Original ideas are overrated

It is physically impossible for me to sit at my writing computer for more than 14 seconds without music. I begin to twitch, and then I fall to the floor pulling out clumps of my own hair and humming "Hotel California."

Fortunately, Pandora internet radio ensures I don't have to suffer. It also exposes me to a steady stream of new music (which I race out and purchase on iTunes when I hear something I like).

A few weeks ago, Pandora played a song that sounded familiar. I recognized the words. The melody seemed like something I'd heard before. Still, I couldn't quite place it.

It wasn't until I clicked on the title that I realized what it was:

That's Mat Weddle of the folk/pop band Obadiah Parker doing an acoustic version of Outkast's insanely popular 2003 hit "Hey Ya." Even if you aren't a hip-hop fan, you've surely heard the original. Maybe you've even been known to shake it like a Polaroid picture when no one's looking.

I'm not here to judge.

Here's a refresher on the Outkast version, just for the sake of comparison:

I bought both versions for my iPod, and I dig each of them for totally different reasons.

One reason is the fabulous reminder that something doesn't have to be 100% original to be amazing.

I've heard tons of authors fretting about the uniqueness of a story they want to write. They worry their idea has been done before, and most of the time, they're right. How often have we seen modern twists on age-old stories? Romeo and Juliet spawned West Side Story. Jane Austen's Emma inspired Clueless.

I don't kid myself that I'm the first author to write a pirate-themed romance novel with MAKING WAVES, but I might be first to include a frisky game of Strip Battleship or a discussion of the difference between a hand-job and a foot-job. Even without those scenes, I feel confident my own unique voice puts a different spin on things.

I guess that's why I don't spend too much time worrying about coming up with a story that's never been done before. My focus is on finding ways to make my version original, and to set it apart from what's been done before.

Do you struggle to come up with unique ideas? In what way do you put your own stamp on something that's been done before? Please share.

And please lend me some sugar. I am your neighbor.

What gets a tortoise hot?

On Friday, I got my editor's revision notes for MAKING WAVES.

To say I'm thrilled would be a ridiculous understatement. Though I normally give myself 24 hours to marinate on feedback, I was so eager to implement my editor's suggestions that I wrote half a scene on the palm of my hand with a ballpoint pen.

One of my favorite parts of the letter was the request that I amp up the romance. It's something I'd been fretting about. Though MAKING WAVES has several blush-worthy love scenes and a lot of bawdy humor, I knew it wasn't as "hot" as the two books scheduled to follow. I wasn't certain which my editor preferred, but I got her message loud and clear on Friday. "Turn up the heat, please!"

Fortunately, "heat" is one of my favorite things to write. I feel like a kid in a candy shop, though sweaty flesh is much more fun to play with than gumdrops and peppermint sticks.

I know I have to temper my enthusiasm. I don't write erotica (though I've been tempted on occasion) so a little bit goes a long way when it comes to love scenes. It's a fine line between titillating a reader and making her want to scrub herself with a Brillo pad, and the line isn't in the same place for everyone.

Take tortoises, for example. When we were in Barbados a few years ago, we paid a visit to the Barbados Wildlife Refuge. It was impossible to walk without tripping over a pair of them in the throes of tortoise passion. Averting your eyes was useless, as the grunts of tortoise lovin' echoed in every corner of the park.

After my post about the monkeys a couple months ago, you're probably thinking I plan my vacations around the best places to see animals getting frisky. You're right. This is simply not true, though I will admit I'm fascinated by what passes for romance among the different species. Do the tortoises enjoy themselves, or is this just what they have to do to keep the species going? Are the lady tortoises feeling "hot," or would they rather be sunning themselves on a rock?

Tell me what you think. Behold, I give you the tortoise version of "heat." Make sure your sound is turned up so you don't miss the best part of this one minute and three seconds of pure tortoise ecstasy:

I'm not sure that's what my editor has in mind for MAKING WAVES, but it's something to consider in the grand scheme of romance writing. What works for tortoises may not work for monkeys, and what works for you may not work for me.

And now that I've conjured up all sorts of bestiality images, where'd I put that Brillo pad?

And the winner is...

You guys really outdid yourselves in the latest What the @#$% is that? contest. Seriously, I peed down my leg laughing at some of your guesses.

In case you're just tuning in, here's how the game is played: my absentminded husband leaves mystery objects lying around. I post a picture, and you guys try to guess what it is.

As I shared on Friday, this is what I found sitting on top of his toolbox:

Many of you correctly guessed those are dusters, though the mystery is clearly why Pythagoras would have 60 of them strung together thusly.

Much as I enjoy the idea that it might be some sort of sex toy, it's nothing that exciting (well, it kind of is for Pythagoras).

The dusters are actually a common training tool for slalom ski racing. No, really.

Slalom racing requires the skier to slam his or her body into a plastic gate at a high rate of speed. As you can imagine, many newer racers find this rather daunting.

The dusters, however, are not daunting. The dusters are fun, and a good way to train racers to ski the correct tactic, timing, and line without sustaining bodily harm.

They really need to develop something like that for new writers.

So now that you know the story behind the mystery object, it's time to pick a winner. The process involved collecting a large quantity of sticks on a recent hike.

Then I wrote names on the sticks.

Wow. That picture looks weird. Those are my legs, I swear – I wasn't holding the stick with my boobs (though come to think of it, that would be a good trick).

Anyway, you'll have to watch the video to find out the rest of what happened. You may have to turn up your volume to hear, since I live in the windiest freakin' place in the entire state of Oregon. Alternately, you can watch it right on You Tube since I hear the quality is better that way.

So there you have it. Congratulations to Simon C. Larter. Email me to let me know what size It's Willamette, Dammit shirt you'd like and where I should send it.

Thanks for playing, everyone!

On talent, success, & bra throwing

Wednesday night, we saw Colin Hay in concert.

You may recall he was the front-man for ‘80s band Men at Work. They won a Grammy in 1983 for best new artist and had a few chart-topping hits including “Down Under.”

Now, Colin Hay plays solo acoustic shows in small towns where many audience members would be hard pressed to name any of his solo tunes.

The second he took the stage, I was dumbstruck. He’s one of the most talented performers I’ve ever seen – and I’m a concert whore, so I don’t say this lightly. His voice was breathtaking, his guitar playing flawless, his showmanship hysterically entertaining. If I hadn’t been reluctant to part with my favorite bra, I might’ve thrown it.

Colin Hay on Wednesday night.

From his jokes, it’s clear he’s aware of the irony in going from sold-out stadium shows to a tiny stage in Central Oregon.

But though his position on the charts has changed, his talent hasn’t. Regardless of how many tickets he sells, he’s an amazing musician.

I can’t help but see a tie to writing. Deep down, don’t we all hope for superstardom? Don’t we all want our books to sell at auction for ridiculous figures, to ascend the bestseller lists and have Oprah and Letterman bitch-slapping each other over the first interview?

But the reality is that it happens for very few artists – musicians or writers. For every performer like Sting or Bono or Steven Tyler whose superstar status spans 30 or 40 years, there are guys like Colin Hay. No less talented, but with careers that have gone a decidedly different direction.

Part of me wants to feel sad about this.

Part of me says Are you kidding? A talented artist making a living doing what he loves? What’s sad about that?

I’ll admit I wouldn’t mind seeing my name on a bestseller list someday. Though I’ll do everything in my power to make it happen, I have very little control. I can work hard and hone my talent, but the odds are slim I’ll ever be driven to book signings in a limousine with throngs of fans beating on the windows and throwing Pop Tarts.

I’m OK with that.

Because talent and success can’t be measured by book sales or the number of concert seats filled. I know that for every blockbuster book atop the lists, there are dozens more that are every bit as good – maybe better – that just don’t have the magic marketing formula to fly off the shelves.

It’s enough for me to know I’m damn lucky. I’m getting to do what I love – to slap words on a page and make a few people smile, to even make a little money doing it.

Though my dreams of grandeur might entertain me, it’s the lure of just doing what I love that keeps me going.

That, and the fantasy of giving Oprah a wedgie if I ever make it on her show.

How about you? If you never write a runaway bestseller, are you OK with that? Is it enough just to know you’re a writer, that you’re talented enough to create a book in the first place?

I’ll leave you with this song from Colin Hay. If you like it, go buy it on iTunes. Do it now.

And the winner is…(it's all about balls)

Well that was another rousing round of What the @#$% is that? with several of your guesses making me giggle, and some just making me glad you don’t know where I live.

In case you missed it, here’s the mystery object from Friday's game:
In order to identify it for you, I'll share the conversation that took place when I found the object on the kitchen counter.

Me: What is this?

Pythagoras: It’s a transverse colon.

Me: I see. And why is it on the kitchen counter?

Pythagoras: Because I had to move it to get to the pyloric sphincter.

Since that was clearly the only explanation required, he wandered outside, possibly to bury a dead body in the backyard.

For those of you who are curious, this is where the transverse colon came from:

I’d like to say the whole thing would be less weird if you knew what Pythagoras does for a living, but it really wouldn’t.

Nevertheless, it’s time to pick a winner. I’ve gotten the feeling you guys tune in more for the winner selection process than for the actual contests. If you’ve missed some of the previous ones, go here and here.

For this round, I started off by creating a list of all the entries, making sure to double up for those of you who earned extras from Thursday’s blog.

Then I gathered up a whole lot of balls.

Balls, balls, everywhere balls.

Every ball got a number that corresponded to a name on the list.

To see how things unfolded from there, you’ll have to watch the video below. You might want to turn up your sound a bit to compensate for the windy conditions and the fact that my camera sucks. Alternately, you can go straight to YouTube and watch it there, since the quality is sometimes better.

So congratulations to Danica Avet, a regular blog commenter, and author of paranormal and contemporary romance with a touch of Cajun spice! Danica, email me (address is in the sidebar at right) with your address and I’ll get your bounty of writer snacks out to you right away!

Thanks so much to all of you for playing! We’ll do it again the next time Pythagoras leaves something weird lying around the house.

Scratch that. We’ll do it again in a month or two.

My new boss has a tail and pees outside

As I’ve mentioned before on this blog, I’ve worked in marketing & corporate communications for the last 10 years.

What I haven’t mentioned is that right now, I’m not.

Three days before this past Christmas, my employer summoned me for a routine meeting. Well, I thought it was a routine meeting. It turned out he thought it was an excellent time to inform me my position was being eliminated.

I was sad for about 43 minutes. That’s the time it took me to clear out my home office and review the household budget with Pythagoras to determine that we would not be required to juggle flaming cantaloupes on a street corner to pay the bills.

While I hunt for a new job, the layoff has given me what I’ve always dreamed of having – the time and space to devote myself to being a “real” author. Though my new three-book deal with Sourcebooks certainly helped my quest for “real” authordom, I wasn’t certain how well I’d stay focused without the structure of a day job. Would I freeze up? Flounder for routine? Become addicted to cyber-porn without a boss breathing down my neck?

I didn’t need to fear any of those things. I have an Australian Kelpie.

For those unfamiliar with the breed, Australian Kelpies are herding dogs on caffeinated crack. Medium-sized and tenacious, Kelpies will herd anything that moves and several things that don’t. We acquired Bindi from a local rescue group five months ago, and within an hour of her arrival at our house, she had herded the three cats into the living room, lined them up alphabetically, and taught them to execute a military salute in formation.

She runs me the same way.

If I’m tempted to sleep in and ignore the blog, my canine boss is quick to cajole me out of bed.

Once I’m seated at the computer and my workday is underway, Bindi assigns herself the task of accompanying me on journeys to other parts of the house. If I get up to fill my water glass, she herds me up and down the stairs with a gentle reminder that my time is best spent in the office and not dusting the houseplants on the landing.

My new boss does permit me to have regular physical fitness breaks, something with surprising benefits for my writing. I can spend hours in front of my computer alternating between beating my head on the keyboard and beating the keyboard on my head as I attempt to solve a complex plotting issue. The second I leash the beasts and head for the woods, the puzzle pieces of my plot will begin falling into place. By the time I return to my computer, I can barely type fast enough to capture all the new clarity I’ve achieved.

So overall, I guess you’d say I’m happy with my new boss. I’m not sure I’d go so far as to say she’s made me a better writer, but she’s certainly kept me from being a lazy one.

For those of you interested in seeing Bindi in action, I have a one-minute video clip to share.

A bit of background: Bindi’s canine housemate is Ozzy, an elderly Australian Shepherd/Heeler mix who is deaf, mostly blind, arthritic, and suffering from a vestibular disorder and a torn ligament in his knee. In spite of all this, he loves to go for hikes in the woods, where he inevitably wanders off and can’t hear us calling him.

Enter Bindi . . .