MAKING "MAKE BELIEVE" BELIEVABLE

Current listen:  "Grenade" courtesy of Bruno Mars

The refrain says "I'll catch a grenade for ya..." Really? A grenade...a bomb. Some guy is just going to reach up and grab a flying grenade aimed at his true love. Maybe? Depends on the situation . . . the story. In reality, physically catching a grenade in all probability isn't going to happen. Especially in my reality. Hubby, the hopeless "un-romantic" that he is, would see the grenade heading my way and yell "duck," thinking he'd covered his obligatory spousal duty and leave me to my own devices to get out of the way.

   

But in a "make believe" or fictional world, the one we create for our readers, great care needs to be given so that our readers believe our heroine will be saved when the hero jumps a super-human height and catches the grenade, flinging it into the universe where it detonates and harms no one...in particular the characters they've emotionally invested in. It doesn't matter if it's believable in our world, but it must be in the world we've created...one where superhuman strength exists and grenades aimed at our heroes and heroines is considered "natural."

Computer geek Jimmy Nerd would not suddenly bolt from his desk, open his window and find a grenade spiraling across the park toward the head cheerleader he's dating because hunky football quarterbacks are suddenly dweebs, as she rescues a kitten from a tree, fully clad in her sexy little outfit and holding pom-poms. This causes him to jump from his third story window and land, unharmed, in his polished leather loafers and run through traffic at warp speed (considering he's such an athlete - sitting in front of his computer monitor for hours on end), leaping over the hoods of taxi cabs, sliding under a school bus full of children, only to launch into thin air (and I'm going to put a round guesstimate of approximately 8 feet) and clutch the small missile in his fist without (1) it exploding and sending his spindly body parts into another hemisphere; (2) flinching from the pain a projectile traveling that speed would cause when it hit his grandma soft (ewwe) flesh; (3) or dropping it because his hands would be so large (okay, I know where your mind just went...shame on you) and muscular from moving his computer mouse mere inches all day, and (4) slowing his pace whatsoever, because he would drop back to earth without so much as an "ugh" pushing through his razor thin lips and resume his high velocity sprint to the tree where his beloved sits, unaware. I guess anything's possible...

I'm a rabid Janet Evanovich fan, although I'll confess I didn't start the Stephanie Plum series until book five. She sold me on the opening paragraph (paraphrased):

When I was a little girl I used to dress up Barbie without underpants. On the outside, she'd look like the perfect lady. Tasteful plastic heels, tailored suit. But underneath, she was naked. I'm a .... bounty hunter .... and being a bail enforcement officer is like being a bare-bottomed Barbie. It's about wearing a lot of bravado on the outside when you're really operating without underpants.

I find some part of me in Stephanie Plum. Maybe it's our mutual attraction to Ranger. I pulled this series as an example of making the questionable, believable. Every book shows Stephanie in an absurd and life threatening situation trying to track down her bail skips. Each scenario and lowlife skip walks the boundary of far-fetched in our reality, but in Stephanie Plum's world...the one Janet Evanovich has scripted to perfection, all the crazy shenanigans and consequences are believable. They are natural to the personality of Stephanie's character.

When we create our characters and the world they'll reside in from chapter one through to the end, we have to make sure their personalities are true to the things we have them do, and that they remain consistent. If our bad-ass antagonist suddenly becomes an opera star, or goes from a mean killing machine to rescuing puppies, we better have shown some strong clues and a subtle shift evolving in the personality change, along with a damn good reason why and how it relates to the story, or our readers will blow us off as authors, never trusting in another one of our stories.

We'll become literary liars, promising one thing, but delivering something completely different. As authors, we can't beg forgiveness after the fact. We're already sunk, our careers taking on water faster than we can bail. No one will throw us a life preserver either. There's too many good authors out there and the publishing world isn't going to wait while we patch our dinghies. We'll be left as a snack for the sharks.

Maybe Jimmy Nerd lives in a super-enhanced electronic fantasy world where all the things he does to catch the grenade are possible and something he would do naturally. Like I said, anything is possible when you make the "make-believe" ...believable.

WACKY WEDNESDAY...Cheerleader tryouts - a disastrous life lesson

TODAY, I'M A GUEST BLOGGER AT  www.christinawolfer.blogspot.com  HOP ON OVER AND READ ANOTHER PAGE OF MY "LIFE LESSONS". . . EXPOSED PANTIES AND ALL!

WACKY WEDNESDAY...Where Anything Goes

Today's subject:  SKINNY JEANS...when you're not

Just so you know, it's 6:00 in the morning and already a balmy 82 degrees. By the time I leave for work, it will be 90 and by the time the noon whistle blows (this really existed a one point in time), it will be around 105 degrees. Summer has found my little "neck in the woods." And, its just begun.

I invested in a pair of "skinny jeans" ... the latest, greatest designer flair with pockets that say "touch me here," and a price tag that ensures my family is on an involuntary diet until my next paycheck. Time to start cracking the wheat in the food storage and call that dehydrated mystery meat "delicious" because the cupboards are going to be bare...but I am going to look fantabulous, baby!

Bless the sweet salesgirl, she found a pair to "fit" me. Now I love shopping for clothes, but having designer jeans "fit" means I have not eaten all day, taken a water pill or two, and have on several layers of lycra. Almost as bad as shoe shopping, only I can forgo the standing on my head for thirty minutes to make sure my ankles have shrunk and I can wiggle my toes. I have a twenty minute window after that to find the shoes that feel like they will be somewhat comfortable when my feet swell to normal again.

I wriggle into the denim, containing just enough stretch to allow my thighs entrance. Granted, I can suck furniture across the room when I hold my stomach in to zip them up, and the "muffin top" is hardly noticeable...when worn with a parachute. I admire my reflection, thinking I am one hot mama, and will have no trouble losing 5 pounds before actually wearing them in public. I didn't want to stress out my sales person by asking for a size bigger, because her eyes went wild when I told her to find me a pair in the first place and she took inventory of my lower regions. "No problem," was her confident statement when she staggered to the back room. I thought her breath held a hint of alcohol when she came back, but she had my size (or the one I was fitting into come hell or high waters). 

I proudly strutted in my skinny jeans several times before the inevitable happened. I washed them. 

Note:  It is a scientific phenomena that something unexplainable happens when clothing is laundered. It shrinks. The label can promise you anything, but it's going to happen. Unless its underwear. That "grows." Shrinkage in the washer follows the same mystery as missing socks. Put two in, one comes out. The other has sought freedom in "sockland."

I don't dry my fabulouso denim wonders to insure only the minuscule of shrinkage. I wait for what seems like "forty days and forty nights" for those embellished pockets to dry, then excitedly slide, or tried to anyway, my jeans on. Something happens part way up my leg. The denim fuses to my skin, refusing to budge. Well hell. 

I tug, jump, and go through various stages of my old ballet routine,fist position, squat, plie, squat deeper, lift one leg and yank, lift second leg and yank. Finally, over the knee caps. I'm almost there! Feeling triumphant and exhausted, I drop to my stool to gather strength. We are going up the thighs! At this point I decide in the future, to put jeans on "wet" and let them dry on my body.  After several minutes of repeating my new calisthenics program and checking for a pulse, not to mention needing to towel off from working up a sweat, I'm ready to lay flat on the floor and zip the jeans shut. I lay there for several minutes, pulling oxygen back into my flattened lungs, before deciding to sit up. I feel my internal organs readjust at that point. Somewhere near my shoulder is my spleen.

But I'm back in my skinny jeans! Granted, I need to wear them around the house for a while until I can walk upright and those pockets that say "touch me here" are back on my derriere instead of behind my knees, but they are plastered on my body by damn! I search my closet for a top that will strategically cover my backside "smile" and billow slightly to make my thunder thighs appear smaller. My mirror has that little warning label in the corner..."all objects are actually bigger than they appear." 

I pay particular attention to my makeup so my beauty will distract from the fact I'm walking like something is terribly wrong, even applying a touch of glitter around my eyes to make sure whoever I talk to will keep eye contact, if for no other reason than to say, "really? glitter?" Out of the five pairs of new shoes I purchased, I'm down to two that last longer than an hour on my feet, which I slip on and head out the door.

Later that night, when I peel the denim off my legs, rub the red indentation out of my waist and pry my shoes off my swollen feet, I decide to soak my abused body in my hot tub. The temperature is a perfect 102 degrees, the light set at a soft lavender hue under the swirling bubbles, and a candle is lit to insure ultimate relaxation. I pull my swimsuit out to put on.

My new "miracle suit." You with me? That's right. It's six inches by six inches, but guaranteed to make me look like a Victoria Secret Angel. Fitting into my skinny jeans is a walk in the park, compared to inching my way into industrial strength lycra, only to have my torso appear slim and trim...however...the "excess" has to go somewhere. Hello mega legs and arms...I think my eyes are bulging out of the sockets and my lips have disappeared into my new puffy cheeks. I am definitely a "secret angel" .... one to be kept hidden!

How about you? Got a "skinny jean" story? Ever try to fit into something that's really not you. Become someone you're not? A "secret angel?" We all have different faces we try on depending on circumstance. Just remember, if it's not you, it's not going to fit comfortably. Here's to elastic waistbands and being "real."

Thanks for stopping by and sharing a laugh. Still keeping the skinny jeans. Still dieting. Just looking for a different mirror!  See you on the weekend!

DON'T TELL ME IT CAN'T BE DONE...

Current listen:  Midnight Romeo by Push Play...a perfect soundtrack to this blog.

Tonight, we're settling on the back porch. The weather is warming up and the sky is a spectacular black velvet canvas, covered in a sea of sparkling diamonds. Throw a shall around you shoulders and get comfortable. We're going to talk about "boys."

Who says boys can't have a romance story? Only girls are allowed to think flowery thoughts and lust after hunky jocks with tight butts, or the bad boy whose plaid boxers show six inches above his low riding jeans? Does "Dear Diary, I think I'm in love..." only belong to the female gender? Why can't a romantic tale be told through the eyes of a boy? And I'm not talking "boy on boy." I'm talking normal heterosexual "Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl," with the same fairytale ending.

This was the challenge I took on in writing Riley's Pond, now completed and in the final throes of editing. I wanted a romance told from the boy's perspective. Of course this meant shedding several conservative layers and tossing out the "gasp reflex" when a bad word unexpectedly flew out of my character's mouth. Here's ten things I learned:

1.  Boys don't believe in consequences. They believe most rules are made to be broken. Life is not black and white, but a gazillion shades of gray.
2.  Boys believe its socially acceptable to name certain body parts. They're "one with the penis."
3.  Boys have different scales they rate girls against.
         a.  The "jiggle scale," (both boobs and butts)
         b.  The "hair scale," (long, but not necessarily blond)
         c.   The "swing scale," which is interesting because this is based on their model as she walks away - is it a backyard swing that sways gently, or a porch swing, long and lazy, or a power swing, wide, fast, and capable of throwing you off balance if you bounce off one of the hips.
4.  Boys rate "kisses" on a scale of one to five (five showing promise of more to come). Are her lips full? The kiss soft or firm. Does she kiss with her lips parted, or sealed tight like a brick wall. If teased with your tongue, will she let you have a free pass or do you have to work hard for a game of tongue tagging. Does she let your tongue in her mouth, or is she a control freak and has to put hers inside your mouth? 
5.  Then there's the body language issues. Does she lean into your curves when you kiss her, or remain stiff like a statue. If you nudge your knee between her legs will you get slapped? If not, forget the rest of the scale and head for the first place you can get horizontal.
6.  Things boys hate:  Obsessive giggling, constant gum popping, squealing and jumping like an idiot, joined at the hip with your BFF, and clingy. Girls should be able to stand on their own two feet.
7.  Boys also don't think its necessary to express their "feelings" or "thoughts" constantly. He likes you, or he wouldn't be going out with you. If he says he loves you, he means it. Don't ask every ten seconds. If you say it and he doesn't give you that same reply, don't go all psycho. Deal. Especially if you are stupid enough to ask in the middle of an intense game, action flick, or in front of any other male within hearing distance, and God forbid, in front of your BFF.
8.  Boys are not always thinking about sex. Granted, ninety percent of the time they're with you, they're wondering how far you'll let them get on this date, but the other ten percent is split equally between food and whether he's got enough money in his wallet to afford you. He also spends a nanosecond wondering if he tucked a condom in his wallet or if there's one in the glovebox.
9.  When boys fall in love, it's fast and hard. Their thoughts are consumed with you. They drop their friends, only wear underwear and socks once, and brush their teeth. Sometimes they shower. They keep their bedrooms clean, praying their parents will be out late and you'll be ready, willing and able. Their cars are stocked with a fistful of air fresheners, and there's a blanket in the trunk, just in case.
10. Boys cry. Hard. Their hearts don't break. They shatter.

In writing Designer Genes, I wiggle into Jordan's and Jesse's head and steal their thoughts for a couple of short chapters, to give my readers a "behind the scenes" glimpse to what's happening that my heroine isn't aware of. I liked the strong voices of my male characters and the passionate feelings they kept hidden from everyone. The facade boys put forth is interesting. They follow the stereotype cast through generations of being tough, unfeeling, crass, and selfish. Underneath, they're vulnerable, caring, and giving. And they love their moms.

In Riley's Pond, my male protagonist, Riley Martin, finds being the middle son, stuck between a wayward older brother and a younger brother he affectionately refers to as "the baby archangel," to be challenging. He feels responsible for keeping his parents happy to compensate for his older brother's bad choices, and frustrated at not being able to sow his own wild oats because of his impressionable little brother. The family dynamics in the story are dramatic, comical, and heartwarming. After penning "The End" I felt at home in the Martin house, having my own chair at their kitchen table.

The tagline reads:  Superman meets The Creature from the Black Lagoon - a love story.

The proposed back cover/query letter blurb:  When Riley finds a beautiful creature swimming in his secret pond, he isn't thinking about the drama he walked out on back at the house. He isn't contemplating that this creature in his black lagoon, encased in a revealing wet t-shirt, might be a catalyst in a dangerous chain of events changing his life forever. No. He's just thinking he wants to jump her bones.

Well? Do you think it works? Think back to seventeen. Where would you have rated on "the scale?" Share your thoughts, memories, or suggestions.  Just don't tell me it can't be done.

As always, thanks for stopping by. Come back over the weekend. I hope to have a surprise to share. Harley Brooks