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Romantic Writer - October 2006

To Fall Off The Writing Bicycle

"Your soup is ready, madam."
"My soup? I didn't order a soup. I ordered a cup of bloody tea."

So is this a hook? Does this entice you to want to read the beginning of a book?

I don't know anymore.

This is one Romantic Writer that is feeling the hurts and confusions of the writing world right about now.

The aches and pains, the bumps and bruises, are scraped raw and bleeding. It's almost like I've fallen off the writing bicycle, and I can't get back on. And if I do get on the damn bike, I don't know how to ride it anymore.

Considering I used to know how to ride an actual bicycle, then fell off and broke my wrist, and now cannot for the life of me learn to ride a bike again, this is pretty scary.


More than scary, it hurts.

I've had some wonderful people, complete strangers and new-found friends, give me some invaluable advice on my writing, in particular, my completed novel (I have two completes, and a million other partials).

Their advice has been priceless, and thorough, and completely right, and has opened my eyes to my mistakes, and how I can improve...

And, to be honest, I guess it has created a bump in my ride, and thrown me from my bicycle.

And I've hit the ground, face first, and in a mess.

I don't know why, when the advice I've received has been completely valid - I can even see what they mean. I know what I've done wrong, and what perhaps (or definately) needs fixing...

So why does it hurt so bad? Why am I lying on that bitumen, allowing myself to bleed?

I don't know. Maybe I'm just being dramatic (those that truly know me would agree, whole-heartedly, to this). Maybe I'm just wallowing, and I'll pick myself up soon.


But I am definately going through the stage where I wonder, after 3 long years on Betrayal, and even longer when you add up all the bits and pieces of partials, whether I can get back on that bike again. Whether this writing bicycle is really going to take me to that future I'd always envisioned...

Or whether I'm just pedaling madly, and yet going nowhere.

I'm saddened, almost to the point of a true, deep depression, at the notion of going 'I tried, and I failed. I am not cut out to be a writer.' Completely and utterly destroyed by that notion, that future.

And then, a tiny bit relieved. Oh, to have my life back! To not be stuck in this crazy, creative, mental world, where everything revolves around my characters, and what happens next. Everything is consumed by my story, by mail-outs, by rewriting (and, God, I hate rewriting!). Late nights, every night. Constantly pushing myself to write, write, write. Not a moment of peace, not a spare moment to myself, because those 'spare' moments are taken up by writing.

And then there's the question: Why am I writing? Who for? What for? Because I've got some stories in my head? Because of all the success I'm striving for, and this is the only talent I have?

Which leads me to my talent being questioned. Nobody has actually questioned it (I don't think, anyway), except myself. I'm questioning my talent. Am I really cut out for this? Do I have the raw talent to keep going? To be a writer?

I used to think yes. An unequivocal yes. Now...I'm not so sure.

The hurts of falling off the bike are making me question my talent, my ability. Making me wonder whether I've just wasted three long years of my life. Whether I want to risk getting up, and pedaling for another three years (or, God forbid, longer).

I don't know the answers. I guess, once I Dettol these scrapes and bruises and pick myself back up, I'll jump back on that writing bike. And see what happens, where the journey takes me.

For now, I'm going to lie on the bitumen, bleeding, and watch 'Grey's Anatomy.'

This Romantic Writer still needs her romance fix somehow.

If someone could just pass the Dettol...

Oh, and the pink champagne.






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October 30th 2006 @ 09:34

Posted By: K.L. Almeroth - Category: No Category
   


Betrayal: Somewhere In The Middle


For the fans out there (and the critics), here's an excerpt from somewhere in the middle of Betrayal.

Considering you've only read the prologue and the query pitch, you may need to know that Jeffrey is Kit's fiance, whom Corky (the hero) had recently caught cheating on our heroine.

And their full names are Kit Sawyer and Corky Wyatt (they use their surnames a lot, in their fiery conversations!).

That's all you probably need to know. Enjoy! And let me know what you think...


Kit had been trying to fall asleep for the past hour, the French doors to her balcony open to allow the soothing sound of the ocean crashing below to calm her.

It hadn’t been working.

Then the phone on her beside table rang. For a moment, she simply listened to it ring, wondering if it was Jeffrey.

Or Corky.

She didn’t want to speak to either of them.

Sighing, she finally reached over, picked up the receiver. She didn’t want to disturb Maria, after all. “Hello?”

“Is this Wyatt Paranormal Investigations?” a timid voice asked. Female. Scared.

Kit remembered the new printing of business cards, letter heads, advertising. All with Kit’s home number added to the list. God only knew why now, when it was near midnight and she was in bed. “Yes. Yes, it is. Kit Sawyer speaking. How can I help you?”

A crash sounded on the other end. “Please. Come quick. Something’s in my house.”

Kit pushed back the covers, sat upright. Jesus, at this rate, her business, or Corky’s business, would be back in action in no time. “What’s your address?” She printed the address on a bedside notepad in her neat scrawl. “Hang in there for half an hour. We’ll be there.”

She hung up. Pondered whether she could do this without Corky. Decided she couldn’t, and rang his cell phone.



Kit arrived first, as she was closer. She rang the doorbell, glancing around worriedly at the eerie night. There were no stars in sight, and the air was still and almost heavy. Full of pressure.

She involuntarily shivered. The world had seemed so much less frightening before she’d begun to believe in the supernatural.

Hadn’t it?
Or perhaps now it made more sense.

Either way, she’d never get used to this situation. Walking into a haunted house at midnight.

Corky arrived at that moment, as the front door swung open. He screeched his car to a halt, going up the curb as he did so.

“Are you…the detectives?” a small voice whispered.

Kit realized a couple were standing there, seeming somehow diminished by what they’d gone through. “Ah, yes. I’m Kit. And this,” she glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see him hurry across the front lawn. “This is Corky.”

He reached them, quickly shook the terrorized couple’s hands. Then met her eyes. And Kit realized in that beat that he was torn up over her.

She didn’t care, wouldn’t care, couldn’t care, if he was in shatters over her, when she’d just found out her fiancé was fucking around on her.

Except she did care about Corky. Wasn’t that the problem? She cared, but there was nothing either of them could do about it.

End of story.

Except it wasn’t, somehow. Would their story ever be done? Kit almost felt an odd knowledge that the two of them would never be done. They’d never be through with each other.

He finally pulled himself from the lure of her eyes, and faced the couple once again. “If you two would mind stepping outside? Even if you want to take my keys, sit in my car. Go for a drive. Go to a friend’s place. Just don’t be here right now.”

The man, around forty, but seeming older now in pure terror, stepped forward. “Will you…get rid of it?”

Corky nodded. “So far, I haven’t left one behind. I don’t plan on starting tonight.” He handed the man the keys. “Just go relax somewhere. We’ll take care of this.”

The couple seemed almost relieved to be out of their own house. They hurried down the steps, practically ran across the lawn to Corky’s car.

“Surprised you even called me,” Corky said as he entered the house, shutting the door behind them. Kit felt a sudden trapped feeling, as if he’d just closed the door to their tomb. And that was odd for her to make that analogy, since she loved nothing more than being in the tombs in Egypt. “After the way you left us at the bar this evening.”

The front door opened directly onto the lounge room, which was actually in a hexagon shape. Three archways led from the large room, all dark now. What lay beyond could not be seen. It was dark.

Kit stalked into the middle of the room. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she demanded, spinning round to face him.

He gave the ruined room a cursory glance, before moving close towards her. “What the fuck do you think it means, sweetheart?” he asked in a deadly voice. He didn’t like, one bit, that she was taking her anger out on him. When Jeffrey was the one betraying her.

A flurry of activity picked up on the other side of the room. Some stray newspapers, a few magazines. They began spinning in the air like mini tornados.

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking, idiot!”

Corky made a noise, shaking his head. “Don’t call me names, Sawyer. Unless you’re prepared for the consequences.”

She stood tall, as tall as she could against this man. “Don’t fucking act all huffy with me, Wyatt, when you’re the one who withheld what you knew last night. How could you do that? How could you fucking sit there all night, the way we were, and not tell me?”

More activity began to swirl around them. An empty glass, a couch cushion. The TV remote. Both were blind to it, however.

They only had eyes for each other.

Corky took a step towards her, towered over her. “I didn’t betray you, Kit. Your fuckwit of a fiancé did, so don’t drag me into it! Don’t take your anger at him out on me!”

“Oh, go fuck yourself, Wyatt!”

She turned to stalk away, and he grabbed her by the upper arm. “Don’t swear at me, little lady. Or you’ll soon see the consequences.”

“Is that your new word? Consequences. I don’t give a fuck what consequences you’re talking about! And I’ll swear at you as much as I fucking like!”

She struggled to free her arm, and he pulled her closer instead. “I could name a couple of consequences right here, woman. I could definitely name a couple, if you keep pushing me, little lady.”

“Don’t call me lady. Or little,” she hissed up at him.

“Why? You ain’t a lady? Yeah, anybody could tell that – ”

The slap took him by surprise. This little hell-cat was fast. “Jesus – ”
He was cut off again by the force of her hand again. “Your stupid-ass blondes might put up with your crap, Wyatt, but don’t try it on me. I won’t stand for it!”

Items were now wildly spinning around the two of them, enclosing them in a tight circle. Kit spotted the movement out the corner of her eye, and couldn’t be fussed with it. She was too busy spitting fire at Corky.

And Corky was too busy being aroused by her. “Oh?” he growled, furious and horny and excited and angry by her. “Will you put up with this instead?”

And he dragged her towards him, crushed her against his chest, and plunged into her mouth. Plundered her mouth.

His hands snaked up her back, under her shirt. His palm seemed to burn an imprint into her skin, he was so hot.

Or maybe it was her skin that was searing.

Corky walked her backwards towards the couch, his hands roaming all over her flaming skin, his mouth exploring her open one, both of them moaning. All the while, the room spun around them, the spirit angry or excited by their display.

Either way, neither was noticing. They were too busy with each other.

Through the haze of the intoxication of him, and his touch and smell and manliness, Kit became aware of the room swirling around them. Her heart leapt at the incredible knowledge of the supernatural being in the same room as them. “Corky,” she murmured against his mouth, as he continued to kiss her into insensibility. He’d pushed her against the couch now, and he was practically laying atop her, his hands cupping her full breasts. She groaned.

“Hmm?” All he could hear or feel was the roaring in his ears. His blood roaring, bubbling with excitement.

Kit had to swim to the surface, kicking and screaming, to get her wits about her again. She kissed him again, then broke the surface. “Cork. The room. The room.”

“Huh?” He was having trouble focusing. All he could see were her amazing ruby lips.

“The room.”

Finally, Corky dragged himself from the spell that was her. He surfaced himself, tore his eyes, and mouth, away from hers, and glanced around the room. “Shit. Got a live one here, darling.”

Kit shivered at his endearment, her hands still wrapped in the hair at the nape of his neck. Corky nuzzled into her for a second more, then reluctantly pulled himself away. It tore at his heart to do so, but leaving this ghost to do more damage would be too dangerous.

He stood, whipped out his Coptic ankh. Kit felt suddenly strange upon seeing it. “What’s…what’s that?” she asked, feeling her heart begin to clutch and spasm. It was bizarre, this intense emotion she was feeling at the sight of it. Part familiarity, part fear.

Corky, distracted by the objects narrowly missing his head, glanced down at her. Saw the distress in her face. “It’s my ankh. Normally it works to dispel spirits.”

“It’s Coptic.” She came to her feet, her hand unconsciously over her aching heart. Sudden flashes were crossing her vision. A sandstone room, an enormous bed, silk drapes everywhere…the smell of sand and water and the buzz of insects. Mosquitoes, perhaps.

“Yeah.” He began to ask how she knew, then stopped. She was an archaeologist, after all. Of course she knew the stone was Coptic Egyptian. “Kit, are you alright?”

No, she wasn’t alright. The flashes, or visions, were coming harder and faster now. Jeffrey. She could see Jeffrey, a glinting blade in his hand, his face deranged. He was coming towards her, the blade raised high and with deadly intent.

She screamed, in her current life, in the current moment, as the pain from the past sliced through her. Dug deep into her soul. Wrenched at her mind, her heart, her soul.

She saw herself raise her own weapon, a smaller knife, but one no less deadly than Jeffrey had wielded. She saw herself stab him in the belly, saw herself kill him as he had killed her. They both fell to the floor together, and as she died, as the life slipped out of her, she saw his blue eyes. His chilling blue eyes, both sad and murderous as they lay, mere inches from one another, both bleeding to death from mortal wounds inflicted by the other.

“Goodbye, my darling,” Jeffrey spoke, the language ancient. Coptic. “We’ll be together forever.”

And before her eyes closed for that final time, she glanced up at the Coptic stone hanging over her bed. Their bed.

The same Coptic ankh Corky now held in this life.

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October 29th 2006 @ 07:06

Posted By: K.L. Almeroth - Category: No Category
   


Betrayal: Short Query Pitch

The fabulous comments I've been receiving from my posting of Betrayal's Prologue led me to wonder what you all think of this...the short pitch I would place in my query letters to agents/editors/that old granny down the street I'd cornered.

For those non-literary types out there (which could include myself, if we really got down to it), a query is something us writers send out into the big, latte drinking world of editors, to try to entice them to look at our manuscript.

Or even just our synopsis, or first three chapters.

This is really only the tiny blurb to my book, not the entire query letter.

Let's see what you all think...


She’s rich. He’s close to bankruptcy.
She digs up the dead. He hunts their lingering spirits.
She now owns his paranormal investigation agency. He now owns her
heart.

Together, they must find the killer loose in their small town, and work out
why the ghosts long-dead don’t like this particular ruby-haired archaeologist.

Oh, and get her to the church on time for her wedding to another man –
one who is most definitely not a broke ghost hunter with his own hauntings to contend with.

Kit and Corky. Archaeologist and Ghost Hunter.

A match made in heaven…

Or no match at all for the dark forces currently at work in their lives…

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October 26th 2006 @ 14:11

Posted By: K.L. Almeroth - Category: No Category
   


Betrayal Prologue: Come and Get Me, Publishing House!

Okay. Here goes nothing...

I decided to post the Prologue to my much-hyped, much-talked-about, but thus far unpublished novel, Betrayal. For a couple of reasons


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October 24th 2006 @ 11:25

Posted By: K.L. Almeroth - Category: No Category
   


The Feminist Romance Writer...An Oxymoron?

Yes, I do consider myself somewhat of a feminist, even though my favourite thing to do is write romance novels.

Perhaps an oxymoron, but, then again, my heroines do kick some major ass (including the hero’s


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October 24th 2006 @ 09:58

Posted By: K.L. Almeroth - Category: No Category
   


How Many Rejections Before You Just Give Up?

It happened again. For about the 50th time.

I was rejected. My precious work was rejected. My beloved Kit (fiesty herione extrodanaire) was thrown back at me


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October 17th 2006 @ 02:52

Posted By: K.L. Almeroth - Category: No Category
   


If You Had One Year Left, Which Dream Would You Rush Out To Fulfill?

We've all gone through it..the 'My life is going nowhere.' 'I thought I'd be married with kids by now.' 'I thought I'd be, well, a lot better off financially by now.'

You thought you'd have the house, the 2.4 kids, the nest egg growing in the bank, the career you'd always lusted after


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October 8th 2006 @ 22:24

Posted By: K.L. Almeroth - Category: No Category
   


The Emotions of Not Being Published

Why do I cry each month, the first Thursday, of every month?

And, no, this is not where the male audience should tune out


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October 5th 2006 @ 04:23

Posted By: K.L. Almeroth - Category: No Category
   


Best Friend Love

Yes, I have a male best friend. Yes, it's a platonic relationship.

And, no, he's not gay


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October 3rd 2006 @ 10:01

Posted By: K.L. Almeroth - Category: No Category
   


Do You Need To Read To Be A Writer?

A question for the masses: Do you need to read, fiction or non-fiction, magazines or full novels, to be an exceptional writer?

Or just a writer, full stop


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October 2nd 2006 @ 09:02

Posted By: K.L. Almeroth - Category: No Category
   


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