Sorry it's been such a long time, folks. The more free time I have the less I seem to blog. Perhaps because there is nothing much of interest to blog about?
I have been working like a mad thing on a sequel to one of the novels I hope to publish, though, and that does take a lot of time. And cappuccino. :)
I finished the first novel sometime this spring, I think, though to be actually finished I have to go through and edit it (again) and that is not happening at a very advanced pace. To be perfectly honest, it's not really happening at all...
Anyway, it's set in the 1800's. 1877-78 to be exact. (This was done purposefully so that I wouldn't land my character in the middle of the Civil War, which, to me, is not the best time-period to write about.) It revolves around a girl named Jocelyn (who is the namesake of my pen name. Just a bit of trivia for you!) who lives in England during the golden age of Queen Victoria (which also happens to be 1877-78...).
It's a bit generic, I know.
Jocelyn is 18 and having a lot of the usual troubles most Cinderella-story types encounter. Falling in love, a pushy cousin, a despotic aunt, no parents, a grandmother who is, in most senses of the word, dying, and a twin brother who has been lost since birth.
Just the usual stuff.
So she off and goes to look for her brother and the rest of the story is full of intrigue, romance and murder.
Does that sound like anything you would read?
Looking back over the time between starting it and finishing it, it's a bunch of hills and valleys. Anyone who has written anything can relate here. There are the moments when you're on top of the world, writing away and marveling at how a mortal being like yourself could write such scenes, such jewels of wit and wisdom!
And then there are the lows where all you want to do is erase the blasted junk and start over.
And then there's the time when you put in the last word and sit back with a enormous smile and realize that now you have to go back and fix all the mistakes you've been putting off the entire time.
All those mistakes don't matter then (you're finished!) - until you print it all off and see, for the first time, how long it really is.
And then you go back and edit and realize how tacky it really is. How overblown the drama, how dry and stale the suspense, how flowery the dialogue... And that illusive dream of becoming a published author gets blown full of holes and you settle for an attic trunk stuffed to the bursting with finished manuscripts.
And then you actually take the time to rewrite that bit that always annoyed you or brush up the dialogue that always hit your ear wrong, or polish up a scene that needed just something more to make it work and you find out again that all is not lost, and that you can still salvage this poor story and make it something more than the generic Christian romances you've read and scoffed at all your life.
And that's about where I am with it right now.
Pounding away on a sequel, while its mother book sits in a binder, not even completely printed, waiting for me to slash it over with colored pens.
Oh woe is me.
And I can't even give you a little bit at the end because I still haven't edited it yet and just looking over it makes me blush.
The only comfort I have at the moment is that no one in it faints and falls into some guy's arms.
Till next time,
