Sunshine, Rain, Cartwheels and Pain...

…the moment a name is given the disease, the whole thing is changed: fright ensues, and horrible depression, and the life that has learned its sentence is not worth the living. Medicine has its office, it does its share and does it well; but without hope back of it, its forces are crippled and only the physician's verdict can create that hope when the facts refuse to create it.
Mark Twain—Letter to Dr. W. W. Baldwin, May 15, 1904




Sunshine and rain, cartwheels and pain. I didn’t make up that title. It’s my daughter’s concoction of words to describe what she’s going through in her life right now.


As I told you before, my son-in-law, Mike, has been diagnosed with lung cancer. He’s very young. He’s almost 35.


On September 1, Mike had surgery to remove a tumor from his brain. On September 27, he will begin radiation for some smaller tumors on the brain, as well as chemotherapy treatments for the lung cancer. The brain surgery was a success, and he did remarkably well. Had the surgery on a Wednesday and was back home on the Friday of the same week. If you could not see the scar on his head, you’d never know he’d been through such a major procedure.


My daughter, Lyndie, has been an extreme optimist during this part of their life’s journey. She’s courageous on the outside as well as inside. Of course she sees the negative possibilities—I know, we’ve spoken about it. In fact, she’s been one of that small army of very young wives who’ve had to take on the daunting task, with her husband, of making out a living will which was a stark thump on the head to the very real possibility of the unthinkable—Mike’s NOT surviving this illness.


Lyndie has always been an optimist. You know the type. The ‘glass half-full’. Me? It’s just a damn glass. Half-full, half-empty, it’s still just a glass. I’m not negative, not positive, just somewhere in between. Life just IS.


That being said, now I find myself clinging to my daughter’s positive spirit. Damn, that optimism comes in handy at times like these.


But I was hurt for Lyndie when someone made these comments to her—on a VERY public forum—regarding her cheerful spirit in dealing with Mike’s illness: You’re delusional. What’s it like to live in Lyndie-land?


Nah. I take that back. I’m not hurt. I’m angry, crazy angry that—at this traumatic time in my dear daughter’s life—somebody, anybody, would take the opportunity to lash out their own bitterness to her, to attempt to kick her legs out from under her.


Don’t get me wrong. I’m not criticizing this person for not being optimistic. Believe it or not, I’m not even knocking them for resenting my daughter’s bright personality. There’s no rule that says we have to like everybody, that we have to like every type of personality.


It’s just the timing, the cruelty of the timing. And, comically, it reminded me of Dracula’s cowering at the sight of the upheld cross. To see such hatred displayed to a person, just because that person is a perpetual optimist, reminds me so much of that old scene where the vampire hisses and crouches at the symbol of good.


But to this person who chose to unleash their bitterness at this time—this time when my daughter is drawing from her own reserve of whatever it is that gets her through her husband’s extremely serious illness—I thank you. Yes, I thank you.


Your expression of resentment has caused ME to look deeper, to see just how much I DO appreciate my daughter’s strength. She’s one damn strong woman, no matter how bubbly and cheerleader-like she may seem. That’s just on the outside, baby. Inside that very pretty, glowing persona is a woman who has been through the fire, has MADE it through the fire, and who come out on the other side as strong as steel. And who is now stepping into yet another fire, the biggest fire of her life.


If my daughter—or anyone for that matter—chooses to see the damn glass half-full or filled-to-overflowing, then let her, damn it. You drink from whatever glass you see fit, and let others drink from theirs.


A dear friend of mine is dealing with cancer also. His approach is practical, and my approach with him, toward HIS illness, is also practical. Because that’s how he wants it. But he’d be the first to say that you must let the persons dealing with the crisis handle it in their own way. And so it is with Mike and Lyndie.

This Lyndie-land that my daughter has chosen to live is her choice, and it gets her through this, and gives her the strength to walk beside Mike during this trial. Lyndie-land may sound all gingerbread, cotton-candy and peppermint sticks. But let me tell you. It only SEEMS that way. In reality, it’s a tough impenetrable fortress that houses a strong, strong woman. A woman I’m so proud of I can hardly bear the huge pride.


Lyndie refers to it as sunshine and rain, cartwheels and pain. That about sums it up. So, in spite of her cheeriness which this person has found so annoying…my daughter also knows the pain. And she’s handling it much, much better than I ever could. With courage and grace…and a smile.


Here’s to you, Lyndie.

The Lightning Bug and the Lightning...

My last blog addressed editing—specifically the letting go of precious words for the integrity of the story.

That discussion led me to another level in editing, in addition the cutting of unnecessary words: making sure the words I keep will give the story as much impact as possible.

I’m sure we never intentionally write in a weak voice. In fact, I’m betting that most, like me, sincerely think our writing is powerful. In my case, I’m sincere, just often sincerely wrong.


I get a rush as I write certain scenes, they are so dynamic. Well, in MY head they’re dynamic. I often find—when a more experienced eye than mine peruses my writing—much of my word choice doesn’t quite hit its potential.


I know, I know. We’ve all been trained to avoid passive voice. Instead of ‘he was walking’, use ‘he walked’, etc. And that is, by the way, one of the most crucial elements of writing.


But what I’m referring to is something even beyond passive verbs. I’m talking about matching the right words to reflect the power of emotions for individual characters. It seems as though that would come naturally for us, doesn’t it? After all, these are OUR characters. Who would know them better than we do?


Yes, we DO know our characters better than anyone else and only WE know how they would react—whether our guy would bust another guy in the chops if he was insulted or if he would sit down and cry. If our heroine would claw her boyfriend’s eyes out if he talked smutty to her or jump in his arms and kiss him.


This is not to say that, even though a hero is a big, fearless man, he would never break into a crying jag. He CAN. I’m not talking about whether the actual emotions are true to the character or not, but whether we always use the right words to reflect those emotions.


An example? In my WIP, my character was about to be told bad news. He told the bearer to just spit it out, quit stalling.


I had originally written it like this:


I really didn’t want him to just spit it out. I knew, my soul knew, that Jesse was about to tell me something that would hurt me. But I was the “pull the bandaid off fast” type…


We all know what it means to pull the bandaid off fast. He wanted the news fast, no beating around the bush to soften the blow.


A friend of mine, who is a writer and editor, saw this sentence. She knew my character already. She knew he was an urban tough guy. Virile. Gritty. Afraid of nothing. She wondered if a man like this might express himself more boldly, that maybe pull the bandaid off fast seemed weak for him.


I thought about it and agreed. One hundred percent. Although the bandaid wasn’t actually wrong, it still could have been stronger. To get a bit tougher with the thought was an opportunity to enhance the scene, to give the reader a bit more of the image I had perceived for my hero.


Now it reads:


I really didn’t want him to just spit it out. I knew, my soul knew, that Jesse was about to tell me something that would hurt me. But I was the “just give me whiskey and cut the fucking bullet out” type…


See the difference? Although my writing itself might be crude, the image is stronger.


I’d never concede to thinking another person would know my characters better than me; however, I WILL gladly open myself to an idea from a more experienced eye which might spot weaknesses such as this. Not a weakness in my characters, but a weakness in my choice of words to illustrate them.


To be honest, my friend coaxed me to think even deeper, to tighten and make the whiskey-and-bullet reference even more powerful. And I will do that eventually. But, even as is, there is a vast difference between the band-aid and the bullet.


In time, I’ll be keener to choosing the most powerful words to express emotions. To be able to know the words that deliver the closest image of what I really want to paint takes practice. For me, anyway. But it’s such an adventure, forcing my brain to THINK about the choices.


Mark Twain said it much better than I ever could:


The difference between the almost right word & the right word is really a large matter—it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.

- Letter to George Bainton, 10/15/1888


Those words give me chills. How very powerful.


Experienced writers already know this secret. I’m beginning to understand it. I don’t know if the knack for knowing the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning or the bandaid and the bullet comes naturally for some or if, like me, it has to be learned. I do know one thing. Once you DO know the difference—even if you have to struggle with it as I do—it can become one of the most dynamic tools in your writing.

Bye Bye, Wordie!

Work-in-Progress, Word Count:
7:00 p.m., Sunday:    1,335 words (Yes!)

8:15 p.m., Sunday:    1,570 words (Progress, sweet progress!)

9:00 p.m., Sunday:   1,733 words (Closing document for the day, satisfied with progress, going to bed, smiling—Queen of the World!)

12:38 p.m, Monday:  1,000 words (Not smiling)


1:00 p.m., Monday:      933 words (Growling, not crying yet)


1:32 p.m., Monday:     481 words (Believe or not, grinning from ear to ear)
***************************************************************
I just lost 1,252 precious, blood-bought words of my manuscript.
Yesterday evening, I zoomed along at breathtaking speed. The words literally flowed from my fingertips to the keyboard to the screen. Good words, strong words. Indispensable words, every one. Would I write any OTHER kind?

Poor thing. What happened? you ask, sympathetic. Computer crash? The old accidental deleting of a document?

No. My critique partner happened, that’s what.

After I turned the document over to her, she came back with the dreaded diagnosis: repetition, too much dead weight, this scene is not moving the story along. The writing, she said, was good. Actually, the scene itself was good, too, but was just a repetition of mushy feelings of the characters—simply huggy-kissy emotions that had already been explored many times in previous chapters. Dead weight.

I will admit that, before I got the edict back from her, I sort of knew in my heart that the chapter WAS full of junk. I will also jokingly admit that I sometimes think I attempt to produce words, any words, just to keep from winding down to the end of the story, to actually keep from typing The End. Sounds silly, but it’s true; however, that's another story for another blog.

Humor aside, though, I wonder if I’m the only writer who sometimes feels relief when a keen eye DOES spot dead weight in my story and DOES suggest snipping wordage.

I don’t know how to describe the feeling I get when I drastically slice a document, when I set the story free of useless baggage. Is it frustration? Only a tiny bit, only at first. But after the initial disappointment, it’s mostly a feeling that could only be likened to losing unwanted body weight. Good, refreshing, empowered.

A practical description of the unexpected rejuvenation that comes from trimming a document is to compare it to film edits. Have you ever watched the special features in movies—the deleted scenes? I love to do this, especially with producer commentaries. I’ve watched some of the lost scenes and wondered why they were relegated to the cutting room floor. They looked really good to me. In fact, they were sometimes, in my uneducated opinion, the best scenes in the film.

But, upon hearing the commentator explain why the scene was not a fit for the film, why it had to be dropped, it made sense. I saw their reasoning. And usually the explanation they cited was that the scene did not add to the integrity of the movie, it did not move the story along. When I looked at the big picture through the film editor’s eyes, I saw it as well, and I agreed that the deleted scene indeed would not have contributed to the film and, furthermore, may have bogged it down.

The result, most of the time? A better film. A tight, smooth story.

It’s the same with editing of our writing. I’m not saying that a critique partner is always right. Of course they aren’t always right. But the bottom line is that they are readers, whether they are writers or not. And they know when they’re tired of reading the same sentiment over and over again in a single manuscript, which was the case with mine. They know when they’re bogged down with unnecessary detail.

A step further is the publisher’s editor. They have an eye for these inefficiencies in our work as well. And, no, editors are not infallible. No, writers don’t always agree with them.

Mind you, before you stop me and say, But wait!, I’m only referring to true unnecessary wordage. I often hear writers tell of instances where they refused to budge with critique partners and editors on certain scenes. One author in particular told how she fought for a particular scene in her manuscript, against overwhelming disapproval from her betas. She was warned the scene would ruin the story. She held fast to the piece—not driven by vanity, but her gut feeling that this part of the story needed to stay. The result? The author was correct. The reading public unanimously agreed.

Sometimes we really do know our stories better than anyone else and we DO have to stick to our guns by refusing cuts of scenes or words that we just KNOW belong. I suppose, at those times, it comes down to pure, passionate instinct.

But—when the betas or critique partners ARE correct in their diagnosis of our work, and it truly is a chapter chock full of debris—then, as crushing as it seems at first, it truly is for the benefit of the story. If we step back and see it as if through they eyes of the cutting room chief, then we probably will be relieved to shed the unwanted weight. Our story will more than likely be tighter, have more impact, our words will get more bang for the buck. And our stories will sigh and thank us.

I wonder about your experiences? Do you see the improvements when your betas, critique partners or editors catch the impedimenta in your story, even if it means losing hard-earned word count? How often DO you have to chop fat from your manuscripts? Have you had scenes that you fought tooth and nail to keep? And, if you did—were you right in holding on to them? Did you ever have that scene that you DID fight over, that the readers’ positive responses assured you that you’d made the right decision?

I’d love to know.

Apparently There is Nothing That Cannot Happen Today...

Enzio Rinaldo stopped at the door and thrust his hand to Salvatore, “It’s been a pleasure, Giancomo.”

The snarl on the capo’s lips, the fury that flashed in the deep-set eyes, sent prickly heat to the back of Salvatore’s neck. Hesitant, knowing the man rooted for trouble, he met Rinaldo’s gaze and took the proffered hand.

The meaty claw slowly tightened around Salvatore’s hand in a vice-like grip, so tight that Rinaldo’s hairy knuckles turned white.

“That really hurts.” Salvatore smiled through gritted teeth.

The pressure of Rinaldo’s grip increased until the skin on Salvatore’s hand twisted and burned like a million bee stingers.

“There’s really no need for you to do this.” Salvatore maintained a calm tone although his internal pressure cooker had begun to hiss. “You’re the stronger man, obviously.” How that lie struggled to keep from coming to his lips. How difficult to restrain himself while DiPaolo studied them, sized them up like a cool Nero. “You don’t have to keep on.”

“Rinaldo.” DiPaolo finally broke his curious stare. With a sigh, he rolled his eyes and tugged the elegant dove gray coat about his slender shoulders. “Stop.”

Rinaldo tossed a sideways glance at his boss, but ignored the command. His eyes—teeming with unbridled hatred—remained fixed on Salvatore’s.

“I’m going to ask you one more time. Enzio,” Salvatore whispered.

When the clasp didn’t slacken, Salvatore took a deep breath, bored, resigned. With the speed of an adept magician, he formed a fist with his left hand and brought the knuckle of his middle finger down onto the straining muscles on top of the capo’s hand. As Rinaldo cried out in agony and sank to his knees, Salvatore grasped his fingers and bent them back with such strength the poor man crumpled, prone at his feet, moaning, grimacing.

Grinning, still clenching Rinaldo's hand in an excruciating grip, Salvatore asked, “Do you want me to let go, you son of a bitch?”
Rinaldo, his forehead pressed to the rose-and-ivy carpet, whimpered, “Please."

Salvatore released his hold, grabbed Rinaldo’s wrist and pulled him to his feet. He lent him a gentle smile and lightly brushed the lapels of the man’s coat and cooed, “Tsk, tsk. You’ve mussed your clothes.”


The above scene—very early in my writing and very rough, mind you—was…well…it was stolen. Yes, I stole it.

No, I didn't steal the words from another writer. I 'borrwed' them from a friend.

My buddy, Jay, and I hang out often on weekends in what we call Green Apple Summit Meetings. The name for these meetings came from the film, Stranger than Fiction, where a best-selling author, played by Emma Thompson, breaks a long spell of writers’ block by simply seeing a green apple roll across the street and stop against the curb at her feet.

During one of our frequent GAS meetings, Jay recounted to me a story of how he had been bullied by a fellow at a bar. He told me how he politely tried to avoid a fight as the man—exactly as depicted in the scene above, almost word for word—tried to engage him in a juvenile bout of hand wrestling. A battle for supremacy over some misunderstanding. Jay didn’t want to fight and remained calm, forfeiting his own pride for the sake of peace. That didn’t suit the drunk contender. So, when the pain became too intense to bear, Jay let loose and brought the challenger to his knees, then calmly walked away.

I listened, mesmerized, to Jay’s story. I was intrigued by his calm, quiet handling of the situation, and by his surprising strength which ultimately sent the bully crumpling at his feet. And my writer’s mind immediately incorporated this incident into my WIP. With his blessing, Jay’s scuffle with the bully became one of my favorite scenes in my story.

No matter how severe my own writer's block might be, I can sit with Jay, listen to him, and without fail will hear something--a word, anything--that will trigger a thought to clear my writing bottleneck.

I LOVE infusing real-life situations—whether they’re my own or told to me by friends—into my work. My friend Jay has lent many scenarios, words and phrases to my writing cause. He was formerly a truck driver, has been everywhere imaginable, has encountered countless colorful episodes like the one I ‘copied’ for my story. In fact, Jay shows up a lot in all my work.

And hardly a day goes by at work that I don’t overhear something interesting, something that grips me, something that ends up in my work. It just so happens that the Hispanic fellows at my job are all, in one way or another—whether it’s bits of tales they share or simply Spanish words they teach me—in my current contemporary work. They know this, too, and think it’s fun.

It happens sometimes at the grocery story, at Wal-Mart, at the park, just driving down the road. Somebody or something will cross my path and, before I know it, finds its way into a story. I love that.

Mark Twain said, "Apparently there is nothing that cannot happen today." Damn, I love that, too!

Life, every little morsel of it, is and adventure, or can be turned into one. And, half the time, as with the writer in Stranger than Fiction, you don’t even have to be looking for it.

How many of your real-life experiences show up in your writing? Do your friends pop up in your stories? Do you see interesting people on the street and, before you know it, find yourself weaving them into your work? Do you overhear interesting dialogue in your daily life, even while standing in the check-out line at the store, and transport it to your book?

I'd love to hear just how much of your everyday life is reflected in your writing. How many 'green apples' roll up to you and end up on your written page?

Whose Character Is This Anyway...?

He’s fleshed out in my head. Perfectly. A Gene Krupa look-a-like. Check. A big guy, a thug. Check. Dark hair. Check. Sleepy eyes. Yes. Full lips. Oh, yes. Age? Forty. Good. That’s him. That’s the hero of my story. Ready, set, go.

Stop.

What’s that? Betty says he needs to be younger. He should be in his thirties. His thirties, she says? Okay, okay. That’s doable. Thirties it is. Once again, hands poised over the keys, I’m ready to begin.

Wait.

What now, Betty? Oh, he should be more refined, not quite so thuggish. A step up from a thug, perhaps just a gentlemanly mobster. Yes, my mind calculates. I can see it. Of course. Drop the street talk, let him be more educated. Own a joint, not just work it. Back to work I go.

Well, hell.

Excuse me? What difference does it make if he has a hairy chest or not? Betty, you ARE joking, right? What’s wrong with a smooth chest? Ah. Betty thinks hairy chests are sexy. She would never be attracted to a smooth chested man.

Not being a selfish author, I would never dish up a character to Betty that she wouldn’t be attracted to. After all, Betty is my female eye, my pulse on the sex appeal of my book.

By now, my character has been transformed—but only slightly, just minor tweaks here and there—but he’s still recognizable, still looks like Gene Krupa. Hell, though, with Betty’s alterations, he IS Gene Krupa. But I can still pull it off, produce a gangster-type hero who still fits pretty much into my original vision. Who knows? The changes may make him even better.

Hold your horses.

Now Betty disapproves of my character’s girlfriend, says she’s too young for my Gene Krupa look-a-like. I have to take Betty’s opinion into serious consideration. Betty is a mature woman, after all, whose age group will encompass a good deal of my reading audience. So now my character’s girlfriend has been changed to be a woman closer to his age.

But who knew?

Now Mary, another reader, weighs in. Mary is younger than Betty, and feels passionately that the character should be with a younger woman. Not only that, but she insists that the heroine be a virgin. The hero, Mary is convinced, would never marry a woman who was not virginal. And Mary feels SO strongly about this issue that she says she will not read the book if the heroine is not a young virgin, and, furthermore, will not speak to me anymore it this demand isn’t met.

Literary blackmail. Betty and Mary become mortal enemies. Who wins? Does a coin toss now decide my hero’s fate? Eenie meenie miney mo?

You think I’m joking. I’m not. This scenario actually happened to me.

What did I decide to do? Who won…Mary or Betty? Neither. The hero won. I was forced to rely on the old tried-and-true decision maker: my gut. It took some cleansing, but I managed to sterilize my brain of all suggestions and start from scratch, just let my man evolve from his origin in my imagination. I put HIM in the driver’s seat, told him…YOU steer, buster.

A writer has to be careful in selecting reading buddies. If they are close friends, you sometimes feel the need to mold the story to their vision, not yours. Sometimes they have characters in their own heads and want for you to bring them to life for them. And that’s when their contributions can be deadly for your writing. You, like I, might find yourself torn—even to the point of damaging your friendship—if you can’t accommodate their ideas.

I DO have a crit partner. She’s priceless. She watches for what she calls ‘commercial breaks’ in the stories—those elements that don’t gel, don’t flow. She doesn’t always agree with me. I don’t always take her input for gospel. All right, well, maybe about 99-3/4% of it, but who’s counting? 

We agree, we disagree. Most of the time, I fight her suggestions tooth and nail, just to let her know I’m in charge of the story; but, more often than not, I incorporate her ideas into the work. I trust her judgment, her instinct. So far, I've been lucky, because my own instinct has coincided with hers. If it doesn’t, it just doesn’t, and we’ve agreed those indecisive issues will be an editor’s call.

So far, she hasn’t threatened crit-partner blackmail over any of our differences. And, remembering my ordeal with Betty and Mary, I suppose I must be really, really grateful.

Who reads your work while you’re writing it? Close friends? Strictly other writers? Actual crit partners?

How far do you allow them to go with their input? How seriously do you take that input? How do they respond when you disagree? When you stand fast to your own idea and have to say ‘no’ sometimes?

Have you ever had a Betty/Mary situation? And if you did, how did you resolve it?

I’d love to know.

Please Don't Forget Me...

Please remove your shoes before entering. You are about to step into the hallowed area of my romantic heart.

For those who don't already know him, I’m going to introduce you to the fictional sachem of my heart, one of the most beautiful characters I’ve ever read. This character is so beautiful, rich, luscious, ethereal, while somehow managing to be one hot bad-ass—I think of him and I hear Mozart’s Ave Verum Corpus, I see ancient red and gold tapestry, taste dark wine, feel cool grass beneath my feet, drown in deep brown eyes, kiss full sensuous lips, make passionate love in the still wee hours of the morning in Hollywood Forever Cemetery (yes, you heard me—a cemetery). I spiral helplessly into powerful orgasmic pleasure when he takes me, when he enters me and when he…bites me.

The character who is the high priest of sensuality, the prince of passion, the god of love in my fantasy world?

He is called Donte Fedelta. He is a vampire. A five-hundred-year-old Italian vampire. And he is one of the main characters in Z. A. Maxfield’s book, Notturno.

Donte is the classic tall, darkly handsome continental. An elegant, cognac drinking, expensive cigar smoking Italian count who is described as having a demonically beautiful face, long and angular, hooded eyes, high cheekbones, wine darkened lips. He is who Bela Lugosi only wishes he could be.

I fell in love with Donte before I even read Notturno, with nothing more than a scene from an excerpt. In this scene—at the very beginning of the book—Donte follows the main character, Adin Tredeger, into the cramped restroom aboard an airplane. The beautiful Italian vampire ravages Adin in this small space in one of the most erotic encounters I’ve ever read. Needless to say, it catapults the story into a startling, highly sensual, exquisitely disturbing start.

The pièce de résistance is when, after having his way with the dazed Adin, after leaving his mark and drinking of Adin’s blood, the gorgeous vampire straightens his clothes and politely, gently beseeches, Por favore, non dimenticarmi—please don’t forget me.

What makes this delicate plea so remarkable is that Donte has no intention of letting Adin forget him; but, being true to his aristocratic bearing and his genteel nature…well…he must of course ask, anyway.

At those words—so unusual, so delicate after such a forceful, titillating sex scene—Donte Fedelta owned me, lock stock and barrel.

The fact that this enigmatic creature can get into Adin’s mind and, just by a touch of the hand, is able send him into shattering climactic paroxysms is not a bad gift to possess. In one scene, both highly sexy and hilarious, Donte does just that in a restaurant. After Adin is helplessly sent into an orgasm with Donte’s touch—practically by mental ventriloquism—in a scenario that even Sally who met Harry could not match, the engaging vampire innocently asks, Complet, mon cherie, Adin? Priceless.

Who understands the mysterious mechanics of our minds? Certainly not me. I only know this fragile beauty, all bound in a big, strapping, jet-haired, dark-eyed, powerful man’s body arouses me, turns me on. The delicacy, the elegance, with which this character speaks, acts and thinks, offset by his immensely frightful, demonic power is the stuff good characters are made of.

If a man can be created who is so compelling that the reader finds themselves believing in vampires—no, begging to be devoured by a vampire—he is a well-written character.

When the reader is able to feel the character’s cool skin, taste his lips, see in vivid color as he (in one memorable scene that sticks stubbornly in my mind) rushes down the stairs of his villa, dressed in a white shirt and slacks, a golden robe billowing behind him, he is a marvelously fleshed-out character.

Such small details perhaps seem insignificant. Or are they? For such minute features to fix themselves in one’s mind so strongly that they can almost reach out and feel the silky texture of the robe, hear the soft swoosh of the fabric as the character walks is masterful artistry. Furthermore, if a character was not so colorfully, intimately projected, would the reader ever even notice these seemingly unnoticeable touches? Probably not. But when one is so hungry for the unforgettable character, feasting on every word, every nuance, every microscopic detail that is part of the man, these things are absorbed and cherished.

Since, as always, this is not a book review, I won’t divulge too much of the plot, except to say that Adin Tredeger is an authority on antique erotica and he has acquired a five hundred year old journal which is a written and sketched account of an Italian count’s forbidden affair—amore vietato—with a young lover named Auselmo.

The journal is titled Notturno and the author was none other than Donte Fedelta. I won’t tell you how Donte was ‘turned’ vampire or why. But the vampire wants his precious book back—as it is his only physical memory of Auselmo who was murdered—and he relentlessly follows Adin to retrieve the journal.

Thus begins a richly woven love story of Donte and his mortal love, Adin.

That is all of the story I’ll tell you; however, I will say that the journal entries themselves are some of the most beautiful prose I have ever read. I found myself mesmerized by the beauty of Donte’s thoughts, his erotic mind. These luscious entries, so fluid and exotic, could stand alone, separate from the book. I had to shake myself while reading them, reminding myself that some beautiful vampire did not really write them—that he was indeed only a fictional character.

An example: Auselmo, so lovely, like an angel fallen to earth to tease and mock me with his beauty, or this: There were more stars in the sky this summer, Auselmo, because you placed them there me for me every time you smiled.

Adin Tredeger is a delightful, sexy, handsome man with a wonderful dry wit, and he supplies some of the most memorable lines in the book. I ADORE him. He’s a man I’d love to love in real life. And his pairing with this serious but oddly comedic vampire is pure genius. They are a dynamic partnership.

Now, once again, since this is NOT a book review, I’m only supplying this buy link  

http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=NOTTURNO

because…well…because…you might like to read the steamy excerpt—the high-octane, squirm-in-your-seat scene from the airplane bathroom—for yourself. And while you’re at it, there’s a hot trailer as well.

Anyone who knows me knows my weakness for Italian men. I make light of it, but in truth it’s more than just a one-track libido. It’s something, some beautiful man who looms in the shadows, just beyond the light in my mind, a face I know intimately even though I can’t see its features. He’s beautiful, dark, sensual. He’s part of me, he IS me to a certain extent.

Who knows? A lover from a past life? Maybe he’s ME from a past life. Whoever he is, I recognized him the moment Donte Fedelta softly asked, after a torrential bout of love-making in a cramped airplane bathroom, for Adin to please not forget him.

Donte, the ageless, tormented, beautiful, powerful aristocratic vampire in Notturno who, through Z. A. Maxfield’s pen to my heart, became the face to the Italian of my erotic dreams.

And it was as though Maxfield tapped into my consciousness and painted this beautiful creature—monster, Donte says he is—who has haunted my dreams and imagination as long as I was old enough to appreciate a beautiful man.

Donte, please. Just one bite. Just one. I promise. I’ll never forget you, Caro. Oh, wait. He’s not real, is he? Damn.

Can I Kiss You...?

My thoughts today weren’t really writing-related, and I started not to write them at all. But the feelings in my gut are just too strong. I’ve got to try to express them.

A few years ago, my daughter met a tall, lanky, good looking young man at a typical Texas poolside bar-b-que. She was so struck by him—something about him, besides his obvious looks—that, very uncharacteristically for her, she approached him and heard the words coming from her mouth, “Can I kiss you?”


That kiss lasted three years. They married. Oh, sure, they have their ups, they have their downs. But they’ve weathered them. And the way this young man—his name is Mike—weathered these ups and downs, the way he managed to protect my daughter fiercely while growing into his own maturity has endeared him to me. He is the proverbial son I never had.


Well, Mike has been diagnosed with lung cancer. He’s thirty-five years old. Monday, he goes for two days of testing at M.D. Anderson in Houston to chart an approach to treatment. The doctors are confident, optimistic for his prognosis. They feel his age, his good health and strength are positives. But, of course, there’s the anxiety. The word cancer just does that to people.


While I feel confident, too, it’s made me look so hard at my feelings for Mike, my love for him. For my daughter. And I realize I love him every bit as much as I love her.


He and my daughter are supportive of my writing. One of the most touching things about this support is: Mike told me that, in their cabin at Rayburn Lake, he planned for the attic/bedroom to be a writing room for me. The fact that he took my writing seriously enough to incorporate a space for it in their country get-a-way was one of the most beautiful things anybody had ever done for me since I started writing. Hey, I was flattered just by the fact that they included me in their resort cottage (I AM the mother-in-law, after all!), so the thought of getting my own writing room blew me away! And touched my heart. Really, really touched my heart. And we took it as a sign that the former owners of the cottage had left behind an old electric typewriter.


Although the cottage is being sold now, the beauty of their support still lingers and continues to be  a force that drives me. They are proud of me. THAT pride means more to me than a million writing rooms.


I am a slow writer. I’ve slacked and just can’t seem to get to that last paragraph, the words the end, of anything I’ve ever written. It is not that I do not write well. It is not that my stories are not good. I can’t tell you WHY I haven’t finished anything.


But I’ve made a pact with myself. A pact my beautiful son-in-law and daughter do not even know about yet. And it is this: I’m going to finish my WIP. I am going to dedicate it to them. I’m going to make them proud, to create a finished PRODUCT to give back the work that their support deserves. Sure, maybe that’s no reason to write. But it’s not why I’m writing. It’s why I’m going to FINISH.


So, Mike. My son. Let’s make a deal. You fight your battle, and I will support you through every second of it. And I will fight my writing battle and make you proud because YOU have been there for me.


I’m so glad my daughter walked up to this wonderful man on that sultry summer day and asked, “Can I kiss you?” It changed her life in beautiful ways forever, and it changed mine, too.