Whoopiee -- new newsletter

My May Newsletter is now posted. http://nadinelamanbooks.com/pdf/brag5-09.pdf

Big surprises in store for you...better go read it.


For information about BULLYING, see these books by Canada's Rita Y. Toews: http://www.domokos.com/Rita.html

Let's do something about this abuse. No more bullying alowed. Are you with me on this?

Sticks and stones...childish games

There is a bumper sticker that reads: Mean People Suck. If I put bumper stickers on my Mustang, which I don't, I'd probably consider that one.

If you have seen my YouTube, you have heard my son's music. I think he was 14 years old when he wrote and recorded that song. He is what is called a "triple threat." He can act (oh wow can he act), dance (ballet, tap, jazz, swing), and play the piano. When we moved here he attended a performing arts school -- very tough on academics too. Then in public high school, he couldn't be in the dance class because it was only for girls. BTW, he likes Eastcoast Swing best.

Now this is the good part. Four years later, just a month before graduation, he was asked to help with the dance classes recital. He was the narrator for both recitals and a 'prop' for one dance. Too bad they wouldn't let him dance all these years. Their loss.


When I was in sixth grade, we moved and I went to a new school mid-term. I was very shy. I didn't do well on the spelling test, to motivate me the teacher stood me in front of the class (most of whom I didn't know their names yet) and said: "I don't know if you are lazy or just stupid." School was hard enough for me with dyslexia. I still couldn't hardly read at that point. (I learned to read at age 12 or 13.) I really hated (dreaded, felt sick, wanted to cry) going to school every day for the rest of that year.

Now this is the good part. I've written three novels. Guess I'm not lazy or stupid.


Susan Boyle has a learning problem due to oxygen depravation at birth. She has spent her life in a small village teased and bullied by kids, but I bet some adults too. She is sometimes called, "Susie Simple" by the Villagers. We saw the Britain's Got Talent judges' attitude toward Susan both before and after she sang. Judge Piers apologized to Susan when they were on the Larry King show.

Now this is the good part. Susan's singing brings 'on-your-feet-applause.' Susan is every underdog's hero -- worldwide. She is above being exploited because she has heart and courage.

My YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vwh8DIXKXv8

Susan Boyle's YouTube: (nearly 50 MILLION viewers) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1171536/They-called-Susie-Simple-singing-superstar-Susan-Boyle-laughing-now.html

Live YOUR dreams!

The proof is in the...pudding?

I'm a bit giddy. Hubby picked up the proof book of Storm Surge at the printer today. That saved me a trip to downtown since he was already in Phoenix.

My first thought on seeing the book was, wow that is big. It is only 50 pages longer than Kathryn's Beach, but wow...

The printer did a fabulous job. Now I'm dividing my time between proof reading and looking for the photo that is supposed to be on the cover (not the one I used for the proof book). In fact, I'm beginning to think that I might have to change the cover from what we have on my website, because I cannot find that photo (or negative or disc) so I can scan it into the laptop.

I don't do galley books, also known as ARC's -- advance reading copies. A galley and a proof book differ in that a galley is a preview book sent by big publishers to reviewers. It isn't totally edited yet and often doesn't have cover art, just a plan cover with the title and the author's name. That is how a book gets all those reviews before it is published.

A proof is the final version of the book, edited and with cover art. It is funny how reading a printed proof is different from reading a manuscript on screen or printed by my laser printer, though some publishers send a digital copy to their authors.

Since I'm the boss around this publishing house (room) I order a proof copy from the printer. I like to read it carefully for last minute word fixes or formatting issues. I pay close attention to my text graphics for letters and journals, since they are intended to add to the reading experience -- not detract from it.

So...here I am, the first person to curl up with Storm Surge. It is like reading it for the first time -- not like I wrote it. Maybe there is a Muse.

Pre-order Storm Surge at: http://www.nadinelamanbooks.com/

Oh! Watch for my May newsletter. There is a surprise in there about this book's reviews.

Everyone's darlin' ~ Mr. Goldstein

As I watch Mr. Goldstein climb the stairs to his apartment, I think about him living alone. I am sorry his wife died while I was away. I would have liked to have seen her again. The two of them were inseparable; I can't imagine him living alone.

He is frail without a companion. It is obvious he hasn't been active and he probably doesn’t eat right, either. For the most part, he seems to do all right on his own.

~

Mr. Goldstein returns unexpectedly as I am preparing to leave for the beach and my evening walk. He wants to walk too. I accept his desire for companionship and acknowledge my need for the same.

He is wearing his everyday street shoes since he doesn’t have athletic shoes. With his shoulders back and his chest swelled, he looks proud in his new warm-up outfit, complete with price tag still dangling from his arm pit. With a quick snip, the price tag is removed and we are officially walking buddies.

On this first walk, Mr. Goldstein makes it across the street to the edge of the sand. Technically, we are on the beach, but at least a hundred yards from the last high tide mark. It is obvious this is as far as we are “walking” today.

Now that we are in the sand, I am not sure he can make it back across the street on his own. Apparently, neither is he. He slides his arm desperately around my waist, while I slip mine around his back to steady him. I hope this is enough support for his weak, spindly legs. The urgency in his grasp doesn’t boost my confidence in this endeavor. It seems the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

Mr. Goldstein has an odd quick-step gait that is hard to match. His pace throws me slightly off balance, causing us to be even more out of step with each other. We stop to rest several times before we make it home where we are safe.

I think we were both scared he wouldn’t make it back, but neither of us mention it. We breathe a sigh of relief when I finally ease him into a chair to rest before going upstairs to his apartment.

Mr. Goldstein becomes stronger as the days pass. We walk a little farther each time. Bit the end of two weeks he is walking to the water's edge with ease.

During our walks, we begin to talk about things people with a two-generation age difference talk about with each other. They are comfortable non-intrusive conversations. Still, a deeper warmth is developing between us. I love the easy way we laugh together. It is always preceded by a slow grin on Mr. Goldstein’s lips and a twinkle in his eyes.

From Kathryn's Beach: http://www.nadinelamanbooks.com/

Meeting Grandfather McKenzie

The park is nearly deserted. Apparently recently cleaned, the fountain bubbles pleasantly, inviting my fingers to dabble in the water. It is colder than it looks, but it feels fresh – like a fountain should. Maybe there is extra magic to the first coin in the fountain after it has been cleaned. Even if not, I pull out a shiny penny from my purse, turn my back, close my eyes and take a deep breath. Plop!

“For luck, Kathryn?” a voice in front of me asks. I open my eyes to see an old man in a wheelchair being pushed by a younger black man.

“Grandfather?” I query to the wheelchair-bound man.
~
“Do you play?” Grandfather asks, as his fingers touch the wooden box on his lap. There is an inlayed checker square on top of the box, surrounded with carving and other marquetry designs. It looks old and opulent – and he handles it like it is a treasure.

“Yes,” I say, not entirely certain of the game he has in mind, but sure I am able.

James takes the box, positioning it on the bench between Grandfather and me. Grandfather opens the lid, and begins to remove chess pieces.

“Black or white?”

“Black, always black,” I say without thinking that he might have preferred black. The pieces are heavy and smooth. I think the black are mahogany. The white men are a lighter wood, not oak, maybe something exotic – nothing I recognize. I like the feel of them, as I set my men in place on the board.

James locks the chair brakes, and retires to a nearby bench to watch. The game begins.

“Your move,” Grandfather says with an impatient look of ‘get on with it, girl.’

Apparently, this is not meant to be a leisurely game. I ease into the competition looking for hints of his strategy. His moves indicate Grandfather is a serious player. He seems to have no intention of holding back.

I lose my queen’s bishop.

Then, I will not hold back out of politeness. The game moves on. There is no conversation. “Your move,” is all Grandfather says – and only when he thinks I am taking too long to move my men. Maybe it is part of his strategy to rush me. I take his rook. He takes more of my men, and my pawns fall mercilessly.

I move, “Check.”

He stops dead! His hands retreat to his lap. “That is your father’s move,” he says. “Enough of the game; you are Kathryn McKenzie!”

With a slight grin, he waves toward James. The game board is removed. It is all a little odd. I hadn’t expected a test of my parentage. Goodness, there are DNA tests for that. Grandfather settles his hands together in his lap.

“Tell me about yourself. Are you married?”
“No.”
“Dating?”
“Sometimes.”
“Children?” He seems to have a litany.

I stop the rhythm of the questions with a pause. “No,” I say with a sound of boundary-setting finality.

He leans back in his chair slightly and studies me. “You must look like your mother.”

“I look like me.” I’m beginning to enjoy our volley back and forth.

He grins. “Yes, I suppose so.” Grandfather twists in his chair to view James. Without exchanging words, James gets up, and releases the brakes on the chair. From behind Grandfather’s chair, James flashes a big smile that lasts only a minute and is gone. I smile in response.

“Shall we meet again, Kathryn?”

From High Tide: http://www.nadinelamanbooks.com/

A matter of style

Every author has a unique style. What we like about our favorite author is their ability to tell a story that engages us, in a voice that becomes familiar.

I've been told that my writing style is an acquired taste. I usually write in first person present tense. Granted, that is odd. Often my sentence structure and word choices are dictated by my dyslexia. I have a meandering style. I'm a complex thinker (aren't we all?) and can't rush to the point of my stories.

Another maddening thing I do is to begin every novel in the middle of a conversation. Why? Because we enter people's lives midway into who they are. Arrogantly, sometimes we forget they had a life before we knew them, and even now have a life we know nothing about.

Besides I don't much care for a book that begins with the telling of the character's entire name or a full description of their physical appearance. In the UK it is common to start fiction of any genre with a prologue. But in America, that practice is rare in contemporary fiction. In my stories, the reader jumps in with both feet and begins there.

You might note then, that the excerpts on my website are not always from the first page of the book. The same is true for excerpts on this blog. The excerpts here are new to the Internet. They were not posted on the writing forum where I was once a moderator. These excerpts are not on my website. And now that google has removed my books from their scanned books element, these excerpts are nowhere, but here and in my books.

I select scenes that do not give away huge story elements, but are delightful little snippets from my books. Enjoy!

Note that my web designer, http://www.designbyjoyce.com/, added my books and a link on the left side of my blog.

Sand lot baseball

I love to write character development -- especially kids, old people, and nuns, or strong ethnicities. In the post about Shasta you get a feel for that feisty little street urchin.

Here is another 'kid' moment at the convent turned homeless shelter.

[Kathryn goes] outside to play with the children who are laughing and hollering on the playground. Each day they get a little louder, a little braver, a little more like other children.

Paul is leaning against a tree, supervising the playground activities. It is a nice day to be outside. I join him in the shade.

“Hi, Paul. I’m done for the day, if you want to be relieved from playground duty.”

“Thanks, Kathryn. I was thinking I may have to give some batting lessons to that bunch over there.” He nods toward a group of pathetic ball players.

“Want some help?”

“Sure, they need all the help they can get.” He laughs.

We walk toward the ball players. Two or three of the older boys are trying to arrange a game, but they have a lot of raw talent on the field. One of the boys throws the ball in the dirt, disgusted, but checks his half-spoken cuss word when he sees Paul and me approaching the group.

“What’s up, Ronnie?” Paul asks the boy who has thrown down the ball.

“Ah, it ain’t no use. Girls can’t hit worth a darn,” Ronnie answers honestly.

That’s news to me, but who am I to question an eleven-year-old expert on girls?

Paul turns to me with a cheeky grin and a smirk in his voice, “Can you hit?”

“I think so. Can you pitch?” I field his question and take up the bat by the makeshift home plate.

The kids start to gather around me to see if girls can hit. The pressure is on to uphold the honor of my gender. “Paul is going to need some fielders,” I say, as I give the bat a few easy warm-up swings, then point the tip toward the outfield to show them the way.

The children take field positions in more or less the right place with some impromptu positions, as well.

“Want a couple of practice pitches?” I call to Paul, knowing that I need them too.

Paul is in average shape, just about like me. Neither of us can be classified as athletes, but we aren’t couch potatoes.

Paul winds up, and throws one over the plate. I evaluate it for his idea of a strike zone, and hope it is somewhere near mine. He throws another one just as good as the first.

“Bat-ter up!” Paul calls with a smirking grin. He squirms his shoulders and begins his wind up.

“No fancy stuff, Paul, I’m not a kid any more.” I taunt him and smile.

“Ready, Slugger?”

The kids laugh.

Holding the bat in my left hand, I make the sign of the cross with my right hand. “God, pleeeaassse, don’t let me strike out!” I mumble loud enough for my fans to hear my prayer.

The catcher falls over laughing about my petition, which is nothing like the nuns' prayers, thus causing a game delay.

“Give me a break. I haven’t even swung yet!” I fake insult, as I extend a hand to help him up; playing up the moment just for the fun of it.

Everyone else laughs loudly, infectiously.

I make the sign of the cross again, lift my bat, take my stance, and check my elbow position. I nod to Paul. “Let’s see what you got!”

Before the kids can laugh again, Paul pitches a sweet strike right where I like them. Crack! My bat makes solid contact. The ball is headed for orbit, well at least past the infield, toward the oddly-placed multiple centerfield players. Paul jumps for the ball as it whizzes past the makeshift pitcher’s mound – minus the mound. I’m not sure, but I think he let the ball get by him on purpose. No one fields the ball, not the girls or the boys. We all stand there in amazement, including me.

“Well that settles it. Girls can hit!” Paul announces.

The ballplayers applaud. Someone tags me out once they retrieve the ball. I forgot to run to first base. I also forgot to find out what was first base in this misshaped ball diamond.

I hadn’t noticed that Mother Elizabeth joined the spectators. “Nice one, Kathryn,” she says, as she approaches.

Shasta cuts through Mother’s path, and reaches me first. “You did good, Kathryn!” she bursts in amazement and pride, patting my hand.

Mother grins. “You have a phone call.” She takes the bat from me and hands it to Shasta.

One of the kids yells, “Hey, ‘ya wanna play tomorrow?”

“If I can, I will,” I call over my shoulder, as I walk back inside with Mother Elizabeth.

From High Tide: http://nadinelamanbooks.com/ht_excerpt.html

Back on track

Wow, I get sidetracked easily. I finish a manuscript and totally forget where I was going with the posts of excerpts from the books -- you'd think finishing a ms was a big deal. Well, it IS a big deal, very BIG.

You know what it is like to finish reading a book? Finishing writing one is a million times MORE. More what? More everything.

Back on track: I like to use places I've been as settings. Thanks to my mom's Gypsy spirit, I've been lots of places.

For example, how about a bit of wheat harvest?

The following day Mr. Goldstein returns for what is to become our daily ritual: a walk on the beach. Since California is the only place Mr. Goldstein has lived in the U.S., he asks questions about life on the prairie.

I tell of the combines cutting wide swaths around the wheat field until it circles down to the final pass of the equipment. “There is haze in the air from the machines churning out the chaff to remove the grain from the heads of the plants.”

Only the most essential activities occur during harvest. It was always a race with the weather and crop prices. Nothing else mattered until the wheat was in, until harvest was finished.

Twelve-year-old children, women, and old men drove two-ton grain trucks. Some trucks were so old they looked like a parade of vintage vehicles creeping down Main Street. Some farmers had several matching new grain trucks that were bought on the gamble it would be a good crop this year.

There are long lines of trucks at the elevator waiting to weigh and dump their load of grain. The drivers got out of their trucks to stand under shade trees along the road, waiting their turn at the elevator and worrying about their grain’s moisture content. Sometimes two or three drivers would gather near the lead truck, visiting with each other while watching the activities across the yard at the double circle CO-OP® elevator for their turn on the scales.

From Kathryn's Beach: http://nadinelamanbooks.com/books.html

Test readers

It is amazing to watch a reader when they get a book in their hand. They look it over, read every word on the cover, then start leafing through it. I know someone who always reads the last chapter first. Others read the first few pages, still others skim through stopping randomly to read until they decide the book worthy of their time.

Writers get the same high from writing. It is a good match -- readers and writers.

Once in a while a reader will contact the author and tell what they liked about a book, or maybe didn't like.

I love hearing from readers. The first bunch I hear from are my beta readers. They test the story and ask questions that help with the final polishing before it goes to the editor. There are several kinds of edits that occur: content editing (which my beta readers do); grammar, punctuation, and spelling; and proof reading or line editing.

It takes a long time to produce a book.

I was lucky enough to catch my friend in England, Carrie, reading the last couple of chapters of Storm Surge. We had our web cameras on and I watched her read.

Her eyes quickly moved back and forth. Once in a while she made a face or smiled, even laughed. It was amazing. I've never seen anyone read my books before. I wanted to interrupt and ask what part she was reading and what she liked about it. But I didn't.

Writers don't get the audience's applause at the end of a book, like a singer does. Watching her read was a rare treat. I hope the rest of you enjoy it as much as she did.

My beta readers are: Judith McKee, Jan Zitek, Mary Edington, Carrie Sheppard, and Ilene Wood. Personally, I think these women are the best team on the planet. Thank you, Ladies!

Oh...almost forgot. Watch for my May newsletter, there is going to be something very different about the cover of Storm Surge.

Newsletter link: http://nadinelamanbooks.com/newsletter.html

Comment section

I think I figured out how to open the comments so anyone can comment, not just blogger members. Although, it isn't hard to be a member of blogger.

Someone give it a try and let me know if the comments are open now, okay?

Also I was told the pre-order link for Storm Surge was a 404 error. Fixed it.

For the next time I do that, here is my website again: http://www.nadinelamanbooks.com/

Thanks for helping, supporting, and keeping an watchful eye on me.