmare to figure out which address to use. It took just about 5 hours from start to finish to send 9 notices.

Here is the letter I sent. (Pretty much word for word from the blog post.)

7 July 2017

To Whom It May Concern:

In accordance with Section 512(c) of the DMCA, I am submitting this takedown notice in writing and with a digital signature at the bottom. 

My name is Anne Gallagher. Effective 7 July  2017 it came to my attention that my copyrighted material, specifically The Lady's Masquerade is being offered as a free download on your site ebookfiles.com. (You have to make sure you include their website. Found this out when I received an email from one of the pirates who asked, "Which website?" Needless to say, said pirate obviously has more than one.)

I have a good faith belief that the use of these copyrighted materials on your site is not authorized by the copyright or intellectual property owner, its agent, or the law. Under penalty of perjury, I certify that the information in this notice is true and accurate, and that I am the copyright owner of the copyright(s) involved.

Under this statute, you are required upon receipt of this notice to remove and disable access to the infringing materials specified in this notice.

The title is as follows, with an active link to this item on your website:

Title: The Lady's Masquerade
Link: https://www.amazon.com/Ladys-Masquerade-Reluctant-Grooms-Book-ebook/dp/B00C3M4D2Y
(You also need to include a link to the book, not just your author page. I used Amazon because they have global reach. Most of the websites had domains in India.)

Thank you for your assistance and for handling this matter promptly. If you have any questions please feel free to contact me via email at shoreroadpublishing@gmail.com .

(You also need to include a written signature. At least that's how I interpreted the instructions. I think it makes the pirates take you seriously.)


Anne Gallagher
Shore Road Publishing

Here is a link to the post

 http://www.indiesunlimited.com/2015/06/08/my-book-is-being-pirated-what-can-i-do/

They also explain WHOIS.com much better than I can.

I wrote the main text in Word, then copied and pasted it into the email. I couldn't figure out how to insert the written signature so I wrote one out, scanned it, then uploaded it as a picture to insert in the email. (I know, I'm still so outdated when it comes to computering.)

I found six Regency romances and my latest contemporary romance in the pirates' booty. Unfortunately, every book I found, I had once offered for free at one point in their publishing history. So take that as a lesson to be learned. Free is not what it used to mean. And that's not to say that pirates won't take a bought book and do the same thing, I'm sure it's just easier with free. Most of these websites also maintain they're doing a service to the reading public by offering these books.

However, as the above mentioned blog post says, most of these sites are just scams wanting to steal information or infecting your computer with viruses. And I know one of the pirates had more than one website because I found the same comments on three of them, all claiming "this is one of the best websites around to get free books. Now I can finally read the book I have been wanting without paying for it." It made me sick to my stomach.

How did I find out that my books were being pirated? I Googled "The Lady's Masquerade free download". I then searched each of my other books. I found Women of a Certain Demographic quite by accident. I wanted to see if it was up on itunes so I Googled it and voila, there she was.

So, two lessons today, my bloggy friends--
1) Take the time to search your titles.
2) Think long and hard about offering your books for free.

Tell me -- Has this ever happened to you? What did you do about it? Do you still offer your books for free?

Anne Gallagher (c) 2017

PS. I've also posted on my other blogs this week if you want to take a look. I'm finally rested enough to get back in the game.

robynnerandauthor.blogspot.com

annegallagherwriter.blogspot.com

Writing for the Future

For the last year or so, I've felt like a deep sea diver, descending into uncharted territory, a shark spear in one hand, flailing for the guide rope to the surface in another. My mother's diagnosis has left me nearly paralyzed under the routine of housework, Monster, and writing to keep my feet on terra firma. But paranoia swims at the bottom of that endless ocean and the question remains --what state of mind will I have in ten years?

Alzheimer's disease is a nightmare to live through. Blinding frustration, overwhelming panic, incredible sadness, and just plain helplessness are a few of the more colorful adjectives I can think of. My grandfather had dementia. My maternal aunt has it (has been suffering from it for the last 22 years). Technically, my aunt shouldn't even be alive, but she is, which frightens me even more that my mother could live with this horrible affliction for the next fifteen years. And that if she is still alive in fifteen years, she will be 90 and I will be 70. Chances are, I will be fighting that same disease. Monster will only be 27. I do not want to leave her with that legacy.

I've begun to seriously consider the next ten years. Something I don't often do. I live in the present, have tried not to plan ahead more than a few weeks. Plans change and I hate to be disappointed. It's that Taurus thing. However, when I first started blogging I read that every writer should have a five-year plan. Same as a small business model. I achieved my five-year plan, albeit with an extension to finish The Reluctant Grooms Series. (By this time, my mother's illness had begun to show its ugly head.) Somewhere in the back of my mind I had thought to write the next Regency romance series, Ladies of Dunbury, within the next five year plan, which is where I am now at two years in. I have written and published three books, contracted to write five more, hopefully within the span of the next two years, which will leave me at year four of this five year cycle.

Having said that, last year I began writing a detective/mystery series. What was supposed to be a lark, has actually turned out to be an interesting opportunity for me to stretch my wings as a writer. It's also turned out to be a massive project. I have finished 6 of the 24 novellas, and started on five of the others.

I also have a contemporary romance in the works with 24k words on that. Those words took only eight days for me to write. I could probably finish  the durn thing in three weeks if I had a mind. But since the day Monster got out of school, I have been spring cleaning and moving furniture, and trying to keep up with the yard work. I bushwhacked through a jungle of overgrowth three days ago and am still paying for it.


Taking all that into consideration, I look at where Monster is in school- 7th grade. Two more years until she graduates, then high school (four years), then hopefully, college at Wake Forest (four more). Equals ten years. Monster will be 22. I will be 65. And my mother will be 85. I know what all the Alzheimer's doctors say-- they only give the patient five years from the diagnosis. Well, my family throws that theory out the window.

So, here I sit contemplating the next decade. The five remaining Regency romances will take at least two years to finish. The massive detective/mystery project will take a year to finish, at least, and then another year for edits. And not only do I have one contemporary romance that I want to work on, I have several unfinished manuscripts lying around in the bowels of my hard drive I'd like to work on again. I think I have enough work to keep me busy for the next couple of years.

In ten years, I will be sixty-five. What state of mind will I have? Will I still be able to write? Will I still be able to function? Will they have found a cure by then? Will my books still sell? What is the legacy I'm going to leave for Monster?

I know, heavy thoughts for a Monday morning. With the looming idea of Alzheimer's disease added into the equation, it's not looking good for me. But I'm ever optimistic. As cynical and jaded as I am about the rest of the world, I have faith that some human spirit will break through the mysteries of the disease and find a cure. Not just for me, but for every single person who's suffering right now.

As for me, I intend to just pound the keyboards until my writing looks like this
[m/d w   gjwoudn  gjou njowrspw.
Maybe by then I'll be so famous, those words will be worth a zillion dollars.


Tell me -- Do you ever think about what you're going to write next? Do you have a five-year/ten-year plan?


 Anne Gallagher (c) 2017

The Power of a Bad Review

I've been debating to broach this topic for a couple of weeks now, but I decided if I don't let it go, it will eat at me and possibly cripple me for the rest of my life. Having no one to discuss this with in "real life" who could possibly understand, you guys are it.

I generally check my Author Amazon page a couple of times a week. I check my stats, and then reviews just to see if anything is happening because I don't get many reviews, so when I do, I'm excited. Even if it's a bad review. At least someone is reading my book.

So, I checked. And I got a 2-star on several books (several books) from the same reviewer. It seems she purchased my boxed set on KU because it's free for KU subscribers. Not only did she leave the reviews on the boxed set, she decided to leave the reviews across the board on each of the individual stories. Nine (9) stories total.

Now, anyone who has had the experience of a bad review knows DO NOT ENGAGE the reviewer. It can only lead to a pissing contest and a social media nightmare. I've heard enough of these stories since I began writing to know not to do that.

It also seems that this reviewer left comments on one of the last reviews and when I looked, it seemed as though she and another reader were having a conversation about, not only MY books, but another author's as well. On MY comment board. WTH?

So, I politely inquired of the reviewer that if she didn't like my books, then why was she going to bother reading the rest. She gave me her answer, we had several paragraphs of dialogue where I explained my thoughts about my writing and why I wrote the books the way I did. She seemed satisfied with my answers and I thought she would either repair, replace, or hopefully bump up the stars. (Because I had done this once before with a different reviewer and she did bump up from a 2 to a 4.)

Nope. What she then did was read the final boxed set, trash it and pretty much tell the world, "Don't bother reading this series." IN THE HEADING!

I looked up her stats because she was a top reviewer and found some comfort in the fact that she didn't like anything she ever read. Every book was tagged with 2 stars. (Some 3, but those were few and far between.)

However, during this time, I had just taken my mother for cataract surgery and had to make sure she had her required eye drops 4 x a day, (hard to do with an Alzheimers patient), was getting ready for Spring Break (which meant I had to get my school responsibilities together when I came back b/c my mother's NEXT surgery was that week--lots of paperwork), try to get the yard in order--we've had rain, finish doing my mother's garden (b/c obviously she can't do it anymore), make a list of what to clean in the house during Spring Break and attempt to install my new bathroom sink, but most importantly...

...finish the book I had started in March. Yes, on March 1, I started the 3rd book in the Ladies of Dunbury series and had 75,000 words written. I was on a roll writing (even with all the other stuff on my plate) because I LOVE this story and was just writing, writing, writing. Until I read the reviews.

And then I stopped. Dead in my tracks. I didn't even look at my computer for almost a week. My Never Give Up Never Surrender mantra was out the window. I honestly wanted to give up writing. I hadn't been this depressed in about twenty years. Seriously. I mean what was I going to do if I couldn't write. It's not like I can just go out and get a job. Not with my mother the way she is.

I finally broke down and wrote to a good friend and dumped the whole load on her (which I did not want to do because really, who wants to hear this shit). Thankfully, she talked me off the ledge. She loves my stories and is a talented writer in her own right, so her kind advice to "let it go, there are trolls everywhere" seemed sage and heartwarming.

I know and understand that every reader will not like what I write. I get that. I do. And I have several 1 and 2 star reviews to prove it, not only on Amazon but Kobo, B&N, Smashwords, and Goodreads to boot. However, for some reason, this just slayed me. My overwhelming urge was to kick this chick in the teeth and tell her, "Well, if you hate what I write, then write your own damn book."

That's the thing about this business that gets me the most (and I think most other writers as well). We pour our heart and souls out onto the page, write what we love, take the time to revise and edit--sometimes for months--and publish with the hope that this book will
make the NY Times bestseller list
make us the most money we ever had
give us the recognition that we crave
fulfill our heart's desire
fill in the blank

What this chick did with her reviews was to take away my dreams of a good life for Monster, make me rethink my future as a writer, and jack hammer my fragile ego to smithereens. It took almost 10 days for me to go back to my computer, something which has never happened. EVER.

I'm happy to say that I am finally writing again, have 83,000 words on the story, and if I play my cards right, one final chapter to write. I'm trying not to hear this chick in my head every time my fingers touch the keyboard, but it's damn hard.

I know this is a business and it's not supposed to be personal, but it is. I don't care who you are, whenever someone says something about you, good bad or indifferent, it IS personal. The old adage comes to mind -- if you can't say anything nice about someone, don't say anything at all. But in this day and age with the privacy of the internet, manners have gone out the window.

I'm sure this reviewer, who actually said to me, "I feel I'm doing your readers a service"
does believe she IS providing a service. But at what cost? She has no idea who I am, what I'm trying to achieve, or what my life is like at this point in time. She sits on her throne and reads book after book and passes judgement on what she thinks is good writing. (She told me that's what she does all day--just reads. Must be nice to have that kind of life.)

Anyway, I guess the lesson I learned this time is to never ever read your own reviews.

Tell me -- Have you ever had a review that just knocked you off your feet? What did you do about it? Do you read your own reviews? Do you write reviews?


Anne Gallagher (c) 2017

The Cold Hard Ugly Truth

Well, hello to you who are still with me. I can't believe it's been so long since I've been here. Yes, I did finally finish the book I'd been working on last fall. Eleven days ago--the day before Valentine's Day. And I was worried I wouldn't finish before Thanksgiving.

For those of you who are wondering, yes, my mother finally received her diagnosis--it is Alzheimers. Mild to moderate leaning more toward moderate heading into severe. Needless to say, it's been a long winter.

I realize it won't get any easier, and I've learned to take one day at a time, sometimes one hour at a time because I can't really do anything else. I've had fights with my father, with God, and myself, because I don't really understand why I've been saddled with this responsibility on top of everything else I have to bear. But what am I going to do? Walk away? It would be soooo easy. Just pack it up and head back to Rhode Island. But you and I know I won't do that. I'm a good daughter.

Never Give Up, Never Surrender!

 My Monster

Monster, (who's 12 now and playing every sport imaginable -- she went from just volleyball, to basketball, now field hockey, track starts tomorrow, and softball in April) Monster and I were having a conversation about her so-called friends. You know, those little witches in middle school who just have to make fun of everyone and everything. She's been having a problem because she's not hip. Okay, what's the word these days--with it? Groovy? I have no idea. They think she's not cool enough because she doesn't have the right shoes, the right phone, the right sports equipment, the right mom. I'm doing the best I can, but I can't give her everything she wants.

Anyway, the other night the conversation turned ugly and I lost it. Monster was complaining about these girls and how they're so petty and back-stabbing and just fucking nasty. To HER! My daughter! My perfect, beautiful, sweet, athletic, smart, funny kid. Short of slapping every single one of them across the face, and getting kicked out of school, I told her, "Nolite te bastardes carborundorum."

Don't let the bastards grind you down.*

She looked at me with "the face". You know the one. Like I was from Alpha Centauri. I said, "Hey, if you think about it, five years from now, these people won't matter. Ten years from now, you won't even remember half of them. Twenty years from now they'll be a distant memory, like a movie you watched when you were little. Just keep on doing what you're doing, get good grades, have fun playing your sports, and take the laundry downstairs." I got the big sigh in return. But like the good girl SHE is, she took the laundry downstairs. She won't think about what I said now, but she'll remember it when the shit really hits the fan.

But isn't that what it's all about in this rat race? Just do what you gotta' do to keep your nose clean, your head on straight, and make it until retirement. Hah! I know there's more to life than just that. Every day when I take my mother's dog out to the back forty, I see the deer crossing through the meadow, the geese making their flight to wherever they're going, the robins are back, the daffodils are up. I see the simplicity in what God gave us and I try, try so very hard to keep from losing it. Some days it works. Others not so much but what are you going to do?

I suppose I could cry and lament and gnash my teeth and just make my friends miserable with the poor-poor-pitiful me scenario. But why bother? They don't really care. Honestly, they're just glad they're not living my life. You know how I know that? One of them told me. She said, "I don't know how you keep it together. I know I couldn't do it. I'm glad I don't have to." Yeah, we don't talk much anymore.

The Cold Hard Ugly Truth

Yup, this is my blog now. My writing blog, where I'm supposed to dish on all things creative. How I'm supposed to wow you with fabulous bits of information to help you in your writing endeavors. This is a far cry from when I started out. But hey, life's messy.

So, here's my advice for today (God knows I might not be back for another six months)--Just keep on trucking. Do what you gotta' do to get through the day. If you only write 50 words, so be it. If you open your word.doc and stare at it for a half hour, then close it up again, so be it. If one Saturday, you manage 2500 words and on Monday realize they're all crap, so be it. Just keep working at your craft.

And I know my last blog post said almost the exact same thing, but it's true and bears repeating. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Or fingers to keyboard and one day you'll actually write The End. It was a long hard winter, but I finally finished the damn book. I took a week off to clean my house and then started on the next one.

Why? Because I'm a writer and writers tell stories. That's my job. It's what I do. It's who I am. And no one will keep me from doing the thing that I love. Not God, not my mother or the damn disease that's eating her soul, not anyone.

If I can get through it, so can you. I told you all this just in case you wonder why you're writing--when you get another rejection, when your sales take a dive, when life slings crap in your direction and you're too overwhelmed to duck. Just remember Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. And me stuck in the life that I don't think I deserve.

Don't let the bastards grind you down.


Anne Gallagher (c) 2017


* Margaret Atwood The Handmaid's Tale

Never Give Up--Never Surrender

This blog post title came from the movie Galaxy Quest starring Tim Allen, Alan Rickman, Tony Shaloub, and Sigourney Weaver. I have always loved this movie. I guess it has to do with the character arcs that happen within the space of two hours. If you've never seen it, you should take the time to watch it.

Galaxy Quest

Never Give Up--Never Surrender is also a catch phrase that one of my main characters--Henry Wade, Marquess of Dunbury, utters throughout the stories I am currently writing. As a former military man, I think it's fitting for him.

As a writer, I think it's fitting for me. 

The Truth Hurts

Many times over the course of my writing career I've had people tell me "you can't write that" "this isn't good enough" "ugh!" "Really, you wrote that?". I've told myself countless times, they don't know what they're talking about, this is fab!

Of course, this was my inner child speaking, trying to assuage the hurt that I've felt by listening to their words. Eventually, my inner child shut up long enough to listen and realized that constructive criticism (ie. editing) is good for the soul.

After ten years, I'd say I have a pretty tough hide. I send out work all the time that comes back fully loaded with red-line, and I'm like, "Bring it on."

However, over the course of the last couple of years, there's been a storm brewing in my personal life that I knew was coming, but never really wanted to acknowledge. It's hampered my writing, cramped my style, busted my bubble, and pretty much devastated me. There's no getting around it now, I cannot put off the inevitable. My life will never be the same again.

My Mother Has Memory Loss

For the last several years, I've noticed my mother slipping away. Now, it shouldn't be any great surprise--her father had dementia, her sister has Alzheimers disease. However, my mother refused to believe it could happen to her. About four years ago, I discussed it with my brothers and they basically told me, her care is all on me. (There is more to this story, but I won't share it today.) So, since the incident that started me down this wicked road, my life has taken a sharp downhill turn.

Unfortunately, her doctor refuses to diagnose her. Oh, he's run all the tests, and they've all come back negative--no protein strains, no plaque build-up, arteries are clear, B-12 is good. We now have to wait until the end of December for a final psychoanalysis. (Really, we have to wait four months for a freaking writing test that will determine that my mother can't remember. Just come to dinner one night and try to have a conversation with her. Her coherency is now four minutes before the loop picks up again and we repeat the same answers to the same questions.)

Time Management Skills

Now, I'm sure for those of you who've stuck by me (love you so much) throughout the course of this blog, you've seen me whine about how I can't get any work done, how there's not enough time in the day, I have obligations that are weighing me down...those were all true. I suck at time management. Always have. I have always worked best under pressure, so everything I do comes down to the last minute.

When I finished my last book in July I gave myself the timetable that this next book would be finished by Thanksgiving. As of today, that leaves me a little over 3 weeks. I have written 30k words so far, hoping to bring it up to at least 80k. Fifty thousand words is no small feat in three weeks, but I'm confident I can do it. I have no choice if I want to keep my fan base. (And the money rolling in. Writing is my full-time job and you know the old saying, Publish, Publish, Publish.)

Problem is, my phone rings now. 

Ma Bell

When I was kid and we lived at the beach, we never had a phone. Actually, we didn't get a phone at the beach house until I was 23 and I needed one for work. I never had a cell phone until I became pregnant with Monster. To this day, I don't use it. All my friends are like, "I tried to call you, your phone's not on." No, it's not. When I'm at home, I don't answer the phone, the machine picks it up, because usually/always when I'm actually at home, I'm writing.

Unfortunately, now when the phone rings I have to pick it up. And it's usually right when I'm in the middle of writing something great. My mother is on the other end. It's always either one or the other "My television doesn't work" or "I can't find my car keys."

Mind you, my mother hasn't driven in about three months. When she got home from her trip this summer, the day after she returned, someone hit her car in the parking lot of the gas-n-go and she's been freaked out ever since. I am now her chauffeur. Problem is, she was so used to just jumping in her car and running to the market up the street every day for whatever it was she needed, she tends to think that I will do this for her as well. And I do because I'm a good daughter.

As for the television, she can't remember to wait until the HDMI2 box goes off before she changes the channel, so the TV gets funky. "Give me five minutes, I'll be right down."

No Rest for the Weary

I've been wrestling with whether or not to give up this blog this for awhile now. Whenever I was crunched for time before, the blog was always the first to take a hiatus. I've been seriously thinking of giving it up for good. I mean, this is the first post I've written in six weeks. Not because I have nothing to say, but because I've had to make three trips to Wal-mart in the last 6 days. (Each trip lasts two hours because we have to walk down every aisle to make sure she doesn't forget anything. Even with a list.)

Since school started, I am exhausted. With my volunteer duties at school (which have since slowed to a very basic minimum), volleyball and now basketball for Monster, (believe me I really tried to not let her play basketball but she's such a good kid, and a great team leader I kind of had no choice), my mother's daily drama, not to mention Robert's ongoing recovery (remember he fell off the roof in March and broke both of his feet), and let's not forget the housework that all falls to me (including now cleaning my parent's house) and cooking for five people (who live in two separate domiciles and eat different things every night -- the restaurant is now OPEN), it kind of is a wonder that I'm still standing. 

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Thanks, Katy.  

Never Give Up -- Never Surrender

So, why did I tell you all this? I don't really know. Purge my soul maybe? I'm dealing with some heavy duty shit right now and therapy is supposed to be good for us. Right? I probably should be in real therapy with a real therapist, but I don't have time. I haven't had a drop to drink since the day I found out I was pregnant with Monster, but let me tell you what--Jack Daniels is looking increasingly sexy to me. (And no, I have no desire to drink, but it makes me feel better to talk about it.)

Yesterday I eked out a mere 409 words on the latest WIP. I thought that was fantastic. A couple of years ago, I thought a 14,000 word Saturday was the height of achievement. When I checked my word count, I was surprised I had written 29,976 words so far. How did I do it? I didn't remember any great word count Saturdays in recent weeks. I grabbed an hour here, a couple hours there, in between the assorted trips to Food Lion, Panera for lunch, and shopping for basketball sneakers for the Monster.

I'm not a quitter by any means. I never give up until I get my way. It may take awhile, but I'm tenacious. However, this microcosmic world that I am now currently living in is pushing me to my limits.

My father doesn't want strangers in the house, so I can't get any help. My mother doesn't understand why I go to my own home for supper every night. (She's starting to think I still live with them because I'm there so much.) Monster rolls her eyes when I say, "I can't help you with homework right now because I have to fix Yo-Yo's tv." (Because fixing the television is literally a 30 second job, but it takes an hour to get out of the house.) And my poor dogs don't understand why Mommy doesn't come down and sit with them in the office every day.

So, why did I tell you all this?

It's about the passion. The passion I feel as an artist to bring to life something someone else will/might enjoy. A long time ago I told my father I wanted to be a writer instead of becoming a computer programmer like he wanted me to. He thought I was stupid to throw away my life on "writing books that no one will read". (Remember, when I was in high school, computer life was just starting out. Oh, for the love of Microsoft stock!)

Well, I know a lot more about computers now than I ever did before. I also know how to write code, format documents, make book trailers, create covers, and design newsletters, not to mention brand recognition, marketing, promotion, and social media. No, I didn't really want to know how to do all that, but with zero budget, I learned. It's part of the "writing" process these days. My creds looks great on a resume, but what good does it do me? It's not like I can get a "real" job these days even if I wanted to.

Funny thing is, my father is now on board with my writing. He even gave me a couple of suggestions when I started killing people in my murder mystery series.

I am a Writer, hear me ROAR

I am a writer. I tell stories. It's what I do. It's what I've always WANTED to do ever since I was little kid. It's my PASSION. It's like breathing to me. Sure, I don't write every day now. I can't. But I'm always thinking about it. ALWAYS thinking about it.

So, when the fit hits the shan in your life, never give up, never surrender. No matter who tells you you can't do it. Prove them wrong. It may take awhile, you may get sidetracked, you may get plowed over by a bus, but get back up and get back to it. 

There's nothing worse than regretting your dreams.

Never Give Up. Never Surrender.

Anne Gallagher (c) 2016

Structure/ Formula/ Craft

As a writer in three different genres, I am constantly aware of how I need to structure the composition of my book. Not by content, but by the way the paragraphs, scenes, and then

chapters "build" the body of the work.

Perhaps it is part of my individual "voice" in these different genres, but in each I am writing to a particular audience. Each person reads differently. Each genre takes that into consideration. Each writer should know the "rules" of writing in their chosen genre before they begin.

That said, as a Regency romance novelist, I structure my book with ten-page chapters. No more, no less. Two person POV plot.  80-95 thousand words. I always have an epilogue. However, it's a very circuitous journey to the inevitable Happily Ever After. Give the readers what they want.

As a writer of contemporary romance, I find my page counts for chapters are lower. Same word count. And I do tend to like my epilogues. However, I write only in the main character's POV. Close third person.

I also dabble in murder mysteries. I write separate scenes within a chapter with page breaks and no transitions. Words counts are lower -- 35-50K. No epilogue, but with a cliffhanger ending. (Hopefully, to lure the reader into the next book.) Again, I only use the main character's POV.

New writers may ask -- Is it necessary to structure a book? Why can't I just write it the way I want?

Well, you can. It's your book. You can write it any way you want. But readers want certain things from books and if yours is not structured properly, well, it could bite you in the end.

Put it this way--you wouldn't build a house without a proper foundation. For that you need cement, lumber, nails, screws, big tools, and a set of blueprints. Blueprints, like writing "rules" are necessary. If you don't have them when you start, sure enough, by the end of building your structure, something will be off and then you'll have to find the mistake and fix it. Sometimes, you have to go all the way back to the beginning. (My father built a house once without blueprints. It took him twenty years to finish it.)

Tell me -- Do you think about the structure of your story before you write? Do you follow the rules? Did you know the rules before you started writing? And if you do know the rules, do you break them?

Anne Gallagher (c) 2016

Comparisons and Jealousy

I recently came across an article that focused on a writer, a very successful writer who is now making a six figure income. The thing that kills me is she only burst onto the scene a few years ago. I used to follow her blog. I don't anymore. Why? I'll admit because I'm jealous of her success and I hate to compare myself. Pretty simple.

Don't get me wrong, she's a perfectly lovely woman. She's smart, funny, well-spoken, well-written, and we could probably be friends (or at least in the same book club if we lived near each other.) However, this woman is all over the place with book ads, podcasts, blog posts, guest appearances, and is quoted by everyone. Yup, she works hard for her money. And I don't begrudge her one cent.

What I do begrudge is how she makes it look so easy. Her books are everywhere, she is everywhere, and I'm just sick of it.

Why? Because I'm not.

Why? Because I can't.

This woman has no children. She is also married and her husband is her marketing manager. She focuses her life 100% on her books, writing, marketing, and promoting. Oh, if we all could live in that world.

I'm lucky if I can find time to wash the kitchen floor. (I swear when I'm rich I'm getting a maid.) I have so many things pulling on my time CONSTANTLY I fall into bed exhausted just thinking about all the shit I have to do TOMORROW. Between school, my parents, the yard work, not to mention Monster and figuring out how to feed her eight times a day (my God, the child never stops eating), I barely have time to take a shower every day. (Yes, I know that's just TMI and too disgusting for words, but I'm sure a lot of other moms out there know exactly what I'm saying.)

So, yes, I'm jealous of the writer who has time for all the stuff I can barely dream about. Sure, I'd love to do podcasts. Sure, I'd love to write timely and interesting blog posts. Sure, I'd love to have a six figure income. But, I don't have time.

And I can hear a whole bunch of you screaming, "Well, make the time." I hate to inform you, there's only 24 hours in a day, and of those I need seven to sleep. (Although, I never get the full seven because something is always waking me up in the middle of the night--be it my to-do list for the next day, the scene in Chapter Ten that's giving me fits, or an uncontrollable bladder. Again, I apologize for TMI.)

I remember when Kindle was the new craze. Yes, I jumped on the bandwagon and self-published and made a lovely little name for myself. But then, as more and more writers took the plunge, I found myself drowning in a sea of other Regency authors. I was no longer arriving at #11 in the Top 100 on launch day without a review. Now, I can't even get placement in the Top 500 with three reviews.

What do these other authors have that I don't?

Time. Time to blog, and Tweet, and FaceBook, and Instagram, and whatever other social media craze is out there to talk, discuss, mention, brag, and sell the latest book they have out. It's disheartening for a writer like myself. I can't even do ONE of those things on a steady basis, never mind for a book launch.

I'm jealous of this author's time management skills and envious of her success. Does it drive me to distraction? No. I've given up worrying about what other people do or don't do to achieve the limelight.

I have a new book out. I Tweeted about it a couple of times. I posted it on my blog (which then gets shared to Goodreads, LinkedIn, and Amazon.) And that's pretty much it. I don't have time for the other stuff. (By the way, in the article about the famous author, it was also revealed she doled out five grand for a BookBub ad. Ha! If I had five grand, I wouldn't know what to do with it. Yes, I would. I'd put new floors in my house.)

I've always maintained the way to a book's success is by word-of-mouth. No ad in the world will make people buy your book. (Okay, that's sort of not true and I know it, but for argument's sake let's just go with my premise.) If one person likes the book, then hopefully, she'll tell two friends, and they'll tell two friends, and so on and so on. (Or we could hope for one particularly brilliant review that ignites a spark.)

I can't do anything about the concept of time and my lack thereof. The only thing I CAN do is to use what I've been given wisely. One hour equals ten pages of edits, two can get me a blog post written for next week, three hours could possibly find me finished with the dreaded Chapter Ten rewrites.

We can only do what we can do. Will I continue to be jealous? Hell yeah. There's nothing wrong with a little envy--it's what actually spurred me into writing to begin with (I thought I could write a better book than an author I had read). Will I allow it to eat at me until I can't function anymore? Nope. I don't have time to wallow.

I'll write my books, publish my books, and continue in this vein until I get rid of what is sucking my time (right this moment it's the lawn. Between the rain and the humidity I haven't been able to do the yard in almost ten days.) And hopefully, I'll make enough money next summer to be able to hire a lawn guy so I can shave off four hours every week for myself. Wouldn't that be nice?

Tell me -- Are you jealous of other writers who have TIME to do the things you can't? Do you have (or have you ever used) BookBub to promote your books? Do you have a lawn care guy?

Anne Gallagher (c) 2016

The Ambiguous Ending

Okay, so here's the story -- my friend sent me her finished manuscript. One of her requests was that I take a look at her ending -- was it too ambiguous and should it be stronger. So, I looked. Oh yes, it totally needed to have a definite ending. This book was the third of the trilogy. I have been honored to read all three and this author put the MC through so much pain and heartache, she needed to find a little happiness at the end. And truth be told, as a reader, I needed the closure.

I finished my latest project a couple of weeks ago and I sent my friend my final draft. My novel is the first in a new series. It has an ambiguous ending. When the MC rides off into the sunset with the love of his life, we still don't actually know what is going to happen. A bad thing to do if you're a romance writer.

However, if you've read the last four books in the Reluctant Grooms series, you'll know exactly what happens to him, and why. In this new series, I'm turning back time so-to-speak and showing how he got there.

I don't mind that I've written an ambiguous ending. And I don't think my readers will mind either. They already know what happens. I'm taking a chance, I know, with new readers, but I hope if they enjoy this new book, they'll follow along as the rest of the series unfolds.

Because by the final book, he does finally get his own closure and it all ties in to the other series. 

Having said that, as a romance writer, we all know the rules--a Happily Ever After ending must be provided. My friend was not writing romance, but literary fiction with a semi-romantic bent. (I guess that could be a genre.) Her main character was not searching for love per se, but on the hunt to find herself, and I suppose if love came along, that would be great.

HOWEVER, as a reader, I placed my own EXPECTATIONS on the ending of my friend's book. I WANTED the MC to find happiness with a man. And that was not my friend's intention. Now, because we've been friends and colleagues for a couple of years, she trusts my critique and as always I told her this was her book and whatever crits I gave, she could take or leave. I don't know what she's done with the ending. But I'll find out when I read the published version.

Anyway, how do you feel about ambiguous endings? And I don't mean cliff-hangers, I mean no final resolution for the main character? As a reader, are you satisfied if the MC is satisfied without resolution? Or do you feel cheated by your own expectations of the story?

Anne Gallagher (c) 2016

And Done - Regrets and Responsibilities

Well, I finished my book last Wednesday night at 10:29 pm. It came in around 92,000 words. Funnily enough, a couple of weeks ago I was worried I couldn't even get to 60K.

I like it. I like the way it turned out. It made me cry. Twice. So that's always a good sign. It totally needs a couple of rounds of editing (five might do it). And then it's on to the next book. No rest for the wicked.

I did a mock-up cover because I can't generally finish a book until I have one. I  don't know why. It's like if I don't have one, I'll jinx myself. I know, it's weird.

It's a little plain, but I think it's Regency inspired. I might add some flourishes. I might change it entirely. I don't know. What do you think?

Here's the cover copy.

After nearly thirty-five years in the Army, Henry Wade, the Marquess of Dunbury, finally returns to London to officially claim his father’s title, hopefully to reunite with his long lost love, and to exact revenge on the man who ruined his life. Add six orphaned nieces into the mix, and suddenly, Henry’s life is upside down. Marrying them off seems like a fine plan, but finding suitable husbands for them is an impossible task.

They all wish to marry for love.

I'm going to take the rest of this week to get Monster ready for school, and then start work on the next book. Christmas is only four months away. 

REGRETS and RESPONSIBILITIES should be out in September sometime. 

Anne Gallagher (c) 2016

Writing to the Muse

Good morning. Here's something I haven't talked about in a really long time. Writing to the muse. Or in my case, when I get a bunch of free time and I can slack on

"You wrote that?"

the housework, and just write to my heart's content. Those times just don't come along very often. You know exactly what I'm talking about. The ever elusive "time" when you "work" outside of writing. (I consider MY writing, what I do when I sit at my desk, ass in chair, hands on keyboard, WORK. See what I did there. MY WORK.)

However, with ill and aging parents, a man still sleeping in my kitchen, and Monster who wants to go to the pool every day, I also "work" outside of writing. It takes a considerable amount of finagling these days just to find time to take a shower.

I follow a "school" schedule because of my volunteer "job" as the gift card coordinator, so in the winter I can only write in blocks of time during the day. We have 10 days for Thanksgiving break. 14 Days for Christmastide. 10 for Spring. During those blocks of time over the last three years, I have spent remodeling/painting/landscaping my house. So, it all boils down to summer writing.

I hate to say it, even on my last official vacation 3 years ago (I can't believe it's been so long...) I wrote 130k words over six weeks. I confess, it was so cold at the beach, I was grateful Monster found two friends across the street and went to the beach with them.

I have to tell the truth, I royally screwed myself when I came up with the concept for this new series I'm writing. It interweaves characters from the first series into this one. (Last night I realized I'm going to have to edit most of the Reluctant Grooms when I finish with these stories, so the connections are seamless.) And also answers some of the questions I've been asked by readers to clarify. I guess. I still don't really know what the hell I'm doing. I had a what if moment four years ago and said "Hey, why not? Has it ever been done before? I'm willing to test my boundaries of structure within a novel." What the hell was I thinking?

However, I must also confess, I am enjoying getting to know these characters. They have sparked my interest and curiosity, and quite honestly, are not the people I thought I knew. So that's nice. They've been keeping me on my toes.

Writing to the muse -- or -- when all your shit is done and you have some free time.

Do you keep a strict writing schedule? Do you find time even though there is none? Do you have a muse?

Anne Gallagher (c) 2012

Is It Manic or Maniac?

Well, since LAST week, I put another 20k words on my latest WiP. However, with that comes uncertainty, sore shoulders, and swollen ankles. I've been writing like a maniac in manic mode, or maybe I should say panic mode.

This could be Henry

Panic because I just want to finish this damn book. You can't even know how much I want to. Finish. This. Book. If I could just finish it, I could start the next one. I know, I know, and then fight the same battle with the next one.

I've gotten through all the backstory. I pushed past the first of several hurdles for Catherine and Henry. I initiated the final climax. And I can see the end in sight.

The problem is, I'm not sure where to stop. Do I stop at the climax and leave a cliff-hanger ending. Or do I wrap it all up? It is a series after all, but the books do follow each other in sequence, so in essence, each book is a cliff-hanger. (See, panic. How did I create such a mess?)

I don't know. And I won't know how this first book ends until I get there. Perhaps today. (Wouldn't that be nice?)

Also, I realize this post is fluffy, and I only wrote it so I can have 667 posts in my feed. I had 666 posts written since I started this blog, and that number always creeps me out, so that's why I wrote this post.

Anyway, I hope you have a great week. I'll be writing. What about you? What are you doing this week?

Anne Gallagher (c) 2016

Full Steam Ahead

Sorry about all the "ship" analogies, but it's summer and I grew up on the beach. Not the same, I know, however, beach=ocean=ships. (That's the way my brain works.)

Well, since last week, I wrote 7000 words on my languishing Regency romance. I finally found my way through the weeds (a waitress metaphor) and cleaned up the first seven chapters and added another two. Yay me.

What I discovered this week while writing, was that in this story I have become a bare bones writer. I got down basic setting, dialogue, and that's pretty much it. I think the problem is.  I've had this series in my hard drive for 4 years. I know it inside and out.

There is no surprise. The characters all have their predestined story lines figured out. There's no room for unexpected character diversions. Nothing will happen as I write that will make me say "Oh, wow. I never saw that coming."

See, people, real people, surprise me all the time. I never know what they're going to do or say. It's a constant head game.

I think characters should do the same thing. In each of my contemporary romances, when I couldn't figure out where the story was going, I usually started a fire, or blew something up, or had a car crash. The characters would have to "react." Surprise!

But this first novel in the Regency series has so much backstory, there's no room for surprise. Well, yes, little surprises like a sudden case of "Soldier's Nerves" (PTSD-yes, they had that way back then but it wasn't called that), or the fact that Stoney has to return to the Peninsula. (He was supposed to stay and marry Mercy.) Or the fact that Henry and Olivia are playing a game of cat and mouse. (Every time he goes to find her, she's not there. Very frustrating, but a great second story line -- will they or won't they get together?)

I knew I needed help to correct this problem, and I wanted to do something that would bring back my spark, my zing, the SURPRISE that I would feel while writing again.

Just for fun, I decided to pick up a Regency romance novel and read it. Something I haven't done in nearly 10 years. Why don't I read, you may ask? Because I'm afraid -- afraid of plagiarizing, afraid of stealing story lines, character names, incidents. I want MY books to reflect MY ideas, MY creativity, MY characters. It's just my way not to read anymore.

Anyway, it was published in the 90's, and written by a really famous Regency author.
Let me just say, I nearly threw it across the pool. Head-hopping, purple prose, -ly words by the ton filled the first five pages. I couldn't finish the first chapter.

What surprised me about this book was that it used to be one of my favorites. I must have read it twenty times. When I started it by the pool I was surprised how disgusted I was with the writing.

Does that make me a snob? I don't know. I know my reading habits have changed over the years. I also know that publishing has changed over the years. The question I have is--

Are we more sophisticated or less sophisticated readers than we used to be?

While I was playing with my options in Word, I ran across the "Readability Statistics" something that I turned off a long time ago. Just for fun I turned it on again and was shocked when it finally appeared. My Flesch-Kinkaid Reading level was Grade 3.9.

Let me just say WOW. That hurt. I like to pride myself on the fact that I'm pretty smart. Not rocket science, but I can hold my own in pretty much any arena.

So does this Flesch-Kinkaid Reading level thing mean I'm not as smart as I think I am?
Or
The novel I'm writing is not as intellectually stimulating as I think it should be?
Or
Should I just get over it because technically it's just a first draft?

What do you think? Do you ever wonder if you're really as smart as you think you are? Do you watch Jeopardy? Do you read older books and wonder what the hell the publisher was thinking?

Anne Gallagher (c) 2016

Resume All Engines

So, it's been four months since I was last here. Seems like forever. I've turned on my laptop several times in the last several weeks to share the progress of Robert's injuries, but turned it off. I didn't want to whine.

Robert had his surgery, everything went according to plan, the doctor has given him a good prognosis--Robert should be walking again by the end of the summer. Unfortunately, that's not soon enough for me. I know, I know, people have said "it could have been so much worse". Yes, it could have, I'm thankful that it wasn't, but I'm sick of playing nursemaid--especially when I know Robert is capable of doing many things from his wheelchair but chooses not to. *whine*

I haven't written a word since March 9. Okay, that's a fib. I've written maybe 500 words since March 9. It's not enough. As a matter of fact, it deflates me as my usual word count hovers around 2000-3000 words per session. I can't seem to get into any kind of groove. Maybe because every time I sit down, I hear the cry from upstairs..."I need...Can I have...Where is my..." Not to mention, every five seconds Monster is hungry. *whine*

What's a writer to do if she's not writing? Well, I'll tell you. My house has never been so clean. The laundry is all done, nary a dirty sock to be found. The dust bunnies have vanished. The kitchen sink sparkles. The closets are immaculate. Trips to Goodwill have claimed two car loads of stuff. Did I mention I hate housework? *whine*

I finally got up the gumption to skip through the blogosphere and found I had missed soooo much. It's so disheartening. I never wanted to be one of those people who just disappeared, and then I was. I feel like such a slug. *whine*

I promised Monster this year that we would get a pass for the community pool down the street. We enjoyed it for the first three days, until sun poisoning and a hacking cough claimed us both. I thought it would be fantastically fun, and Monster would finally find some neighborhood friends. Not a chance. All the girls at the pool are either younger or older than her, and she just doesn't want to hang out with me. Needless to say, we haven't been to the pool as much as I expected. *whine*

So, where does all this leave me? I'm not sure. The only thing I do know is that I have to get back to it somehow. Get back to writing. So here I am. I figured if I posted something, anything, even if I whined (and I hate doing that) it might help me find some kind of groove again. We'll see if it works.

Thanks for listening.

Anne Gallagher (c) 2016

Forced Stop

Last month I wrote a post whining about the Blogging Conundrum-- do I? Don't I? Does it help within the sphere of publishing? Yes, no, maybe. There's no right or wrong answer, basically just do it if you want to, don't if you don't.

Last Wednesday, I was given the opportunity to put my priorities in order. Yeah, in the giant sphere of life, blogging isn't all that important.

On Wednesday morning at 9:38, Monster's father fell off the roof cleaning the gutters. I know exactly what time it happened because I had just come out of the house with the broom to sweep the stuff into the bin. I heard stumbling on the roof and then I watched him fall. Twelve feet from the roof onto the cement of the carport. It was a James Bond movie. All of a sudden this guy is landing in my driveway.

I called the EMT's they took him in. He broke both of his feet. Yes, BOTH of his feet. Left ankle, right heel. Instead of falling, he jumped, and landed straight down on his feet like a cat. The doctor told me on Sunday morning, Robert's prognosis is a year, at best, before he'll be able to stand on his broken heel. He will never walk right again.

This is a total guilt trip--I told him the gutters needed to be done. He's a roofer, that's what he does. Or did, until he took disability. But I knew he had experience on a roof.

I've had to wrangle the insurance claims, the Social Worker case manager, the hospital doctors and nurses, the PT guys, the medical equipment company who is coming to my house to bring a hospital bed, wheelchair, commode, walker, and other assorted items that a complete invalid might need. I've had to set up appointments for future care, and wrangle transportation to and from the doctor's office.

I've had to arrange for all this because Robert will not be allowed to go to a rehab facility.
The insurance company will not pay for rehab because the doctor said Robert was in for observation, not as a patient. That's a whole other side line I won't get into. It was HOURS of bureaucracy. Yes, let's thank the doctor for that as well.

*Pause for the telephone* I am writing this on Saturday morning.

Robert just called and said they were going to release him today. With no equipment in the house. His doctor gave me a follow up call two minutes later and said they were going to release him today. I explained to him the equipment wasn't here-- there was a long dramatic pause-- and then he said, "Well, we'll see if we can get it sorted out." I also explained to him that Robert needed to be taken home by ambulance on a stretcher because his (the doctor's orders) were that Robert was NOT supposed to be on his feet at all. Obviously. The doctor said, "Well, we'll see."

*Pause again for telephone.*

The lovely Ginger from After-Care at the hospital said she spoke to the Doctor who is releasing Robert today. I asked about the equipment. She said she'd get back to me. Fifteen minutes later she returned my call and said she spoke to the medical supply company who is bringing the bed and said they couldn't get out here until Monday. Not five minutes later, I received another call from the medical supply company that said they couldn't get out here with the bed until Monday.

I am writing this next on Sunday morning.

Robert now needs to have a bed downstairs. Unfortunately, the only way to bring Monster's full downstairs, is if I clean the entire house, move furniture, and spring clean at the same time. So, that is what I did, from Friday night into Saturday morning. It looks like I may even be able to paint upstairs now that he's living on the main floor. (I have to look at the bright side somewhere.)

Robert is now in bed, (which I will also have to move BACK upstairs tomorrow morning before the medical supply company arrives with the hospital bed.) He is happily encased in purple haze of pain medication. I am trying to figure out which closet to clean next.

Tomorrow brings a whole other nightmare of phone calls and furniture.

In the larger scheme of things, blogging is NOT important when the fit hits the shan.

There's a line from an old song

"... don't know where, don't know when, but I know we'll meet again some sunny day."



Anne Gallagher (c) 2016

The Blogging Condundrum

I fell into blogging just by sheer luck. Way back when, when Monster was in "play-school" (or Pre-K I guess is what they call it), a mommy told me that as a writer I should start a blog. I asked, "What is that?" I had no idea, having come into computer life very late. She said I would benefit from it as a writer.

Seven years later, here I am. It seems odd to me that I've been in the blogosphere for that long. Mind you, I'm not prolific. I don't share the secrets of the ages, I don't expound on glorious new ideas or even generally have anything important to say. I guess, I basically use it as a diary of sorts and perhaps share my opinions.

I do like to blog. I have friends here in this virtual world that I like to keep up with. I learn things. I have discussions about writing that I can't have anywhere in the "real world". The problem is, and I hate to admit it, for some time now I just don't want to do it anymore.  

I'm a writer. It's my job. Lucky for me, it's also my passion. I would rather spend fourteen hours a day in my made-up world than do anything else. Blogging hurts my bottom line of hours that I can actually write. I liken it to Pinterest. I went on there to pin one picture last Sunday and I ended up spending four hours looking through a billion pins. Blogging is the same thing. I scroll through my feed, check out a post, follow a comment to another post, then end up lost in space. 

Four hours to me is twenty pages. And it's bad enough I lose all track of time when I'm writing that I forget to feed the Monster. (How many times have I heard "I'm hungry. Are you going to make me dinner?") 

As a single parent and a single income earner, every monthly check depends on how many books I sell. More books = more pay. However, if I don't talk about my books no one knows I've written one. Where does one talk about one's books? On the blogs.

For the last few years, I've also been very active at Monster's school volunteering. It's a part-time job. Literally. With no pay. Talk about cutting into writing time. So, in order to make up the time I've lost writing, something else has to go, and that equals blogging. 

I hate the idea of giving it up for good. I really do. I hate the idea of losing friends. And you may say, well, just blog once a month, or only when you have something important to say. Or get on a schedule. Yeah, we all know what happens to schedules in my world. The best laid plans...

Over the course of the last seven years, I've seen very prolific bloggers leave. I always wonder what happened to them. Did they get famous and just don't have the time? Did something happen in their personal life? Did they move their blog to FaceBook? Did they just give up? I don't want to be one of those people. I don't want people wondering "Whatever happened to Anne?"

I've had this discussion several times over the last few weeks with other friends on the blogs. It seems for those of us who have been here for a long time, the allure has faded. We have nothing to say. Or rather, does what we say matter? I haven't had a new blogger join my little group in almost three years. Does that mean I don't want any? No. It just means communication is done differently these days. Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, God knows what else is around the corner. I can't keep up with the blog. How can I keep up with anything else?

I don't really know why I wrote this post. It's on my mind. It's my opinion. I don't need advice. No matter what you say about the blogging conundrum, believe me, I've heard it before. 

Tell me -- How do you feel about blogging? Are you ready to chuck it? Have you found something else to occupy your time? Do you have a schedule? Do you love your blog?

Anne Gallagher (c) 2016