The Makeover – Literary Style

By Robin Weaver

All of us watch those shows (even if we don’t always ‘fess up).  You know the ones I mean.  A frumpy stay-at-home mom and a Goth-looking college student walk onto the set. An overly bubbly announcer introduces some wonderful product and an amazing makeup artist. Then, voila.  A curling iron and a bottle of hair gel later, Frumpy and Dumpy are now the hot momma who could play Mrs. Robinson and the fraternity girl most likely to get an STD.

I am, of course, talking about the infamous makeover. I can’t tamp down my skepticism enough to believe Frumpy and Dumpy really looked that bad prior to the makeover.  Surely the show’s producers intentionally frizzed hair for those hideous “before” images.  Maybe they even put gray paste on the To-Be-Made-Overs’ faces.  I’m also certain some production assistant scoured thrift stores in search of the worst clothing possible.  When the assistant finds her prize, she stomps on the shapeless dress or baggy jeans with combat boots prior to dressing the poor “volunteers.” When presented in cocktail dresses for the REVEAL, like any woman who goes from Goodwill to couture, the makeover models look one heck of a lot better. 

Seriously, though? Short of surgery or drastic liposuction, how much can you really do in a short period of time to improve your looks?

Fortunately, for us writers, fiction is different. Forget hair products. You, the great and powerful Wonder-author, have magic at your disposal. With a few strokes of your literary pen, you can take a bad manuscript and make the tale into a fascinating story.

Have a heroine you don’t like?  Kill her off on page one and promote the amazing sidekick to leading lady. Are you main characters boring? Just add equal parts tension and quirkiness, and Ozzie and Harriet morph into Morticia and Gomez Addams.

You can even reshape your basic plot into a totally different story. Believe it or not, you can do this with minimal rewrite.

In Forbidden Magic, my first novel, I created vampire-type characters living in a world without warm-blooded creatures.  My vamps existed on a mineral mimicking the properties of human blood. Naturally, the mineral was becoming depleted (aka external tension). Unfortunately, no one wanted yet another vamp story.

So, I instigated a makeover.  First, I made my characters Dökkálfar and —ancient elves.  Since my hero and heroine were no longer vampire, they no longer needed blood. Thus I needed another rare substance necessary to my characters’ survival. To keep my external conflict from disintegrating, I decided the sun on my fictional world wouldn’t have the spectrum of Earth’s solar unit.  Naturally, I made this missing spectrum necessary to elfin survival.

So what could emulate sunlight? What else? Crystals. And all the quartz had been mined.

I kept the same plot. My characters’ goals, motivation, and conflict didn’t change. Yet my novel had a completely different look. A makeover.

If your novel isn’t getting the attention it deserves, if your manuscript is dated, or if you just need more oomph, you too can perform the same type of literary makeover. No license required. Remember, a good story (regardless of genre) needs great characters, with great conflict, and a goal worth achieving. The rest is just…well, hair product and cocktail dresses.

How about you?  Performed any literary makeovers on your manuscripts?

Celebration Times Four

 

I’m celebrating the escape writing brings. During the past year, I’ve needed that escape. Fortunately a writer can get high on a story (especially this writer). The author gets her fix without ever suffering the consequences of other mind altering substances—drugs, alcohol, or evil deeds.  Someone runs you off the road, kill ‘em on page 38.  Have a bad day? A guy who looks like Brad Pitt can give you a back rub.

My story telling started years (and years and years) ago. I’m a long way from my childhood home in Tupelo, Mississippi. One day—in that very rural setting with cotton fields in the background and the ever-present hum of insects, my grandmother said something that made a profound impact on my life.  “If you don’t stop telling stories, the devil will come up through that ground and get you with his pitchfork.”

By stories, my grandmother meant lies. Did I mention she’s very southern? So what did I do? Being a smart butt-in-training, I made up a story about Mr. Satan. I’ve evolved into a schizo author, writing mystery/romantic suspense and contemporary novels under my real name Robin Weaver, kinda/sorta. I say kinda/sorta because Robin is my middle name. I write fantasy/paranormal under my alter ego…eh, I mean pseudonym, Genia Avers. My first name is actually Sugenia, so SuGenia WeAvers. Don’t ask me why I added the S.

 

As Genia Avers, I’m celebrating the release of Book II in my Forbidden series, FORBIDDENFLAME.  The book is the sequel to Forbidden Magic, originally titled, Ancient Skills. The novel originally detailed the struggles of a woman from a vampire-like civilization who attempts to save her people by marrying a man she believes is her cultural inferior. The groom-to-be is heir to a country who controls the last source of plasmania, a blood substitute necessary for survival on a planet without warm-blooded creatures.

Because the market was saturated with vamps, my editor suggested I create a new race of people, thus my characters became Dökkálfar (dark elves) and álfar (light elves) who needed crystals that mimic the spectrum created by Earth’s sunlight to survive. Read more at Amazon.comhttp://www.amazon.com/Forbidden-Lanatus-Chronicles-Series-ebook/dp/B0085XCJAS/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1367267327&sr=8-1-fkmr0&keywords=Forbidden+flame+Genia+avers.

FORBIDDEN FLAME was released on April 26th. GOOD NEWS: My publisher is offering Forbidden Magic free with the purchase of Forbidden Flame. Thanks to the help of my fab critique partners, I think the story has a rather catchy logline: If love carried a death sentence, would you bite the bullet?

 

I’m celebrating the completion of Book III, FORBIDDEN TWICE. I’m really excited about this book because I think the concept is rather unique. I have twins fighting over the same man—a triangle as old as Middle Earth, right? But…every time the women argue, an earthquake or tornado occurs. I also have a novella, Magic’s Song, which should be released by the Wild Rose Press later this year.

 --and most important, I’m celebrating you, the reader. Most writers are compelled to write, but nothing is more fulfilling than having someone actually read the words an author has labored over. Well, except to have the reader LOVE those words.

What about you? Celebrating anything you’ve written (or read) lately?

Powder Room Confessions

I confess. I don’t sit on public toilets.

For those who do, fear not, I won’t dribble on your seat. I’ll spare you the details, but after decades of dealing with this ridiculous phobia—I say ridiculous, because we all know there are more germs on the doorknob than the toilet seat, but that’s beside the point) –I’m somewhat of an expert.

I learned the “no porcelain contact” MoRuS (Mom’s Rules for Survival) right after I mastered potty training. My mother was adamant.  “No ifs, ands, or butts on the seat.” No exceptions.

The MoRus was severely tested a short time later at a basketball game. My twin aunts were the court queens in my small (miniscule is a more apt description) town, and we never missed a game. This was many, many years ago—long before the WMBA came into vogue, so women’s basketball, at least in the deep South, had not evolved into a sport. Games were more like the cast of Hairspray shoots hoops.

I had to “go.” My mom was engrossed in the dribble and shoot. She was probably the only one in the gymnasium paying attention–the coach was talking to the janitor. So she didn’t object when friends of my aunts agreed to take me to the bathroom.

I was thrilled. At four years’ old, hanging out with teenagers was the equivalent of eating dinner with Bon Jovi.

At least I was all jiggidy until we reached the stall. Up until this point, my mother had always “held” me above the germ-ridden bowl, while I did my business. Those formerly cool teenagers were having no part of that.

“Just go.” Teenager Number One insisted.

After several minutes (and a lot of squirming), Teenager Number Two had an idea. I could just climb on the toilet and squat. I could do that, right?

Did I mention I wore patent leather shoes? And a frilly petticoat? Don’t ask me why I was so dressed up for a basketball game. I was four, not a fashionista.

Anyway, since I really had to “go” at that point, I complied.  After much slipping and sliding, I climbed atop the throne. And went.

So there I was—spraying like a rotating sprinkler. The teenaged girls were braying like hyenas. Thank goodness there were no cell phones in those days. The YouTube video would have gone viral.

I’m not sure any liquid ever filled the bowl, but my bladder felt better so I climbed down with a sense of accomplishment. Until my patent leather encased foot contacted the puddle on the concrete floor. I slid forward colliding into Teenager Number One (who’d laughed the loudest). She fell on her derriere, her long teenaged leg landing in the overflow. (Talk about your pee-itic justice).

The tale was retold and repeated and became the stuff of legend—the little girl who peed all over the bathroom. Thank goodness, there was no YouTube in those days—the toilet seat incident would have gone viral.  To my knowledge, only the teenagers and my mom knew it was really me (although like reality TV, after this blog everyone might know).

What about you? Did your mama tell you not to sit on public toilets?

Robin Weaver

Author of Blue Ridge Fear

Are Taxes Really Certain?

They say nothing is certain in life but death and taxes, but an equally certain truism is: Someone will always refuse to pay the government the apportioned percentage.  Some succeed in avoiding taxes, others pay a more ultimate price. For example:

Al Capone, one of America’s most notorious gangsters, sold alcohol during prohibition, rigged elections and committed murder.  He went to Alcatraz in 1931, not for any of these notorious crimes but for—you guessed it—tax evasion. He was actually released on parole in 1939 but in a twist of poetic justice, he suffered mental and physical deterioration due to late-stage neurosyphilis.

High-profile madam Heidi Fleiss didn’t go to jail for her prostitution ring. Nope. In 1997 she received a seven-year sentence for tax evasion. In her defense, just what would you list in the “occupation” box?

Martha Stewart actually went to jail for insider trading, but she’s also a convicted tax evader. Before heading to prison, she was forced to pay $220,000 in back taxes to the State of New York. My guess: it wasn’t “a good thing.”

You may not remember Dennis Kozlowski, but the former CEO of Tyco received 25 years in prison for tax fraud. In 2002, he purchased paintings for 13 million dollars—poor fellow just didn’t pay any sales taxes.

Ever wonder why Crocodile Dundee (Paul Hogan) disappeared from the Hollywood scene? The actor was accused of owing over 100 million to the Australian IRS. His famous response? “Come and get me, you miserable bastards!” They did. It took eight years, but Mr. Hogan settled with the government. The terms reached after mediation remain confidential, and the Australian Taxation Office declined to comment.

And then there’s O.J. Although Mr. Simpson beat a murder conviction, he was dubbed one of the worst tax evaders in California history. Mr. Football again thought the rules didn’t apply to him and moving to Florida to avoid the penalty (the Federal Government cannot confiscate a home for failure to pay taxes in Florida). Unfortunately for him, he was later arrested and convicted of a Las Vegas robbery. O.J. is now spending time in the big house.

So, you see, you can avoid taxes. Maybe later you’ll wish you’d paid, maybe you won’t. Unlike this narly lot, I suspect some individuals might successful avoid  . After all, you never hear about criminals who aren’t caught. Don’t we all know a waitress/waiter who doesn’t claim all her/his tips?

That said, this individual will be filing a 1040 on April 15^th. Do you know anyone personally who’s avoided taxes—or suffered the penalty?  No names please :-).

Debut Romantic Suspense Author Robin Weaver

First, thanks to the Genre-istas for having me as a debut author.  I’m truly honored.

As a writer, my characters talk to me on a regular basis.  Today, I’m going to switch it up and let Sienna Sanders, the heroine of Blue Ridge Fear, talk to you.

Sienna Sanders is a graphic artist who faces a lawsuit for breach of contract—from her ex-boyfriend.   Broke and jobless, she is forced to cohabit with her airhead cousin in a too-small mountain cabin—a joint inheritance.

 

A hiking misstep leaves Sienna stranded until a hunky stranger comes to her rescue.  A zing of instant attraction convinces her he might be the one.  But there’s another “one.”  A psycho who’s already killed four women who look a lot like her.

Sienna decided anyone who’s read the book knows all her secrets, so Sienna  demanded a chance to expose MY foibles by interviewing me. The nerve. You can never control these pesky characters.  Anyway, here goes:

SIENNA: What traits do we share?

ME: Hmm.  I make a concerted effort to make my characters NOT like me. In your case, if I met a hunky man who might be a serial killer, I’d hightail it off the mountain in a Blue Ridge minute.

 

SIENNA:  How are we different?

ME: As Kathy Bates said in Fried Green Tomatoes: “I’m older and have more insurance.”
Also, I’d never eat a whole stack of waffles and then chase them with a Danish.  At least, not in public.

SIENNA: Do we have the same taste in men?

ME: Obviously!

SIENNA:  Do we look alike?

ME: In my dreams. Actually, you look suspiciously like my daughter.

SIENNA:  Why let me be captured by a serial killer?

ME: Quit whining or I’ll feed you to the wolves next time.

SIENNA:  Do you fantasize about park rangers?

ME: Only the hunky ones.

SIENNA:  Would you live in a Blue Ridge cabin?

ME: Only if a hunky park ranger roamed the area.

Actually, I love the Blue Ridge Mountains and would love to own a cabin there.

SIENNA:  Do you have a cousin like mine?

ME: Not necessarily a cousin, but I think most people have a Bethany in their lives.

SIENNA:  Why did you drag me to Chimney Rock with a sprained ankle?

ME: I couldn’t exactly have your ankle heal overnight. If I had, you’d be a paranormal heroine instead of the star of a romantic suspense.  I sent you to Chimney Rock because it has an elevator.

SIENNA:  I’m really into physical fitness, love hiking and dancing. Why do you make me eat so unhealthy?

ME: Because I can’t.  It’s an author’s prerogative to live through her characters. Be glad I didn’t make you fat.

SIENNA:  Are you suspicious by nature?

ME: Absolutely not.  Why would you ask that? Who told you I was?

SIENNA:  Do you know how square square dancing is?  What possessed you to haul me to one?

ME: Because they tell authors to torture their characters. J

Actually, during one of my Blue Ridge trips, I was coerced to attend a local square dance.  It was surprisingly fun.

SIENNA:  Who inspired the character Goldie?

ME: Actually, you should ask “what?” not who.  We have a friend (male) who wears a lot of jewelry and I said to my hubby one day, “so and so” wears more chains than I’ve ever seen without a Doberman nearby (no, I didn’t actually say “so and so”).  Anyway, I liked that line so much, I created a character for it.

SIENNA:  Why do I only have one book when Subena has three? (For you real people, Subena is the heroine of Forbidden Magic and I find her a bit stuck-up).

ME: You sound like Bethany now.  Do I need to threaten you with wolves again?  (Note to the real people: Bethany is Subena’s whiny cousin).

I’ve encluded an exerpt below. BLUE RIDGE FEAR is available at:

Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Blue-Ridge-Fear-Robin-Weaver/dp/1612174736/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1358814464&sr=1-1&keywords=blue+ridge+fear#_

BarnesandNoble:  http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/blue-ridge-fear-robin-weaver/1113839640?ean=2940015770407

The Wild RosePress:  http://www.thewildrosepress.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=191&products_id=5047

Thanks for stopping by!  I will be giving away a digital copy of BLUE RIDGE FEAR to one lucky person leaving a comment.

BLUE RIDGE FEAR

Excerpt

“Who’s there?”

The noise hadn’t spooked her—the mountain forest hummed with activity.  It was the sudden silence that sucked the air from her lungs.  Someone, or something, hovered behind the dense foliage being deathly quiet.

 

Sienna Sanders sat alone at the bottom of Linville Gorge—one boot on, one boot off, unable to walk.  The injury to her ankle negated hours at the gym and more hours in kickboxing class.

Her gaze searched in every direction, but her eyes encountered only trees and vertical rock.  “Is someone there?”  Her voice quivered.

Where the hell is Bethany?

“Don’t be afraid.”  The masculine voice startled her from behind, jolting her rigid body off the ground.

She twisted toward the speaker, displacing her ankle from its elevated perch on a moss-covered boulder.  Her shriek echoed up the mile high gorge.

“Are you all right?”

She scrutinized the male who had emerged from the lush forest undetected.  She could have sworn the noise she’d heard came from the other direction.  “Yeah, sure.  I always sit on the rocks and scream at the wind.”

The quivering tightness in her gut directly contradicted her flippant words.  Her instincts told her he wouldn’t harm her, but being alone meant caution trumped instinct.

Sienna didn’t know if she felt relieved or more scared by his appearance.  She’d always considered herself an independent woman, but if a girl had to be rescued, he was the man to do it.  In baggy shorts and a chambray shirt, the man looked like an all-American hiker, the kind who posed for SUV commercials.  He certainly wouldn’t hurt anyone with his looks.  The man was the Godiva of eye-candy.

He squatted and reached for her ankle.  “Don’t,” she snapped.

“Just checking to see if it’s broken.  I won’t hurt you.”

“Yeah, right.  All hunky murderers say that.”