Tumbling down the rabbit hole or beware of plot bunnies

Editing is a fact of an author's life, but usually we leave that horrible task to the experts. And let's face it someone who doesn't give a damn how much this and that adverb is loved. How much time was spent on that special phrase. The editor is THE EXECUTIONER! Their job is to go through and kill the stuff that doesn't work. Like downsizing a company, or making a chubby kid go on a diet when their fave food groups are FATS AND CARBS. Come on, it's their job. They're specially trained not to notice the screams of all those words going to their doom. *sniffles*

However, there are times when we must face facts, pull up our bootstraps and do the dreaded self edit. *insert screams of horror here* When something isn't working, when it's just not right. The story is too long or the pacing is off. I'm not expert by any means, but I've read enough books to know that if it takes too long for stuff to happen that I'll put it down. If I the A.D.D. Queen will do that, so will the average reader, and that's who I write for.

I'll say this, thank God--or at least Microsoft for the word processing program. Without it, this process would take much longer than it did for authors of the past. My respect for authors of the past is great, some wrote longhand, others took the typewriter route. While I've written down passages to put on the computer for later, but I'm not sure if I could write an entire book by hand. And from my high school days, I know very well that typewriters and myself don't get along at all.

So, back to the the drawing board yet again, or rather back to the cut and paste. But, it's all clicking together nicely now, finally after a breather and a bout of introspection that I had to do when life threw me one of it's little curve balls. However, with a little therapy from my cybersisters I'm getting into the swing of things again. Maybe I just needed a rest and refill. Let's hope so.

May All Your Holidays Be Bright!

Love Jenna

A wyvern, a succubus and a witch walk into a bar

It could happen in Vegas.. or in one of my books.


Lacey at Romance Junkies had this to say about The Last Legacy.

THE LAST LEGACY is a wonderful fantasy tale. This is my second review for Ms. Leigh and I must say her stories only get better. Ms. Leigh combines romance, adventure and humor beautifully in every story she creates, and always keeps the reader guessing what will happen next. Lilly is an intelligent character who didn’t necessarily ask for the life she’d been dealt, but she makes the best of it. I enjoyed the character Faelen as well, and his fervid attempts to get Lilly to notice him. I recommend THE LAST LEGACY to readers looking for a great fantasy.

To read the rest CLICK HERE!


Also, in other news. Tomorrow is the first installment of I Dream of Desi, which is my part of What Happens in DunVegas on Beyond The Veil

And also tomrrow night please,join me and JMorgan at Coffee Time's Exotic Loop for The Witching Hour where we'll share some ghost stories and talk a bit about our books at 6:30 Central.

I think that's all. For now anyway.

Whew!

Jenna

Still Goin Braless?

Five Ribbons!
Comical at times and full of passion, BRALESS IN THE BUICK is a rare novel that kept me up all night reading because I absolutely couldn’t put it down. I thoroughly enjoyed Ms. Leigh’s writing style as she told the story of Allie and Jake with precise definition, giving her characters life on the pages. From the meddling neighbors, to the secrets Mr. FBI kept, the story is full of surprises with an ending guaranteed to make you smile. A highly recommended must read for any lover of romance!

Thanks so much to Lacey at Romance Junkies!!

This just in: the great and powerful E leader of Champagne Books has given me a greenlight on Dateless in the Dodge, the sequel for Braless. And I didn't have to work Monday. Man, my week's just getting better and better. *looks down at the picture of Hugh* Yeah, it's all good.

Jenn

Tomorrow is Friday. So to celebrate..

Excerpt anyone?

“He’s been shot.” She fought the panic that threatened and slid to the floor, keeping her body well out of range of the windows. Tearing a long strip off her skirt, she frantically searched for Marcus’s wound in the dark confines of the car. Another shot rang out and glass sprayed in from the side window.
“Hold on.” The car swerved to one side as Mick fought to steer.
She tried to focus on Marcus lying so still but she couldn’t see a damn thing. The car swerved more sharply, throwing her across him. Her hand skidded across his shoulder and came away sticky with blood. Marcus groaned, but she was grateful she’d found the wound. She pressed the material against his shoulder but it soaked with blood too quickly for her peace of mind so she tore off more and applied that to the wound too.
“Hold on,” Mick said again. This time there was the scream of metal on metal and the car shuddered with the impact.
She looked out of the shattered window and a pair of glowing amber eyes stared right back at her. Someone in a large black SUV was trying to run them off the road. Without a thought, she hurled the water bottle at the moving car. She was shocked when it connected with the man’s forehead. She let out a triumphant whoop at the resultant thunk and muttered curse then took off her shoes and threw them too. One hit the doorframe and the other went through the other car’s window. She hoped she put someone’s eye out. Too bad she couldn’t get boomerang action with those babies.
Mick howled with laughter. He hit the accelerator and the limo leapt ahead of the large SUV.
“Here they come again,” she yelled.
This time they hit the limo dead-on. She clutched at Marcus when they began to slide down the steep incline. The car rolled over. It all seemed to happen in slow motion; Marcus’s weight pressed her against the ceiling then the floor. Metal shrieked and glass shattered. She didn’t have time to do anything but hold onto his body for dear life.
The car came to rest on its roof at the bottom of the ravine with Lainie trapped beneath Marcus’s unconscious form. Her head hurt but it was a miracle she was alive at all. She tried to get out from under him, but he had her pinned.
Lainie turned her head to one side to look out the one remaining window. The moon was almost full, she thought idly, and then wondered if she had a concussion because of what else she saw.
A shadow, large and looming, and coming closer.
A growl came from the other side of the car. She froze.
Maybe she was hallucinating. Yeah, she hoped so. Or dreaming. Or—
A large furred paw stepped into her line of sight.
“Holy shit!” she hissed and increased her struggles to get out from under Marcus.
Outside of the car, clearly visible on the stark red rocks were big furry creatures like the one in her nightmare. And, she recalled with sudden vivid clarity, like the one that took Jade. One of them was a wolf, but the rest were something in between. Werewolves had stepped out of the myths and legends to scare the hell out of her. They stood on two legs, and there was growling, lots of it. The car rocked back and forth and more of the furred feet appeared on the side closest to her and Marcus.
“Damn,” a deep, gravelly voice said from above her line of sight. “The gas tank’s busted.”
One of the werewolves leaned down to peer at her. His large furred head filled the window.
She blinked rapidly, thinking if she did it enough, he’d disappear.
“Hi there, sweetie, I think it’s time to blow this pop stand.” Despite the deepness of his voice, it held a southern drawl and sounded faintly familiar. She squeaked when a pair of black-furred hands tipped with some seriously gnarly claws reached into the window and grabbed her by the shoulders. He ignored her frantic protests, pulled her out and set her on her feet.
She stared up into his bright amber eyes and swallowed hard. Easily two feet taller than she and heavily muscled, he was one monstrous wolf dude. He snarled, showing off a set of long ivory fangs. Fangs? Shit fire and save the matches! This was worse than any horror movie she’d watched from between her fingers. He was broad and big, and if she wasn’t mistaken, leering at her. Ew!
“I’ll be damned.” He leaned down for a closer look, then a surreptitious sniff. “It’s Lainie!” This was met with a few chuckles from the other big wolf, men, er, things.
“This ain’t old home week, dude. Get Marcus out before the car blows up.” The big silver werewolf shoved them aside and Lainie took in the reverent way he lifted Marcus out of the wreckage. “When we find out who the fuck did this shit, they’re gonna pay.” Silver wolf snarled, showing some impressive fangs of his own. Nice dental plan.
“What are you?” She tried and failed to keep the quiver of fear out of her voice.
“Wolves, sweetie,” the black one answered, squeezing her arm gently. “Well, right now, Wolfkin, except for the throwback over there.” He indicated the lone “wolf” of the bunch. That was to say the one that looked like an actual wolf, if you discounted his size and the weirdly knowing yellow eyes that stared out of his silver-furred face.
She stood frozen with shock while they stripped Marcus out of the shirt and jacket she’d thought he’d looked so handsome in earlier. As the moon struck his bare flesh, she was horrified to see fur growing out of his smooth skin. He moaned and his mouth opened to reveal fangs growing longer before her very eyes. Marcus was one of them? A sense of betrayal made her blood boil, unfreezing her paralyzed muscles.
Mick came around the side of the car and Lainie waited for him to shoot these freaks of nature. Instead, he lowered his head in a sign of submission and whined. Low, menacing growls reverberated from deep within the silver one’s chest. Somebody was in trouble, and she had a niggling suspicion that it might be her.
With that thought screaming through her head, she did what any woman with more than two brain cells to rub together would do in her situation. She rammed her elbow into fur boy’s belly, lifted the hem of her tattered skirts and ran like hell. If she wasn’t so scared, she might have laughed at the comment she heard from the black Wolfkin.
“Dammit all to hell. Why do they always run?”
Was he serious? She didn’t stick around to find out, just poured on the speed, attempting to distance herself from the nightmare her life had just become.

So.. Killed Anybody Lately?

Thanks to the ladies on Angela Knight's loop for making me think.. who have I killed and why? Of course, I went skipping down my own personal Psychopath, which is paved with purple bricks. But hey, the scenery's always nice, just watch for potholes, quicksand and falling chunks of chocolate.

There's violence in The Wolf's Heart and in The Last Legacy, more in the former than the latter. People die and um.. I enjoyed killing them. A. Lot. Let me say now, I'm not a potential serial killing freak. Of course, I'd say that even if I were so, I'll give you reasons.

Jenn's a Cereal Mom/Not a Serial One

Or

I'm Only Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, yall.

1) I'm one of the most disorganized people in the whole world. Lists? Ha! I laugh at lists as I lose them in my black hole of a purse!
2) I'm lazy, and all that raising and lowering my arm constitutes exercise.
3) Dead people = Potential zombies. Ew! Brains brains.. acck! OMG!
4) Grudges? I don't need no stinking grudges. Honestly, I just forget crap easily. Who are you?
5) Can't be a tower sniper. Heights are not my friend. Yikes!
6) Hate the sight of other people's blood. Plus there's that germ thing.
7) They don't let you have butter in jail. I live in the Butter Belt.
8) My husband would be stuck with the evil child and cat. *pauses* That's might not be such a bad thing.
9) Most of the people in my area are kinfolk and therefore meaner than me and if not, their mothers most certainly are.

The final and most important reason..
10)My mother lives close enough to cut a switch and be at my house in 20 minutes.


Glad that's out of the way. I'm just garden variety crazy, not insane. So, does writing violence mean I'm a violent person? Nah. I wouldn't hurt someone. In fact, I couldn't do it the way I wrote in my books. I'm not a 7ft tall werewolf, a vamp or a witch. I can't cast spells, rip off limbs or any of the things I've written, but I can imagine it. I can see it being done. I can feel the power flowing through that character, I can for one moment, on that page, in that paragraph become that man or that woman who've come to kick ass and chew bubble gum. Of course, they're all out of bubble gum so we all know what happens then.

So who did I kill? That's a secret I'll take to my grave. In Wolf's Heart you may think you've figured it out, but it's just rage against the proverbial machine that needed an outlet. Ripping off arms, legs and well.. you'll have to buy the book for all the gory details. If you're thinking it's just a funny book like Braless or Spellfire, it's not. The heart of a wolf is dark and hungry, so be warned.

In The Last Legacy it isn't so obvious who my real victim is. And though some might think Lilly's mama is mine. She's so not.. the only real similarities between the two would be their neatness. My own mother would never repress my dreams. However, there is a point where I could see my mama's tendencies in each of the female characters. They all got into the action at some point, because I refused to let Faelen save the day, entirely. Women can be defenders and champions too.

Creativity is a chaotic process, beautiful yet at the same time, wonderfully terrifying and yes, violent, a lot like birth. There's a reason people use drugs to help with both of these. But with the results of creative births, we make the choice, buy it or leave it on the shelf. Read it or not. Personally, I'm okay with violence as long as it stays safely in books, TV shows, movies and yeah even rap songs.


I do think that writing violence helps me with my every day frustrations with my fellow ass.. um.. humans. After a particularly bloody scene I can smile and pretend to be a nice person. I'm not all that mean anyway, but still it helps me attain that southern belle sweetness that for so long eluded me. Yall know, that phony public face nobody really believes but helps you make it through the day without being fired from the Sucky Day Job. *meh*


The Fake Sweet Southern Belle Known As,

Jennda

I Write Corrected

Hard as it is to admit, I need mondo editing. Yeah yeah yeah, I know very well I'm not perfect. But when you write a character, flawed as they are, you want to think they are. I know that sounds weird, but it's true. I don't want a character who never makes a mistake, how boring, how icky. I'd hate him or her and would want to kill them by the second page if you must know. Villains are the only perfect characters, and they are the only ones who see themselves as such because they're crazier than a cracker jack.

**Author Note: Hey now, I know I'm nuts! But I also know I'm not perfect, I'm just the regular garden variety sort of crazy, not that take over the world kind. Let's call me lazy crazy, okay? This means, I won't take over the world, but if someone hands it to me, I'll say, "Thank yall!" and make Hugh Jackman my pool boy. Lazy crazy like a fox in other words *drool*

Fantasies of unlikely world and even unlikelier hunky Aussie domination aside, it's bad enough writing the stupid sucksnotsissy (yuckamundo). Then you have to get your courage up to submit the darned thing. After that, you wait.. and wait.. and wait.. and finally just when you think they hate it. They. Say. Yes! And all is right with the world. Birds sing. Flowers bloom. Author squeals in happy delight. Life is a wonderful thing. Chocolate pales beside being accepted. Wait a dang minute, let's not go too far. Hmm.

Then horror of horrors, you get a file marked edits. You open it and discover that you may very well suck some serious eggs. Now, I'm not talking terrible, not really. But when it's your work, it seems like it. This creation that you slaved over for an eternity, polishing, honing, fixing this world you lived inside, with people you know better than you know some of your own family members--and better than I want to know some of mine--is being criticized by someone who is logical, critical and objective. Hooray for the readers!! Boohoo for your ego. *sniffles*

For a long time I belonged to a group where we jokingly (or not so, in my case) called author Sheri Kenyon the AG--Author Goddess. Now that I write something other than a post or two, I understand that better. She is a goddess because what she writes is divine, however, she also creates a world that's hers alone, though she's gracious enough to share it with so many in that fanfic group.

I've finally figured out that I too I make a world where my characters live. I'm not divine in any sense of the word, or if I am, I'm more along the lines of a Bitch Goddess Supreme, needy, crazy, and er.. a bit sadistic. I'll strip whole scenes and replace them at a minute's notice. I put my characters in the worse scenarios, snickering with glee as I go for the laugh almost every time. I'm the Jokester, the Prankster, the Trickster from Hell. I don't care who knows it either. It's my nature to do what I want, when I want.

But show me edits and I instantly regress to a second grader with my most scary teacher ever. I cringe at the sight of red marks. I quail at all the highlighted words that mean I'm a repeat offender, using the same words again and again. Don't get me started on the comment balloons. I've gone from Bitch Goddess to a postulant in two seconds flat, that's gotta be a record, right?

However, there's something to be learned from all this, besides a lesson in humility, grammar and dear Lord in Literary Heaven, save me from freakin tags please! Never underestimate your editors. They'll keep you from looking like a complete and utter goober. Look at my blog for instance. Nobody edits this thing but me and it shows.

My publisher once joked that I should worship my editor as she saves my ass from the fires of error hell.. I snickered and told her I'd be properly respectful. But what she said is true. They catch stupid mistakes. I'm a writer, not an editor. Creation is a chaotic event. I love my characters which is how it's supposed to be, if I didn't love them, the reader wouldn't either. But as we all know love is a very messy business and editors get the unenviable job of cleaning up an author's work. Artistic temperament anyone?

I don't whine, (out loud) my mouth is too full of therapeutic chocolate to do something so childish. But with all those red pen marks all over the place it makes me feel like I got an F on my report card. I expect my mother to come in at any minute and take away my television as punishment.

So, salute your editor.. worship them Set up altars, eat chocolate in their names. Whatever gets you through the process of doing exactly what they tell you to do. Because they know what they're doing. In the immortal words of my mommy. "This hurts me more than it hurts you, dear. " I highly doubt that, but I'm using that phrase and hella coffee to get through it all. Ohmmm.

Blue Bayou Babe,

Jenna

PS: Yes, the picture of Hugh is there to cheer me up, and yes, it is working.

Obsessive MS Polishing Disorder

Hi I'm Jenna Leigh and I have OMSPD. If you've never heard of it, don't worry.. I just made it up.. at least, I think so. For all I know this is a real disorder complete with its own support group, treatment program and medication. And here I am self-medicating with chocolate and while I deluge my poor friends with panicked IM's asking them. "Do you really really like it? Are you sure? Are you really, I mean really totally really sure you liked it?" Five minutes later. "Really really?" Five seconds later. "When you say really do you mean really or really really?" I'm sure they're ready to move away without leaving a forwarding address and put me on the FBI Most Stalkery List. (again)

What brought on this bout of self doubt and overindulgence in my most favoritist sweet in the whole world? *scuffs toe* I've turned in the final edits on one of my manuscripts. When I do that I get the freak out shakes. Between me and my editor the Sainted One Who Hasn't Killed Me (yet) we've hammered out all the POV switches, bad tags, icky grammar, Communication to Mars (I blame ET) and some parts that just did NOT work. It doesn't take very long for me to figure out that I need editing. What I want to know is how come I can't have an editor for real life? I'd love one!

Sans editor.
Hubby: "Honey, does this shirt look ok?"
Me: "EW!"
Hubby: "What do you mean ew?" Looks hurt and doesn't speak to me for the rest of the day.

With editor.
Hubby. "Honey, does this shirt look ok?"
Me: "EW!"
Hubby. "What do you mean ew?" Looks hurt..
Me. "Um, there's a spot on it." Comes up and sticks her greasy fingers on it while he's not looking.

See? Editing thing is gooood! My problem is finding someone small enough to fit in my ear though. Hmm..


Back to my manuscript. Now that I've turned it in, I'm forcing myself not to look at it again for fear that I'll find a million mistakes and go batty. I know I will.. I'll see this teeny thing that will blare out at me. It'll be Sainted One? On page 20.. then the next day. Um.. er.. page 92.. Then next week, if it ain't too much trouble, can we change this? Until I get a ticking package in the mail.

I know the score.. so I'll sit here not lookin.. no, not me. Not gonna look. Arrgh! I gotta go look! But nobody saw anything! Ok?


If you're crazy and you know it type your name,

Jenna Leigh