Fatal Flaw

Back in my wide-eyed discovery days when everything I read about writing was a potential key to an avalanche of publishing success—I came across a concept that sent a chill down my as yet un-stooped spine.

The fatal flaw.

I don’t recall the publication or the author, but I recall those words as if they were seared into my temporal lobe with an “FF” branding iron.  What I learned that day is that you can have great characters involved in a riveting plot, speaking clever lines written in world-class prose.  But if your manuscript is cursed with a fatal flaw, then you can submit it to every publisher on this planet—make that the known universe—and it will bounce back.

I considered my steady stream of rejection slips, occasionally graced with a letter that had an actual signature from an actual editor, and pondered this new and disturbing development.  Do I have a fatal flaw?, and if I do, what is it and how did I get it?  From that point on I was convinced that the manuscripts I was sending out had a tumor, some mutating growth that I could not see or smell or touch, but it was there, dooming my carefully crafted words to a slow and certain death.

This was early in the Google days so my ability to self-diagnose was limited.  I was in a critique group with other as-yet-unstooped writers, and they didn’t think I had a fatal flaw.  They thought my words dripped with undiscovered promise.  Of course they thought that.  Chances are, since we spent hours on end in a small space with poor ventilation, they were suffering from the same affliction.  We were sharing our pages without taking precautions,  thereby re-infecting each other with any number of fatal flaws.

My only option was a dose of assessment from on high, a prescription that could be filled only by those who have published repeatedly, thereby proving themselves free of FFS (Fatal Flaw Syndrome).

My project at that time was a short story that didn’t have any legs, so I made the obvious call and decided to turn it into a novel.  Then I encountered the FFS article and decided it was time to find a cure.

I applied to a one-week workshop, hosted by actual novelists that would give me daily doses of one-on-one time, backed up by booster shots of critiques by fellow aspiring novelists.  Long story short, I was accepted into the program.  The authors presented me with a diagnosis, exposed my fatal flaw in all it’s shimmering glory, and the rest is history.  One year later and I had my first publishing contract.

If you want to know what that fatal flaw was, you will have to read my next post.  But know this.  There are lots of fatal flaws out there.  No one is immune. And just because you killed one, that doesn’t mean you are safe.  In fact, I think I see one now.  And now that you’ve read this post, you may have it, too. 

Sorry…

Worth a Thousand Words

Except when I'm in hand to hand combat with a manuscript, I'm not often at a loss for words, a good thing for a writer.  But my husband threw me for a real loop this weekend, and here's why.

It was my birthday.  I don't advertise; really, after a certain age, the day's like any other, and since I'm always working anyway . . . no big deal.  The husband normally gets me something nice, but I've noticed this trend in recent years where he'll take me along and have me pick out my own present.  Honestly, that feels both kind of mercenary (oh, goody, what can I make him cough up now?) and lazy.  You mean, you're telling me that after almost 30-odd years of marriage, you STILL haven't caught a clue?

So I was kind of pissed when, a week ago, he and I were having this conversation--he was away at a meeting--and all of a sudden, he has this Bart Simpson moment: <DOH!>  Your birthday's next week!  Because, of course, he'd been too busy to think about a gift and so would I please go with him to this nice art gallery from which we've gotten stuff in the past and maybe pick out something I like?

Oh, I was so burned.  First off, I really wasn't in the mood for this crap.  I'm in the middle of a book; I'm working; can't you see I'm working?  Second . . . look, bub, I've figured out what you like, so give it two seconds' thought and see what you come up with.

But he just wouldn't let it go.  In fact, when I hadn't complained for a day, he'd bring it up again, just to annoy me.  I even bitched to my kids, and I never do that.  I was steamed.  Like, GAWD, you need me to connect the dots?

Anyway . . . so Saturday rolls around.  I get up extra early--we're talking 5:30 a.m.--just so I'll have a couple hours to work before we have to schlep south to Milwaukee.  Of course, he'd made this big production of having called the gallery owner, who's pulled some stuff we might like . . . I can't convince this guy that I don't want a damn piece of art; I want to stay home and work on my book!

We get there.  I happen to like this particular gallery, the Tory Folliard.  Tory's a lovely woman; her assistant, Christine, actually turned me on to a great collection in London.  The gallery's introduced me to some wonderful artists: Tom Uttech (a really nice, down-to-earth guy who doesn't live all that far away, so I've been out to his place; love hearing him talk about his art.  I mention him in The Sin-Eater's Confession and blogged about him here);

Brook Slane;

Robert Cocke;

Harold Gregor;

Laurie Hogan;

Cathy Martin;

and many others. 

So we hug.  We schmooze.  I mean, I don't hate these people; I just want to go home and work.  Christine wants to know if I want some tea.  We browse the new landscapes show (it really is a stunner), but I have to tell you: I am so outta there in five minutes. 

But I'm sort of relaxing.  We're looking at a Gregor. who's famous for his flatscapes--Obama has one--but broke his arm years back and so taught himself to paint left-handed.  His art really changed, and I honestly didn't care for it.  But after years of practice, his form's tightened up, and I'm starting to enjoy what I see.

But I am still so outta there.  I have no time for this bullshit.

So then Tory's taking us into this other room, and there are some nice pastorals by Kathy Hofman,

some photographs . . . "And then we have this really wonderful piece here," Tory says, pointing to the wall immediately behind me which, of course, I didn't see when I came in.

So, being a nice, essentially polite person (and still so outta there in five minutes), I turned--and saw this:

I am not often speechless. 

I don't normally burst into tears. 

I certainly don't cry for ten minutes straight--long enough that Christine came in with tissues and tea, and then Tory and Christine disappeared so I could hug my husband and weep on his shoulder.

I find out that my husband cooked up this idea a year ago, right around the time I was finishing up MONSTERS.  He knows what this series meant to me; he understands what it's been like for me to live and breathe just about every waking moment with these characters for the last four years.  So he set out to make a piece of art that was uniquely mine; that no one else had and yet would have meaning for me; and he enlisted Tory to help him make this all happen.

That painting: there's my work.  There are  the editions in the many countries where my story's found readers who've, in turn, found me (not all; I apologize in advance to my Turkish fans, but I had no say in  what books were chosen, guys; this was all on the down-low).  The husband tells me that I actually did notice something was up because, months ago, I was looking for the Spanish edition and couldn't find it.  He made some excuse: the dog ate it . . . or maybe that was a cat . . . or a kid took it to school.  I finally broke down and bought another copy for myself before my original mysteriously turned up.  Come to find that he was sneaking books from my shelves this whole year and taking them down to Milwaukee, to the artist he'd chosen, Jeffrey Ripple. 

The original painting was supposed to be of my website, and then Jeff--whom I've not met but my husband says he's the nicest, most talented guy--tried sketches and prelims based on the first book.  And then, somehow, the painting morphed into what it is.

And there is one in-joke, something that only I and the husband would know.  Look closely at the left side of the painting, that edition, Les Cendres. 

Guys, that's French.  But there is no French edition.  (Why?  Qui sait?)  Yet there it is, with back jacket copy, in French (done by Jeff's girlfriend) and a picture of me from waaay back when the husband and I were still in our dating days.  Yeah, me, on a hike (natch) and in the Shenandoahs, with autumn leaves tucked in my hair and that blue flannel shirt.

And on the back is this:

Not written.  Painted.  You can't see them, but even the lines on the fake label are painted.  (And the sentiment--that, perhaps in some other multiverse, there is a French edition--is just so perfect, given what I'm writing now.)

So.  This is a birthday I will not forget, and a wonderfully romantic gesture from a man who understands and supports me, and whom I have loved and will love forever.

Even if he won't let me have four cats.

Requiem Of A Nightmare.

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There is a fever building inside of me. I can feel it building in my head, words rolling like an oncoming storm I can't run from. I force my eyes open to try to keep the flood of images assaulting my mind at bay to no avail. I don't want to see what I know is about to happen. I want to pretend that the words that have been penned down are forever and the end is just a nightmare I can't escape from.

The world of creativity is closing its once open doors to me until I give in to what the muses have thrown at me. I want to say no to them, but I know they are right. It is time to say goodbye to characters my heart holds so dearly. It is time to write their last words and imagine that once I am done their live will continue. I imagine grand-children and weddings. Car-wrecks and anniversarys. But not for me. For me it is time to part with my beloved friends. It is time I give them the freedom to run their own lives.

But it hurts. It hurts to say goodbye and end a story. I can see it so vividly though, the colors clashing violently with one another, the sounds that are fighting for dominion in my ears. I can feel the thick air of the last page trying to choke me with desperation and pleas for it not to be over.

It is a bittersweet romance with words I have found my self falling into. They caress my soul with the tenderest of touches, letting me know they are always their to comfort, and love me. But then towards the end of writing a novel the caress becomes a vice grip, a worry that I share. Is this about to be over? Must we say goodbye?

Someone once told me if you love something set it free. And maybe I am incredibly selfish but I find it ever so hard to do so. I want to crawl into the warm expanse of endless words and paragraphs and lay beneath the same sun my protagonist is seeing. But I don't. I am tell them this is the end. It is over for now.

Our entangled lives need to part so we can continue our journey. But an ache develops inside of my chest, how can I say it's over? How can I possibly bear to leave this magical world that holds such beauty?


I am not throwing our time together away, but rather cherishing the moments shared and knowing when to say goodbye. I will always love my characters and the adventures that brought us together whether it has been tears of laughter, rage or depression. We have made it through battles and fought together when the wind carried plot devices even I didn't realize was coming.

The nightmare is over, I have awakened and yet the requiem plays on. My journey with Voda has ended and through my tears I can somehow make out a new adventure resting just over the horizon.


LLAP,
Lexi Brady

See You at the Houston Book Rave!!!

Jordan Dane
@JordanDane



I am traveling to Houston TX today to attend the Houston Book Rave, a first year event featuring 60+ authors (including indie authors)—a celebration of reading and writing.  The extravaganza has been heavily promoted in a number of ways and is supported by a group of around 40 bloggers. We had a tweetfest last night and #HOUSTONBOOKRAVE trended with all the live chat. Tons of fun. Got to chat with bloggers and readers and the wonderful event coordinators.
 
The great thing about this is that it’s a first for such a large event in Houston, open to all types of writers, and free for readers. The energy off the coordinators and bloggers is GINORMOUS. So my fellow authors, put this one on your radar for next year if you aren’t going to be there this weekend. I’ve gotten tons of traffic to my website from this event from all over the country. It’s been amazing.
 
Here’s what’s happening:

Friday night is a dinner for HBR staff & bloggers to meet authors and each other, to socialize before the event over BBQ. What’s not to love, right?
 
Saturday there will be time for readers to meet their fav authors (without any signing going on), but a signing will follow.
 
Tons of giveaways during the event. Readers will be exposed to many new authors, authors will meet the bloggers (and vice-versa) who can be influential, and above all authors can meet READERS! This is a huge WIN-WIN-WIN.
 
I will have advance copies of CRYSTAL FIRE, my upcoming release of book #2 (which concludes the HUNTED series) in an exclusive for this event, thanks to my publisher HarlequinTeen. Some of these advance copies will be given away at the event. I’ll also be signing book #1 in the Hunted series – INDIGO AWAKENING.
 

 
There will be a costume after-party, with the theme Dia De Los Muertos, which is very appropriate since Nov 2 is the celebration of the Day of the Dead.
 
I will include HBR pictures from the event on my next post here at ADR3NALIN3. I am so excited. Have a good weekend, everyone! No chocolate comas.