The Importance of Critiques by Ginger Simpson

Being a member of a critique group can be both a blessing and a pain the arse.  You have to make a time commitment to critique the work of others, and depending upon which stage of writing the author has achieved, you might be looking at a lot of effort on your part.  Similarly, others may consider your work time-consuming despite you feeling you're nearly a master.  Personally, I don't know how anyone could ever feel they've mastered writing as the rules change daily, and house-to-house. The challenge is deciding if the rules are right or merely something being passed along by an editor who learned at the knee of another publisher.  Critiquing is a tricky business.

The hardest part of being in a group for me is deciding which suggestions to take to heart and which to ignore.  Trust me, you'll get lots of friendly recommendations, but bear in mind that here again, people are at various stages in writing and may pass along their bad traits.  You have to be careful to pick and choose those comments which apply to your writing, enhance the story and flow, but don't change your voice.  There is something unique about all of us, and we don't want to lose that.  If you happen to be in a critique group with authors who dwell in England, you'll be surprised at how differently they write...lots of "to phrases" and all those extra "u" spellings, such as colour, favour, etc.  You have to keep in mind that writing styles do vary from country to country and what you think is true may not be elsewhere.

I cannot express my appreciation enough to the members of my past and current groups.  They have given me suggestions for improving the story flow, corrected errors, and asked questions that make me stop and think about how better to word something.  One author, in particular keeps me mindful that taste, touch, hear, and smell are just as important as seeing. The senses play an vital  role in “showing” a reader your novel  So put the reader in the character’s shoes even if the story takes place next to a water treatment plant. *smile*

There is one thing you should do before you join a critique group.  Develop a thick skin.
If you plan to submit your chapters for dissection, then expect they will be.  Critique groups aren’t in place to hold you hand, tell you lies about your work, or hurt your feeling, and you do want the truth, no matter how hard it is to take at times..  Honestly can sometimes be painful, and you may just discover that your manuscript needs more honing than you expected.  As said above, the task falls to the author to determine which suggestions to follow and which to ignore.  You'll often get conflicting critiques, so if the “tip” works use it, if it doesn’t, ignore it.

Not everyone critiques in the same manner. I, for one, do a line-by-line because that’s the only way I know to share what I’ve learned in the writing process.  Some skim the chapter, looking for missing commas and misspellings, and others just comment that your story is lovely.  There are some who obviously don’t want to rock anyone’s world with a negative comment. But that’s okay…these types are helpful, too.

Time is important in our industry, so if, after doing a few chapters, I notice the person is not taking note of my suggestions, then I cease offering my help. I don’t mean to infer that I know more than anyone else, but experiences have taught me much more than I knew before.  A good rule of thumb…if more than one person zeroes in on something, then you’d best listen.  Of course it seems like new rules crop up weekly. The ones I share are the ones that make the most sense to me.

My pet peeves are word echoes, redundancy, and chapters that do nothing to propel the story forward and are filled with wasted information and copious descriptions.  And nothing is more annoying than unneeded tags to identify two people in a room having a dialogue.  Continued use of “he said, John said, Mary said, she said,” drives me nuts.  Readers are pretty smart.  They can easily keep track of the speaker with a minimal of hints.  Still feel the need for a tag?  Use action…a phrase that identifies the speaker by something they’re doing.  “It’s rather cold out today,” John said.  might be better read, “It’s rather cold out today.”  John moved to the fireplace and warmed his hands over the crackling flames.  Besides just telling the reader about the coldness, you're showing them a warm and crackling fireplace.

The hardest question is how do you relay those peevish habits to an author without making an enemy?  There is never a need to be cold and cruel, but sometimes even a hint of negativity will send a newbie fleeing from the site.  You have to be prepared to get as good as you give, and that’s the truth.  I’ve never been very good at candy-coating, and I doubt I’m going to start now.  I don’t always like the critiques I get back, but I consider each and every one of them and I’d say I use 90% of the recommendations.  I’m still constantly amazed at the minor issues overlooked by so many pairs of eyes.  I don’t think it’s possible to ever have a “perfect” manuscript...I’ve never seen one, at least.

I hope my post has inspired some of you to form or join a group.  Critiquing can be one of the most helpful tools around, but only it you use the opportunity wisely and honestly. I just rejoined my Historical Critique Group to help me with Yellow Moon.  I just submitted the first chapter today, so we'll see what comments I get back.

"Way to go, Paula! Way to go!"

By Jamie Hill

"And they all lived happily ever after." I totally concur. I'm a nut for Disney movies, Hallmark movies, Lifetime movies...wherever I can find them, as long as they have a HEA (happily ever after) ending.

To sit through a movie for hours and have it end unsatisfactorily is a bummer for me. I want to see the couple get together in the end (if not sooner.) The bad guy should get his comeuppance, the mystery should be solved. Come on, people, don't leave me hanging. Those movies that end suddenly with a black screen and I have to ask my husband what the hell just happened... No thanks.

As a reader and lover of romance, of course I want the books I read to end HEA. When I started writing, before I knew many publishers wanted HEA, I wrote it anyway. It just felt right. First and foremost, I had to write what I liked to read.

(The big exception is when I write horror. Horror, I like to leave unsettled, hanging so you're wondering... huh? But that's a whole 'nother animal.) Romance, to me, needs HEA.

I don't mind HFN, though these acronyms are getting a little tedious. *LOL* HFN, or happy for now, is sometimes necessary. When I'm writing a short story that takes place over a matter of hours, it's not always feasible for the characters to fall in love. We settle for HFN, and know that they're going to give it their best shot and see what happens. Lots of movies end that way. We don't know for sure what's going to happen with the couple, but they're going to have fun trying to make it work for a while, anyway.


Two of my favorite movies have the best HEA endings. In An Officer and a Gentleman, when Richard Gere walks through the paper factory with the theme song pounding in the background, my heart melts. "Way to go, Paula! Way to go!"



 


In Pretty Woman, when Richard Gere (do you sense a theme?) climbs the fire escape to 'rescue' Julia Roberts, and she rescues him right back...sob. I could watch those endings over and over again.






My Blame Game series ends happily ever after. In fact, I follow the main couple's family for twenty years, and in the epilogue everyone gets their own HEA. If you like romantic happy endings as much as I do, I hope you check the series out!

Find all my titles at: http://bookswelove.net/jamiehill.php

Mama, the Record Player, and Simon Cowell

~ by Jenna Byrnes ~

When I was a kid I was the lip syncing queen of the neighborhood. My favorite song was "The Nights the Light Went out in Georgia," -- not the knock off by Reba, mind you, this version was by Vicky Lawrence, of "Mama" fame. (Have I dated myself yet?) All I needed was the record player, (oops, just dated myself again), my hairbrush (microphone) and my vanity mirror, to make sure I looked my best.

The reason I was so good at lip syncing was that I was so bad at singing. I loved doing it, and did sing in my high school choir. (With a group, I guess I wasn't so bad.) I used to think being a famous singer would be the Coolest. Thing. Ever. Kind of like I now think being a NYT Bestselling author would be the Coolest. Thing. Ever. LOL

When my kids were little and got fidgety in the car, I used to sing to them and they loved it. I'd substitute their names in songs, or maybe throw in Batman's name, and they thought that was great. I'm not sure at what age they they began telling me, "Mom, if you want us to behave then please stop singing..." but it was a heart breaker. I still love to sing.

A friend once told me that not much looked dorkier than someone driving down the road singing along with her radio. I told her then and still say now, "tough cookies." I sing along with my car radio and if there's nothing good on I hit the CD button where I'm guaranteed to find a sing-along worthy song. We have a 6-disc CD player, I get three choices and the hubster gets three. I don't complain about his "Wooly Bully" or "Legend of Zelda" soundtracks, and he doesn't dare mention my Gordon Lightfoot or Air Supply. (So much easier to sing along to than today's music.) I do not rap, BTW.

If I had to trade in my writing abilities for another skill, I'd choose a good singing voice. I'm sure breaking into the big time for singers is just as hard as it is for writers. I just think I'd enjoy being able to belt out a tune in public and having people go, "Whoa! That girl can sing!"



If they'd had American Idol back then, I probably would have stood in line all day at the nearest audition for that one shot--and hope my voice didn't squeak when I got up there to belt out my tune. I might have peed my pants with nervousness waiting for the judges' critiques, and I would have been crushed when the snarky Brit shot me down. But it would have been fun knowing I had my shot.

I wonder if Simon likes Vicky Lawrence?

Note: This post was originally published on the Oh, Get A Grip Blog in September, 2009, When Simon Cowell was still a judge on AI. I could NEVER sing in front of Keith Urban!  :)  ~ Jenna

Aging Not So Gracefully by Ginger Simpson

My sister and I were talking about growing old, and we both explained our feelings in the same way. We both woke up one morning and realized we were old. I'm not just talking wrinkles...although that's a big concern...I mean aches, pains, eye problems, teeth problems. If you're over fifty, you're probably in the beginning stages. I hate to tell you, it doesn't get any better. I'd like to meet those people who said, "Life Begins at Forty." They forgot to mention it comes to a screeching halt after ten more years. *lol*

Cataracts is a term I've heard, but until I was diagnosed with them, I considered they only affected senior citizens. I made that comment out loud, then realized, I AM A SENIOR CITIZEN. No amount of waxing, plucking, or whining is going to change that. My friend keeps telling me to be thankful for every day I'm on THIS side of the grass, and although I am truly grateful for each and every day...I'm finding it hard to deal with looking in the mirror.

It's like your body takes on a mind separate from your own. Everything shifts at will, elongates, expands, thins, disappears or freezes up on you. As evidence I offer whatever held up my "neck skin." Clearly what ever it was has left me! And did I mention PAIN. Getting up and down is now a chore.

No one told me that blood pressure medicine causes something akin to 'male pattern baldness.' I suppose I could elect to have a heart attack with a full head of hair or hang around a while and try to cover up this bald spot smack dab in the front of my head. I stopped my hormone replacement therapy to remedy the mustache and sprouting stray hair dilemma, what next?

I've been married to my second husband for almost twenty years, and the first picture was taken at my wedding shower, the second,a couple of years ago at a Starbucks. I went to meet a new galfriend I connected with on theInternet, and thought I looked pretty good. Imagine my surprise when an old hag showed up in MY picture. I'd like to say someone photoshopped it, but I think they probably would have used someone else entirely...or at least airbrushed the face a tad.

What happened in those years that have passed.? Egads. In my fifties, people always told me I didn't look my age. Up until a few years ago, they even told me that. Guess what...no one is saying it anymore. I worried that since I married someone ten years younger, I would eventually really look much older than he, but I devised a plan to nag him at a rate that caused advanced aging. I checked him out today and it appears to be working. I might feel sorry for him if I wasn't so lost in my own self pity. *lol* I realize I was never a super model, but it doesn't matter how little or great the sacrifice... you either know what I mean or you will soon enough.

Oh, I know there are those of you who exercise, eat right, don't smoke, and will want to preach that you're over fifty and feeling fit and frisky, but that accounts for maybe one in fifty people. May I say...I don't like you much. *kidding.* I quit smoking in 1979, but I think the effects of the years I smoked just remained dormant until now. Those pleated lips I stopped to avoid still happened. It hardly seems fair when I didn't have an ample set of lips to begin with.  As my lips shrink, my hips grow, and my body is building a shelf around my middle for my boobs to rest on.  Who asked for it?  I don't recall putting in a request.

Honestly, I actually think God should have reversed the process. I don't mean to tell him what to do, but now that I'm experiencing the other end of life's spectrum, it just seems it would be easier to chalk up diminishing bladder capacity, poor eyesight, thinning hair, and holes in one's smile to being a baby. It's bad enough to watch old movies and realize that every one who starred in them is now dead, but every day, we face our own mortality  I've reached an age where loss is becoming commonplace...friends, not weight. Wouldn't it be wonderful, when you lose teeth and have fat rolls around your knees, to have someone come up and chuck your cheek and say how cute you look? Ain't happnin! I'm just saying that preparing for the end of your lifetime would be a lot less painful if you grew cuter and cuddlier every day.

Okay...that's my rant and pity potty for the day

Writing First Degree Innocence by Ginger Simpson

I'd like to share a little information with you about one of my favorite books which is a far cry from my normal genre, historical western romance.

 When I first moved to Tennessee, and my husband was having a difficult time finding a job, I decided to see if I could locate something suitable. As I had just retired from the University of California after twenty-three years of working with students, I knew I possessed skill enough for any clerical job. Imagine my surprise when the employment office sent me to the White County Sheriff, and I ended up with a Correctional Officer position. Even when the Jail Administrator showed me a picture of himself beat to a pulp by an inmate, I never expected they would offer a woman my age, with no experience, a job.

 I left the interview, went home, and found a message asking me to report to work the following morning. Color me shocked! If I was younger, I would definitely try to re-establish myself in that field. It was probably one of the most exciting and interesting jobs I've ever had.

 Most of the fodder for First Degree Innocence came from the year I spent working with the inmates, even those sentenced to extended stays, but boarded with us because of lack of space in the prison system. If you believe what you hear, everyone there is innocent. My heroine is patterned after so many of the incarcerated women I met there, and those I booked, searched and assigned cells to. Writing Carrie's story in FDI was easy because I drew on the frightened faces, trembling legs and horror-filled eyes when the reality struck that for the women arrested, jail was a reality.

 Most women are incarcerated because they made poor choices in men. That wasn't the case with Carrie, but her sentence was just as real. And as in every walk of life, bullies exist within the population. Jet was fashioned after one trouble-making wench who kept us all on our toes. I considered I was one of the nice guards, but believe me, there were more than enough to go around who considered it their duty to continue to punish the inmates. I think law enforcement sometimes brings out the worst in some. Those who have no control in their own personal lives need to control what they can, and jail/prison gives them a great place to exercise that right.

As for me, I considered the inmates had already been given their punishment by the judge. I was there to see to their needs and follow the rules. I had no problems with the inmates...in fact I think they liked me.

 Here's a glimpse into what Carrie felt when she was booked into prison despite her innocence:

 Excerpt: “Okay, Lang, strip!” The guard’s bark made Carrie’s stomach roil. She cowered in the corner of the women’s processing area, shivering under the blast of cold air from the ceiling vent.

 “I said strip! Don’t make me have to tell you again.” The pudgy, uniformed female slapped a baton against her palm in a constant rhythm. In the empty room, the sound bounced off the depressing gray cement walls and echoed in Carrie’s head.

 She forced herself to take a faltering step out of her shoes. Her frigid fingers fumbled with the buttons as she struggled to remove her favorite pink cotton blouse. She unfastened her jeans and let them drop to the floor, then gazed through bleary eyes at the other woman, praying she didn’t require the removal of anything more.

 “This is all a big mistake. I shouldn’t be here.” Carrie’s voice trembled. “Honestly, I’m innocent.”

 With deeply-furrowed skin and graying hair, the guard looked well past fifty. She walked closer, stopping when her face was only inches from Carrie’s. “Do you have any idea how often I hear that in here?” Her breath reeked of cigarette smoke, and Carrie wrinkled her nose and turned her head. How could someone she’d never met hate her so much already? Was there even an ounce of compassion buried beneath that deep sneer?

 The older woman pressed the edge of her baton against Carrie’s jawbone and forced her face forward. Her stomach clenched. Evil gleaming in her eyes, the guard delved the wooden stick under Carrie’s bra strap, slowly guiding the silky string off her shoulder and down her arm. Gooseflesh peppered her skin and she shivered. “Stripping means everything, inmate Lang. Panties, too, sweetheart. Move it! I’m a busy person, so quit wasting my time.”

 The matron strode to the other side of the room, leaned against the wall, and ogled Carrie while she finished undressing. Lowering her head, she dropped her bra atop the pile on the floor then kicked her panties off next to it. Feeling the cold invade every pore, she wrapped her arms around her upper body. Threatening tears blurred her eyes, but she squeezed her lids together and tilted her head toward the ugly pipes snaking across the ceiling. "Oh Lord, what did I do to deserve this? Please, help me. You’re my last hope."

 “Praying are you?” the gravelly voice taunted. “It’s a little late for that. Put those hands down to your sides and look to the front, missy.”

 Carrie opened her eyes and swallowed hard. Did the woman expect her to know what to do? “N-Now what?” she asked in a quivering voice. Just a short time ago, she’d been frisked, photographed, and finger-printed for the second time in her life. Her initial arrest had been horrifying enough, but she at least made bail for a time. Now this? She gazed down at the black ink smudges still visible on her hands. Why was this happening? Never had she felt so humiliated… and disbelieving. How could the judge have sentenced her to ten years in prison?

 The guard laughed, drawing Carrie’s thoughts back to reality. The evil cackle indicated delight in her predicament and turned the room even colder. Ms. Ogden, as her name tag read, placed her black baton under one arm and, with the other hand, reached into a pouch on her utility belt to retrieve a pair of plastic gloves. She slowly pulled them on her age-spotted hands, leering at Carrie the entire time. When she finished, she put the baton into a special holder on her belt then stood with her hands on her hips. “Now, lift up those breasts so I can make sure you aren’t smuggling contraband.”

 Carrie’s cheeks burned, but she did as she was told. With her eyes squinted shut, she turned her face away, trying to halt the sobs wracking her insides.

 “Okay, now bend over and spread ’em.” The matron’s snicker was the final stab of humiliation. Aghast, but shaking with fear, Carrie bowed at the waist, letting her hands dangle just above her toes. The welling tears now fell, splashing against the darkly tiled floor. Her breath seized when the cool feel of plastic touched the skin of her buttocks, daring to invade places that should remain private from prying eyes and strange hands.

 “Okay, that does it,” the guard said, stripping off the gloves. “Now get in the shower. There’s soap on the ledge and shampoo in the big plastic bottle on the floor. It’s a ‘lice’ preventative, so make sure to give your hair a good wash. We don’t want any more critters around here than we already have.” She turned to leave.

 Carrie crossed her arms over nipples erect from the cold and cursed the legs that didn’t want to support her. She paused for a moment before entering the stall. “What do I put on when I’m done?” Her voice was a mere whisper.

 The simple question brought another evil guffaw. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll bring you a pretty little matching outfit and a new pair of shoes.” Ogden pulled a towel from a hook by the door, threw it in Carrie’s face and left.

 The heavy metal door slammed with a clank. Carrie glanced around the empty room, listened to the stone silence, and fought the nausea bubbling up from the pit of her stomach. Her legs felt leaden with each step toward the faucet, and with trembling hands, she somehow managed to turn on the tap. At least the water was warm. She stepped beneath the soothing stream, feeling the heat spread across her chilled skin. With her face raised to the pelting shower, she prayed for divine intervention. Her remaining tears bubbled to the surface, mingled with, and washed away in the shower spray. She muffled her sobs against her fist, daring not to tarry.

 After her shower and shampoo, she toweled off, wrung the excess water from her long brown hair, and forced herself to don the prison-issued dirty-gray panties and equally disgusting sports bra. She’d ignored the grating of the door as it opened and closed during her shower, and now spied a uniform hanging on a wall hook. Her skin prickled at the thought of how many people before her had worn the bright orange shirt and pants. Once on, the uniform’s baggy fit completely hid all of her feminine attributes, and the accompanying well-worn shoes felt disturbingly strange. She pictured all the previous feet that had molded the cracking rubber of the brown slip-ons, and an appropriate saying crept through her mind. Walk a mile in my shoes.

 Had prior wearers been this petrified? Dampness from her hair spread onto her shirt. She shivered at the coldness of the cement bench, hugged her knees, and waited.

 ***** First Degree Innocence is published by Books We Love and available on my Amazon author's page. SPICE UP YOUR LIFE WITH GINGER
 http://www.gingersimpson.com/
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