Every woman needs a good nail gun…

Right now I feel empowered. Tonight my husband asked me to use the nail gun while he held up sheets of plywood on our new shed. Hot diggety! If you’ve never used a nail gun, it’s the next best thing to having a real gun (not that I’ve ever shot a gun in my life, mind you). But what fun! I was up on the 12-foot ladder, happily telling my husband, “A little to the left…now up half an inch. Right there!” Bang, bang!

It’s the little things in life, really. The only downside is that it has that built in safety where you could never actually shoot nails at people. I keep this in mind for the potential moment where some yahoo might go after my kids–KAPOW! So I’d basically have to hold him down while I’m pressing the nail gun to his head and shooting. A little tip, for those of you who have never used a nail gun.

But back to the whole construction thing. One of the best aspects of a building project is having something tangible to show for it. So here it is, in all its unfinished glory:

The inventor of the synopsis should be taken out and shot

As per my heading, I’m sure you writers out there know what I’ve been going through. Trying to take a 375 page novel and condense it into a 2-page summary makes me want to throw myself through a wall. Especially when, as my critique partners will tell you, I am the Queen of Complicated Plots.

My first book is completely unsalvageable. I’ve given it a burial and though my husband really liked it, I’m convinced it needs to just stay dead.

My second book was written with a horribly complicated, unmarketable plot, and I stripped it down to the bare bones. Once I did that, I found the heart of the novel and rebuilt it from scratch. That novel became His Chosen Bride which I now adore. There was a good book hidden in the mess, but I had to go in with a shovel and pickaxe and find the darned thing.

I finished my third book August 15th, and I let it stew until now. I’m not very good at seeing the flaws until I have some space, so over the past week, I’ve been trying to redo the synopsis. My thought process was that, if I can streamline the synopsis and find the heart of the book, I can then revise it.

Four days later, half a pound of chocolate added to my thighs, and after a great deal of swearing at the computer, I think I did it. I took out everything from the synopsis except the emotional journey of the hero and heroine. And when I took a close look at the heart of my story, I found something I liked. It will take a good deal of revising, but the core is there. I’m now ready to sharpen my machete and chop this thing into oblivion. I know what has to be done.

I also entered it in the Golden Heart to give myself a deadline. I paid the fee today and now I have until December 2nd to mail it in its final form to Dallas. The countdown is on!

Alpha Males

Today my local chapter Chesapeake Romance Writers had their annual conference. Jane Porter was the guest speaker and she gave a great workshop on Alpha heroes, complete with film clips from my all-time favorite movies. I love Gladiator, Last of the Mohicans, and films complete with a warrior hero.

It’s interesting that women love to read about alpha males, but we’d kill them if they actually lived in our own homes. Can’t you just imagine it?

Last of the Mohicans: No matter what! Just stay alive! I will find you!!
Wife: Yeah, well let’s try finding our way to our destination Mr.-won’t-stop-to-ask-for-directions…
(I mean, come on. In real life, our husbands might WANT to find us, but without mapquest or a navigation system….um…right.)

Then, too, there’s the hero who’s torn between wanting to save his woman and the villain demanding information that would compromise national security. :batman: My husband has already informed me that if it’s a choice between country and wife, I’m on my own. I’d better start toting my 9mm, because I’ll have to save my own hiney. But, he has reassured me that once I’m dead, the villain is going DOWN. Yes, put that on my grave, honey, why don’t you? If you want someone to cook dinner and change your daughter’s diapers, you’d better find a way to protect me from the bad guys.

But truly, I love reading and writing alpha heroes. I love a man who will slice the villain to ribbons and come off the battlefield, home to the heroine (and hopefully a bath!). I love the fantasy of a guy who will literally throw himself in front of a bus for me. I don’t want to read about everyday heroes who mow the lawn and repair the sink, even though I’m married to one and I love him dearly.

In a romance novel, I want larger-than-life, Calgon-take-me-away heroes. That’s the most fun about writing, I think. You can create anything you want.

Even a hero who voluntarily changes diapers and cleans the house. Now that’s romantic fantasy!

Bathtub Fun

The title of this entry truly is an innocent one, relating to my children. However, it occurred to me that I’ll probably get some interesting google hits off that one. Yikes.

My son’s latest obsession is bathtub placement. He wants to take the first bath of the night and gloat over it to his eighteen-month-old sister. “I’m first and you’re last!” he’ll taunt. She eyes him with a look of–”Yeah, whatever. I’ll go destroy your toys when you aren’t looking.”

It started out harmless enough. I didn’t care. After all, what difference did it make? As long as they both get clean, what does it matter who’s first or last? But then there was the night when I DARED to give his sister the first bath. I believe horns sprouted upon my son’s head and his eyes grew fiery red. Steam rose from his ears.

“She’s last and I’M FIRST!” he howled. “Mommy, you don’t let her go first!”

Okay, had to nip that one in the bud. It was a case of “Don’t take that tone with me, young whipper snapper.” Sadly, he decided to test his limits. It amazes me how the two-year-old children test physical boundaries (throwing themselves off furniture, climbing on top of tables, playing with electrical cords) and three-year-olds test verbal boundaries. Let’s just say that this mommy wasn’t about to be bossed around by Defiant Boy. There were repercussions of a sort that brought forth much gnashing of teeth and wailing. He was not at all pleased at being last.

Tonight, however, was a different story. He told me he preferred to take his bath last. When he saw me bathing his sister, he changed his mind and asked politely, “Can we do both? Can I take a bath with her?” (Okay, so sue me. They’re too young to know the difference and bathing two toddlers simultaneously is a gift of efficiency. The only comment ever made by him was–”She has two bums!”)

Within minutes they were joyfully splashing each other and sticking foam alphabet letters on each other. Giggles and fun abounded.

And I thought to myself, moments like these are the stuff of memories.