Category Archives: Writing

One Year Later

I remember exactly where I was a year ago. Feeling a little sad, staying late at work just in case someone needed something. What could make me feel better, I thought. Well, why don’t I publish a book?

Royally Screwed had been sitting on my computer, finished, for at least 3 months. I just hadn’t had the nerve to put it out there. All it needed was twenty minutes of formatting and it could be out there for the world to see. What else did I have to do.

And now, one year later, I’ve sold over 4000 copies. Over 30 reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. Readers saying they liked the sarcasm and witty banter and strong characters.

Praise and pride turned into productivity. I’ve finished another book (Pucker Up – hopefully released sometime this month) and felt inspired to pick up a few other unfinished manuscripts littering my hard drive. I’ve felt inspired again – about my ability, my ideas, my words. I’ve felt support from people I know and people I’ve never even met. And accomplished so much more than I ever even thought possible.

I like to joke that my dream job is sitting in pajamas all day writing books. Maybe its not so funny anymore. Maybe it’s something that I can actually reach one day. Watching my royalties slowly add up makes me think it could be possible and long as I keep taking risks and writing words and soldiering on.

One year later I sit here editing Pucker Up, working on the cover design, and realizing that dreams really can come true.

Prologue?

You always hear (well, I always hear) that one should avoid the prologue like one avoids the plague. They are lazy, they are info dumps, they basically have no purpose – just start the story at Chapter 1 people. This is, usually, the way that conversation goes.

So I was quite surprised when one of the best suggestions on the developmental edit of Pucker Up was Add A Prologue. Do people still DO that? I wondered.

They do, it seems. And this was a load off of my mind. I’d tossed aside the idea of a prologue early on even though it would have been helpful. This novel is about two people finding each other again, revisiting an old relationship from a decade ago. Providing insight or intrigue to grab the reader right off the bat would help. What I came up with works perfectly as a prologue because it sets up a huge premise of the novel eight years before the rest of it even takes place. You don’t quite know what’s going on but you know it’s all important.

And since I was so happy to have written one, I’ve decided to share it. Just like the lyrics of Pucker Up, here’s a Valerie Seimas Sneak Peak.

Prologue – Eight Years Ago

Dustin slowed at the top of the stairs, staring at the open door in trepidation. He was not equipped to deal with this – what twenty-three year old guy was? Another clap of thunder sounded and he heard the floor creak as someone moved across it. He squared his shoulders, summoned all of his courage, and pushed the door wide open.

Two small faces with wide eyes stared back at him, framed by two sets of pigtails, one blonde, one brown. Lightening slashed across the sky and the girls squeaked and hugged each other closer.

“It’s okay,” Dustin said. He tried to smile reassuringly but his face wouldn’t go, settling into a grimace they frowned at. “It’s just a storm. Nothing to worry about.”

“It’s louder than at home,” Harmony said, her bottom lip quivering.

“She means the old apartment,” Melody clarified, her eyes looking at the floor.

“I know,” he whispered, not sure if they even heard. This was new for them, for him, for Peter downstairs.

“Will you tell us a story?” Harmony asked, earnestness shining out of her nine year old face.

“A story?”

“Mom always told us a story when we couldn’t sleep.”

“He doesn’t know any stories,” Melody admonished, trying to radiate authority.

“Peter – I mean Dad – he knows some good stories. Can you get him?”

“I know stories,” Dustin gulped. He knew stories – couldn’t think of any remotely appropriate to tell little girls but he knew there had to be one. Hell, if Peter could do it, he could definitely do it. He was the smarter twin anyway.

“Really?” Harmony’s face brightened into a wide grin and his heart was lost. How could he take away her simple joy?

“Really?” Melody’s reply was much more disbelieving. She lifted her eyes and he saw the need behind her skepticism, trying to be brave.

“Yes, really.” He sat in the chair across the room and turned to his attentive audience. “So there’s this ninja –”

“No,” Harmony said with a shake of her head.

“Zombie?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Army Ranger?”

“Nope.”

“Football Player?”

“As if.”

“You, my dear, are hugely opinionated,” Dustin grumbled as he smiled on the inside.

“Yep!” Her eyes sparkled with impish glee. Him and Peter were going to be in so much trouble.

“So what, you only like sparkly girl stuff?”

“A story about zombies is not going to help us get to sleep,” Melody said with an eye roll. “We want to have sweet dreams.”

“Tell us something with a happy ending,” Harmony demanded. Shit, what did he know about happy endings? His mind flittered to another night, another storm, watching the love of his life leave. They’d been so close, just a breath away.

“Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “Once upon a time –”

“What’s this story called?” Harmony asked, sitting up in bed.

“You need a title now?”

“Yep,” she said, hugging her stuffed rabbit closer. “All the real bedtime stories have titles. This is a real bedtime story, right?”

A title popped up, from where he didn’t know, but he couldn’t tell them. Pucker Up wasn’t at all an appropriate name for a children’s story. It wouldn’t make much sense to them; not knowing the heroine sang that song, one of the Attitunes girls. How he used to whisper those words to her meaning so many different things – I need you, I miss you, I love you. How just thinking them had him wanting the taste of her on his lips. Two years wasn’t long enough to quiet his yearning.

“A title,” he murmured, “a title . . . . okay this story is called . . . Ally and the Truly Remarkable Happily Ever After.” He couldn’t tell them her real name.

“That’s definitely gonna have a happy ending,” Harmony whispered to her sister with a grin.

“Sounds like it,” she responded, her head cocked to the side as she contemplated Dustin.

“Absolutely,” he whispered back. He hadn’t gotten his happy ending in real life but he’d find one in fiction – one that would bring some smiles back to the little girls’ faces even for just a moment. So they could keep believing that things turned out for the best, even in the face of so much proof to the contrary.

“Once upon a time,” he began again, “a long time ago, a girl with curly red hair decided she was going to take a vacation . . .”

First the Worst . . .

This is my first blog post. That is probably not a big revelation. It’s quite clear from all the blank space that there’s nowhere to go but up.

I have been staring at this blank space a lot lately. What do I want to say? First impressions are important, right? That’s what people tell me as I set up dating profiles and have meetings at work – best foot forward and all that. So what do I say here that will do everything I want it to do – inspire, entertain, inform, engage? (This is about the time when I decide this is too daunting and go have a snack.)

But in the grand scheme of things, this first step isn’t really as important as we make it out to be. I can’t remember my first day of work, only the first moment I felt like I was doing a good job. Not the first meal I ever ate, only the first time it was exceptional. Can’t remember the first words I ever wrote, only the first ones I wrote that were exquisite.

So firsts are important, but only as you’re approaching them. When they’re behind you in the rearview mirror, they aren’t nearly as nerve-wracking. Because first steps done right aren’t the only steps, just the beginning of a bigger journey. If I reach all the goals I set out for myself, my first blog post will be a tiny drop of water in a sea of swirling words – something you won’t have any need or want to untangle from the beautiful mess it’s making. As long as I keep writing.

So, who am I? I’m Valerie – the girl that writes romantic comedies because life should always have laughter. That used to have a blog called Pancakes and Prose but then pancakes broke up with her and prose got a little lost along the way. That has really crazy dreams if she doesn’t have a creative outlet. That loves to write because it gives her control over her reality. And that one day hopes to inspire . . . everyone.

Jeans Can Do That To You (or How I Changed My Own Mind)

It all started with a pair of jeans.

I am a firm believer in the power of a good pair of jeans. The whole reason we have a jeans day at my office is because I campaigned for it – wearing jeans (and my cowboy boots of course) makes me feel comfortable and empowered. I am more productive and do a better job when I feel this way, when I don’t have to wear dress slacks and high heels. A great pair of jeans is transformative, transcendent. And this pair of jeans . . . sucked.

I bought them out of necessity – my old pair of jeans had sprung a leak (another that sucked but in a completely different way) – because I was not going to miss another day at work without the cowboy luxury. But the store where I bought jeans for big girls had decided that their extraordinary way of sizing jeans for the way women are actually built was too blasé. So they went back to pretending that girls that have junk in the trunk are built just like twiggy models but with evenly spaced padding. I walked out in a panic – literally none of the jeans there fit.

I ended up at another store and found success – but only the kind of success that exists in dressing rooms after you’ve been shopping for hours (and HATE shopping) and it falls into the “good enough to leave and go get some water, Damn it’s hot today” category. Standing still in front of a mirror – they’ll do. Wearing them out of the house – recipe for a disaster of reality that all fantasy clothes generally fail. I felt like a girl without a country (seriously, THIS is how much I love a good pair of jeans – crazy, right?).

In the midst of my denim inspired crisis my friend sent me a link to a blog – The Militant Baker. I was sitting in a drive-thru, feeling sorry for myself, thinking “yeah, just what I need – a Baking Blog” but figured I’d check it out anyway. At least the pictures would be pretty even if I couldn’t eat anything on there. Never have I been so wrong in my life. Because the Militant Baker is not about macaroons (though they have that too) but is instead about loving yourself – ALL of yourself – no matter what others (clothing companies, misinformed internet trolls, the voices inside your head) tell you.

So after spending hours reading the posts (and deciding that I wanted to be the published author version of Jes, which may just be both the truest and most unrealistic thing I’ve ever wanted), reading the comments, and following tangents to tons of blogs/sites that she links to – I sat down and thought about everything that I had read. Really thought about it. And what I came up with kind of shocked me.

I don’t have any memories of being “small” – in fact, the last time someone actually called me that might have been the day I came out premature eleven minutes ahead of my brother. I was the Peanut, he was the Pumpkin. I joke with my mother that she never should have fed my brother twice and missed me when we were babies – it’s all her fault really. My whole family – literally almost my Whole family – have been big people. And the whole entire time it’s also been a huge source of shame.

But I never understood that. When I think about my childhood I don’t remember bullies or people picking on me because of it (maybe they did and I just blocked it out) – I remember a girl who was more or less fearless. I stood up for my friend who was being ostracized for no reason. I didn’t let a crazy classmate intimidate me into failing a project. I never backed down when I was being treated unfairly. And all this I did with a little extra girth.

And now, all grown-up, with my family of big people discovering weight-loss “cures” and slimming secrets, they seem to think that I want that too. They look at me with judgment – even if they don’t notice it – like they understand what it’s like to live my life and can compel me to a smaller size with a stare. I’ve always wanted to respond with an eye roll, with a swear word, with a shrug of the shoulders but never could – and now I know why.

Because I hid it too well.

The fact that I could care less how much I weigh – that the only reason I care is because the other people look at me like I should. I’ve never been ecstatic about the way I look but I’ve always been comfortable with it. I don’t shy aware from my reflection in a mirror except on the very blackest of days. Sure I might want to be thin. I also want to be a millionaire, be able to eat pancakes again, and have a private jet that would take me wherever I want to go without having to actually “fly” there (so basically a teleporter, yes). Everyone wants things they know are unreachable – it’s part of what makes us human. The important part that most people overlook is that you shouldn’t organize your life so you need them to be happy.

I am never going to be a small girl – and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

I need to stop treating my body like it’s horrible – it’s not, it’s strong and capable and wondrous – and not buying anything nice or cute because I’m not supposed to like the way I look – I do, every day I find something I like about me and wonder why everyone else can’t see the amazingness that is me. I need to appreciate it and treat it well and let it LOOK nice. I need to stop dressing myself in “anything I find that fits” and start dressing like I feel on the inside. Inside Me has become a kick-ass secret that Outside Me has been trying to hide for decades.

I’ve always had an “I don’t really care” attitude that’s mostly been born of fear. So many words and images and ideas no one even thought I was paying attention to have shaped me into thinking that the way that I am is somehow flawed. Not bad exactly just not where we should be. What’s the point of spending time in the morning putting on make-up and doing my hair – it’s just going to look Eh anyway. So I didn’t try – literally didn’t expend any effort. And since I got the reaction I was expecting, I didn’t think anything of it and coasted on by, doing just enough to be a hair above nothing at all.

“People shouldn’t like me based on what I look like on the outside anyway,” I’d say to myself. But I didn’t like the outside either – all my clothes look the same and boring and say “here’s a girl that doesn’t care.” But that’s not who I am. That’s not the statement I want me or my clothes to make at all. I want them to say “here’s a girl that cares about everything.”

Because I want to be beautiful and happy and, most of all, simply enough.

But the problem was I was taking all the cues on whether I was these things from the wrong places – from others, from the outside, from strangers I saw in crowds. Maybe it was a byproduct of my lifelong dream – published author. It’s a life lived in perpetual conversation – reviews and rejection are par for the course and art is something that is always asking to be judged, for people to have an opinion on. To move forward I had to harden, buck up, learn not to take things so personally. Part of me needed to be safe from criticism while the other part needed to learn to accept comments on things I felt were my very identity, look at them objectively, and listen. The goal can be achieved singularly (I am a published author) but the meaning of it, the reason why I want to be one (to entertain and maybe touch people’s lives, let my words and story find a kindred soul in which to rest) – that requires the others and the outside and maybe even strangers in a crowd.

Yes, everyone might have an opinion, but right now, today, no one else is allowed an opinion that matters. The only opinion that matters is mine.

I think I need to go shopping . . .

Brave

Sara Bareilles has a new single out – Brave. I really like it. I like the music, I like the message, I even like the lyrics video. And even though I’m no longer a child and the message may not be meant for me, it did touch me. So here’s a poem (something I’m not good at At All) that it inspired.

Sigh

You haven’t shown any interest
Probably because I’m no good at this
Snatching attention for my wobbly projection
Of a girl that knows what’s written on her heart.

But the unrest has taken hold
Spurning me to do things untold
And writing this letter, though I should know much better
Seemed like the only coward’s way to start.

Starched collar and bright tie,
Impressive figure you cut as you walk by.
You’re much too professional, I too conversational
And words, spoken or typed, just keep spilling into the divide.

There may be a spark, an unnoticed portent
But eyes stay blind and demeanors diffident.
I see all the potential, a sad referential,
And the chasm, though not insurmountable, just seems too wide.

A question asked and summarily answered,
Information garnered and the meaning unheard.
But always circling, spinning and reeling,
Two feet never able to find solid ground.

Because it all seems a game,
Too teasing and jovial for this level of shame.
You don’t hear me, can never reach me.
I am but a possibility, no assurance of being found.

So I sit and I write,
Share my secret unwillingly on an offhand flight
Of fancy and melancholy and blue, uncalculated folly
Yearning for something to break free and light within.

All of it is but ruminations in my head,
Thoughts and feelings that shout but are left unsaid.
Only me full of dreams, preposterously harebrained schemes,
Wondering at what might have been.

The Fear

Why is it so hard to admit to what I want – to myself and others?

I’m trying to be more honest – answer the phone when it rings and don’t pretend that you can’t hear it, don’t tell yourself you’re going to the gym if you know there’s no chance in hell you’re waking up in the morning – but it’s hard. Because the more honest I am with myself, the more I realize how crazy I just might be. And crazy? Crazy doesn’t really get the happy endings. They get insane stories and weird looks and entertaining conversations. But happy endings? Nowhere in sight.

I could list a lot of random, crazy things that people don’t know about me (and was considering it) but that wouldn’t get me any closer to the point I was trying to make, would it? So instead, a list of scarily honest things that you don’t know about me.

Sometimes I worry that I may actually be the evil twin.
It worries me – and shakes my confidence – that no one knows anyone they could set me up with. Sure, I don’t know anyone, but the collective of my friends, really? How bad is that.
What if my writing really isn’t good enough? Or worse, it’s good enough to be exactly what it is – a book good enough to be downloaded for free but never purchased by anyone I didn’t have to cajole. What if this is exactly where my writing is supposed to be?
What if I have too much faith, so much that I completely miss the lifeboat come to “save” me?
I love to read but don’t do it often because I worry that I’ll get lost, swallowed whole by the words of others and never find my way out again.
I could have never written my first book without pancakes. And now that I can’t have pancakes, will any book I write ever be that good again? What if gluten IS the secret ingredient to greatness. I mean, come on, that’s what beer is made of.
Some people don’t get the happy ending. Maybe I’m the sidekick in my own life and I don’t get one either. Not everyone does.
What if the life I have now is exactly the one I’m meant to have and I’ll just be mildly unfulfilled, restless, and unhappy . . . forever?

Life is full of worry and fear and hard truths. We try to ignore them most of the time – package them away in the attic so we can’t see them, thinking that out of sight can truly mean out of mind. But that’s not the way life works. Sometimes bad things happen, sometimes horrible things are true, sometimes life is nothing like you wish for it to be.

What do we do then? Keep on wishing or find something else to search for?

February 14th

Valentine’s Day is here! Yeah!! . . . .

Such sentiments are why we need a sarcasm font (which I have decided inventing and getting adopted needs to be my new goal in life). I could list a lot of reasons why a sarcasm font is needed here.

Valentine’s Day is a totally made up holiday. It’s named after a Saint that went to jail – how romantic.
I heard a commercial that said “tired of the traditional dinner and a movie date.” Does everything have to be extravagant nowadays?
Should we really reserve one day a year for telling people how much we care about them? That flies against the all the “seize the day” logic the Internet is famous for.
Chocolate is NOT to be regulated to one day a year. Period.

And by now you might be thinking “You just hate Valentine’s Day because you’re single.” Both of those things are true, yes, but I’m not sure they’re exclusive.

I remember being in college and wearing a bright red shirt and walking about telling everyone to have a happy “VAL-entine’s Day” (get it? cause my name is Val? Get it? Oh, I crack myself up!) and smiling all the time. Then I was putting on a brave front; I wanted to be in a relationship. Valentine’s Day made me sad.

Don’t get me wrong, I still want that – though growing up means less drama to go along with it. I don’t feel like my world is ending because there’s no one to buy me dinner. I can buy my own damn dinner – and often do (I’m kick-ass company if you must know).

No, this year I just wish it wasn’t so hard. I have great family and friends, don’t get me wrong, I just wish sometimes I wasn’t the one that had the burden of the effort. I wish I wasn’t the one who always had to remember – scheduling, emailing, texting, facebooking, etc, etc, etc. For one day I’d like to be the person who hears “Just wanted to tell you I was thinking about you – hope you’re doing awesome!” I want to be the person that gets emails instead of sends them. I want to know that I crossed someone’s mind.

That’s why Valentine’s Day – no matter how overpriced, cloyingly sweet, and stunted – still has hold of people. Because the dinners and flowers and jewelry – what they’re really saying is “I Care.” And that’s something everyone needs to hear every once and awhile. Everyone.

The Blog is Back In Town

I don’t believe in New Year’s Resolutions. I mean, I do them – every year I write myself a long letter (at varying degrees of soberness), seal it, and lock it away until I read it a year later (at varying degrees of drunkenness) to have a laugh.

But rarely do I follow them because they set you up for failure. I have to keep them for 12 Whole Months – that just seems doomed. So instead this year I gave myself a month off – January – to see what I wanted to do, what I could do. It’s much less pressure to think that I could stick to something for 92% of the year instead of 100%. That’s all still an A, right?

So, without further ado, here are the things I want to get done in the next 92% of 2013:

Stop eating fast food – STAT
No more gluten – lots of different types of flour to cook with
Writing in this blog – once every two weeks is the plan
No Procrastinating! (the only reason this made the cut is because I’ve actually been able to do it for the last month – I never saw this one coming)
Learn social media marketing
Keep writing – self-publish two books this year (one is already written but one needs to be decided on, stat)
Clean my house – I really, REALLY, need to start putting things away.
Be Happy! (This one is harder – but may be the most important.)

So world, this is my plan for the next 92% of 2013. I know a lot of people who have had quite a rotten January so far (the dreadful 8%) but buck up – that’s not even enough to turn an A year into a B, maybe an A- but hey, no one pays attention to the signs anyway. 🙂

Free is Fabulous!

750 copies of my book have been downloaded today!

Okay, so based on numbers that I’ve heard, these aren’t the best numbers around. BUT with minimal advertising and only 3 reviews on Amazon, my little book that could has moved up to #33 in the Free section of Contemporary Fiction and #92 on Contemporary Romance – those aren’t easy categories people. At one point today my 285 downloads DOUBLED in 90 minutes. That’s pretty much one book every 18 seconds or so (I think, math is not my strong suit) – that’s ridiculously cool!

So yeah, I’m way excited. And loving life, Amazon, the KDP program, baby giraffes, and (as always) cheese. Free is our friend people – Our Friend! You may not be able to get a free lunch but who needs lunch – read a book instead.

Oh wait, make that 771 books! 🙂

Free!

Okay, so today my book – RomCon – is available on Amazon for FREE. That’s right, zero, zilch, nada, bubkiss, Free. So if anyone out there is thrifty and have been waiting for deals and rock bottom prices on some of the best literature in town, today is your lucky day. Have your mouse scurry on over and click that button and soon you’ll have awesome electronic reading material parts of your whole family will love!!

Enough with trying to sound like a literary used car salesman (told ya, BAD at selling stuff). But you really should go download it – it is pretty awesome. And then tell all your friends about it too cause I know you. You’re reading this blog so you’re a trendsetter baby – I can see it in your eyes. 😉

RomCon – it’s well worth the time. 🙂

*Sigh*

Sigh