A Contradiction of Thought

By Robin Weaver

 I love that RTG has a monthly theme. Having a single topic provides just the right amount of inspiration to fire up my disjointed brain. If you’ve read any of my blogs, you know the theme and the resulting post are typically miles apart. But doing the twist makes writing fun.

I try to take the expected and do something completely different. For the November theme, “Abundance,” I wrote about having too many Christmas decorations. And being unable to stop making more. That same thought-contradiction led to the development of the Christmas Tree Wars. I mean, the holidays are about peace on earth, right? So naturally I needed to start a fight.

I didn’t plan to write a novel about a Christmas competition, but one year, a friend vowed to “one up” my holiday tree. At the time, she was helping me with my Phantom of the Opera decorations. We were creating a couple dozen music notes from dough and glitter (there might have been some Baileys involved), when she declared she was doing her own theme.

And she did. The birds!

Her tree was actually quite fowl.  STOP! I’m joking. Her creation was truly beautiful, and I probably spent more time looking for bird ornaments than she did. I’d love to tell you the planning/decorating turned into a scene from an Alfred Hitchcock movie (or Stephen King for those of you who don’t remember Al—wait, even Stevie is old now. What I meant is Squid Games—yeah, that’s it). Anyway, any of the three would have been more interesting, but we had a lot of fun.

My friend’s faux posturing—“My tree is gonna kick your tree’s butt.”—inspired the Christmas Tree Wars. The novella details a Christmas Tree competition, which brings in tourism, and is a big deal in the small town. Like any Hallmark Movie, eh…I mean character-driven story, our heroine doesn’t want to enter. A little goading by the town socialite (aka busty bully), a big bet, and an even bigger entry fee paid by friends who can’t really afford the gesture, and Suzette has no choice but to come out swinging (swinging tinsel on tree branches, but still…).

As the story developed, I fell in love with the imagined town, Merryvale, so had to set another story there. Likewise, the busty bully needed to redeem herself, thus Full Contact Decorating came to life. The third novella, the Gingerbread Skirmish, was actually planned. Everyone knows you must have three books in a series. 😊

I had a lot of fun with these novellas, especially writing the chapter headings. I added a twist on Christmas Songs to describe the chapters. Some examples include: What Childishness Is This, 12 Days of Lying, and, Chestnuts Roasted. I was advised NOT to do that—that it would be cheesy, but hey, no one paid me to NOT have headings. So, my book, my chapter subtitles.  And what’s wrong with cheesy, anyway?

Have a ho-ho, very happy holiday, Everyone.

And please check out the Christmas Tree Wars, written under my pen name Genia Avers.

Click on the link above to get the eBook FREE today on Apple & Kobo!

Re-spinning a Holiday Classic

By Robin Weaver 

It's a Wonderful Life is truly one of the all-time great holiday films, but let's be honest, the plot is hardly original. As a writer, I have been conditioned, since I first put my fingers on the keyboard, to always deliver the unexpected, so let's add some twists to this classic tale.

 

Having a fat old man be an angel is unexpected, even by today standards, so we’ll leave Clarence as is. No, wait. An angel is a bit predictable no matter what his shape. What if we made him a shape shifter? Hmm, that will screw up the plot. We want Clarence to evolve, not be dinner.

 

If not Clarence, who hears when George wishes he’d never been born? I know, he can wish on a penny. Oops—that’s absolutely predictable. Let's make it a dollar bill instead.

 

So George finds a dollar and… He simply cannot wish he'd never been born--even to a dollar bill. I mean seriously, how many times had that been done? Let's have him wish he'd been born a woman. To which the dollar replies, “The PMS alone would kill you. I like horses. What if I make you "my little pony" instead? 

 

And poof! Before George can protest, he’s got hooves and a shiny teal tail. He trots down the street, running into his mom—who falls and breaks a hip. Predictable, but what else can happen? Grandma has just been run over by a horse. She’s screaming, “Bloody horse murderer!” because she doesn’t recognize her son. Did I mention he’s a horse?

 

Anyway, George’s mom is rescued by Uncle Billy—who hasn’t been institutionalized because the Building and Loan is still going strong.  Don’t get me wrong, the Building and Loan collapsed (just like in the original story), only the government bailed out the financial institution. Billy splints mom’s broken hip and then kicks George the horse (didn’t expect that, did you? Evil grin).  Billy threatens to call--eh, can't be the police. Too ordinary. Instead, let's have Billy call the Evil Vet, Horsible Lecter. BIlly pulls out his mobile telegraph (hey, no cellphones in this era) and asked for Horsible.  The second George hears that name, he knows he's in deep manure and gallops home.

 

Mary will help him. Hold on, we have to make Mary less predictable, too.  She can’t be some lonely, scared spinster. Maybe George was holding her back. She’s gone to Vegas and become…a champion bull rider (Gotcha. You were expecting a showgirl, huh?)

 

So George realizes he shouldn’t have wished he was dead. Or a woman. And a bell rings—only let’s make it a bullhorn. In the old story, we all know the angel got his wings. In our story, the angel becomes…hmmm, how about a boy wizard.

 

Okay. You’re right. The original is better. Maybe with a classic, predictable is okay. Only let’s not call it predictable, we’ll call it tradition.

 

Hope your traditions are wonderfully predictable. Happy holidays, Everyone!

 

Contemporary Settings: In the Here and “How”

By Robin Weaver

As an author whose first love is mystery/suspense, I keep scenery description to a minimum. Thus, the imagery I do include on the page has to carry a lot of impact. While the locale doesn’t have to be Rio de Janeiro exciting, any setting information must be pertinent to the plot and more than “just a little” interesting.

Unless I’m writing fantasy, I don’t typically set contemporary stories in a place I’ve never been. Why? Because when it comes to scenery, I need to “feel” the location before I can write about the place. Sure, I could easily Google any place on Earth. There are millions of pictures, videos, and detailed descriptions; all the information a writer needs. Only you can’t smell a JPEG. Nor can you can’t sense the hustle and bustle of a city by reading a street map. I can get into my character’s head without ever meeting her, but I need to actually plant my feet in the place she lives to portray the setting vividly.

Even when I set a scene in a place I’ve visited before, I like to return to the scene of the crime if possible. For example, when I decided to have my heroine experience a scary encounter on Chimney Rock in North Carolina, I took a hike—literally.  I absorb the details and incorporate the majestic views into the scene, from my character’s perspective, of course.

She hobbled outside and across the wooden walkway, heading toward the clear-span bridge leading to the chimney. The scent of pine intertwined with pure, fresh air and rushed into her lungs, displacing her wooziness. The spectacle of the mountain backlit with bright blue skies almost made her forgot she had to get in the same elevator for her return trip.

But scenery is just prose without a plot. During my visit to the mountain, I spotted a shadowy figure in the Opera Box (a ledge in the side of the mountain) that inspired another scene.  I also discovered a really cool niche—perfect for hiding the body in my next book.

Do I ever use fictional places in my contemporary stories?  Absolutely. In my holiday novellas, The Christmas Tree Wars, Full-Contact Decorating, and The Gingerbread Skirmish, the town of Merryvale does not exist—not to my knowledge anyway. Even so, it’s not entirely fictional. I incorporated parts of Concord, Massachusetts, Burlington, Vermont, and a little taste of three North Carolina towns--Concord, Asheville, and Boone--to create my fictional backdrop. 

For my non-contemporary novels, I do make up places. My fantasy novels are set on a different planet. I haven't been there. Honestly .J

Snippets Overheard While Raising My Non-Domestic Goddess

By Robin Weaver

My daughter has matured into a delightful young woman and I’m extremely proud of her.  The journey to this delightfulness hasn’t always been so…pleasant.  Like most moms with rather—shall we say headstrong—teenagers, there were more teeth-grinding moments than smooth roller-blading. In hindsight, some of the interchanges with my daughter now seem a bit comical.

As part of this month’s potpourri, I thought I’d share some of the more amusing comments (even if they did result in me pulling out my hair when initially released. 😊) Here are some of my daughter’s comments from years past.

§  What? 2,227 text messages in one month is a lot?

§  Whaddya mean I’m outta money? I’ve still got a whole book of checks.

§  How many cups in a gallon? Isn’t that a song by N-Sync?

§  Why can’t I dry just one pair of socks and nothing else?

§  Brittney’s cousin Scott…that’s “who the hell” told me I didn’t have to file a tax return.

§  I was going to tell you about my report card…next semester when my grades are better.

§  For the millionth time… I cannot hear you knocking over my blow-dryer.

§  Said to my late husband… Of course, I haven’t forgotten what you said about wasting shampoo. I just need more than you. You wash your head with a facecloth.

§  I thought the guy at Jiffy Lube was supposed to tell me when I needed an inspection sticker. I can’t read those things.

§  As a matter of fact, I DO know several guys who would wear an orange jumpsuit in public.

§  Overdraft Protection? No I didn’t read the Debit Card Agreement, I specifically told that guy at the bank that I wanted an account that would tell ME when I was out of money.

§  Tons of my friends have three-hundred-dollar cellphone bills. You’re so old school.

§  They said they’ll turn my phone back on just as soon as I come up with the three hundred dollars…duh.

§  How am I supposed to get a job if my cellphone is shut-off…I mean how would they get in touch with me?

SIDE NOTE: God bless the unlimited text/data plans. 😊

Below all some all-too-rare occasions when Mom got the upper hand…

§  Said during the cramped time we lived in a tiny apartment while building our house: I’m well aware that we have only one bathroom. Are you aware that its only three blocks to the Texaco station?

§  No, I can’t turn my music down so you can pretend to do your homework.

§  No, you cannot eat Oreos for breakfast.  The elves said “no.”

Final score: Her-2,227, Me-3.

But I have the best consolation prize ever. No matter if it’s Christmas, Mother’s Day, or even St. Patrick’s Day, my card is always signed with those three little words that make everything else worthwhile: “Love you bunches.”

We’ll overlook the fact she still doesn’t know how many cups in a gallon. 😊

Wishing you a holiday filled with love and laughter.
Robin

Fun with Carols

By Robin Weaver

“They” say writers should avoid being clever. At all cost. But in my Merryvale holiday novellas, I didn’t listen.

Cleverness was attempted. Sort of.  But…

I restricted my attempts to the chapter subtitles. For each of the three stories, I tried to modify the title of a Christmas song to create a one-line summary of my chapters.  Thinking this would be fun for the readers, and definitely fun for me, I also hoped those kind of subtitles would help get the reader into the spirit.

For example, in CHRISTMAS TREE WARS, the first chapter is called O’ Little Town of Bets—a play on Carol of Bets. Obviously, there’s a wager (to goad our heroine into entering the Christmas Tree Contest). Chapter Two of the second book (FULL CONTACT DECORATING) chapter two is subtitled, Deck the Halls…with Shiny Red Balls.  It’s not what you think—or maybe it is. :)

What was the reaction? Mixed.  One reviewer loved it, another considered it kitschy.  Even my own critique partners had opposite opinions; one said I should cut the subtitles, another said the carol-word-play was the best part of the book. Regardless, since I’d kitsch’d my titles in the first two novellas, I felt I had to continue the trend in book three, THE GINGERBREAD SKIRMISH.

My personal favorites include:

·       Do I Have to Be Home for Christmas

·       What Childishness Is This

·       Chestnuts Roasted

·       Do You Hear What I Heard Wrong

·       I Saw Mommy Hugging Santa Claus…Cost Him Five Percent

Perhaps it’s just as well that THE GINGERBREAD SKIRMISH is the last story in the series—I’ve run out of Christmas songs. :)  I hope readers can at least tolerate the subtitles, because I had soooo much fun with them. At the end of the day, don’t we writers deserve a little fun with words?

Have the best holidays ever!

Robin

THE GINGERBREAD SKIRMISH will be available December 16^th from Amazon.com and the Wild Rose Press.

A freak snowstorm represents financial ruin for Kaley McIntire. She can’t transport a special order of gingerbread and no delivery means no payment. Thus Kaley can’t make the rent on her in-the-red coffee shop.

Abandoned in the middle of nowhere, the same snowstorm represents frostbite for Tanner Clayton. Instead of showing appreciation when Kaley rescues him during a blizzard, he fixates on getting home to his violets. Not understanding his plants are part of a NASA experiment, Kaley presumes he’s gay and Tanner doesn’t correct her mistake.

Stuck in her cabin for three days, chemistry heats up the mountain home, but can love possibly grow from a friendship built on a lie? A lie that turns to a lump of coal when a visitor arrives, making the couple doubt everything.

Seeing Santa - Redux

Seeing Santa
By Robin Weaver

Hi Everyone,
I wanted to re-post one of my favorite--and earliest--holiday memories. Hope you enjoy the read.
Happy Holidays to All!


I hadn’t seen him in almost forty years but there he was, waving at me from the cover of a greeting card. One eye twinkled, while the other closed in a saucy wink. Just the way I remembered him.

My parents separated the year I turned five so Mom and I moved in with my grandfather and my teenage aunts. Three women meant three bosses, so I did the only thing possible, I hid. Even with my stealth, I couldn’t escape the daily reminder: Santa will bring you a sack full of switches if you don’t shape up. I wasn’t especially looking forward to Mr. Claus’s visit.

The weather turned uncharacteristically cold and I refused to take off the fur hat my father had mailed to me. The previous Christmas, I'd found a set of paper-dolls under the tree, so a visit from Ole St. Nick couldn’t compete with my new fuzzy head-piece and its big shiny sequins.

When the house became unbearable, I’d take my hat and escape to the yard. I was a great pretender, becoming a master chef who created amazing pies out of mud and corn kernels. Or maybe I’d be a major-general, leading troops to victory against hordes of Nazi soldiers or a fairy queen who turned dandelions into roses with a single swish of my twiggy wand. But my greatest joy was listening to Gramps tell his marvelous stories.

One night, Gramps finished a story about a giant toe. I’d started to sweat because I sat too close to the fireplace and still wore my new hat. When he finished the story, he asked, "So, Teensie, what do you want Santa to bring you?"

I took off the hat, concentrating intensely on a sparkly sequin while I tried to stifle my sniffles. I couldn't tell Gramps about the switches.

"Teensie, what’s wrong with you?" he cajoled.

"Santa won’t come to see me, Gramps. I’ve been bad."

"And just what have you done that’s so bad?"

"Well, I got mud on Aunt Judie’s new rug and my fingerprints are all over the coffee table. I scuffed my new shoes and I wore this hat when Mama said I shouldn’t." I stopped rambling long enough to wipe my nose on my sleeve. "And, that’s just stuff I did today. I can’t even ‘member the stuff I did yesterday."

Gramps stared for a few seconds without speaking. I was sure he thought I’d get those switches after all. He finally spoke, "You must try to mind your Mama and your aunts, but Santa expects you to be good, not perfect."

I looked up in wonder. "You mean?"

"Yep. Santa doesn’t care about throw rugs and coffee tables. He wants you to do your best. Have you done that?"

"Yes." I was feeling pretty good.

"And have you told any lies?"

"Not a one!" I felt really good.

"Then I’m sure Santa will bring you something good."

On December twenty-fourth, my aunts and I sat around our Christmas tree eating chocolate and biscuits. Mama and Gramps had already gone to their rooms and Jingle Bell Rock played on the old radio. I hummed as I cut paper-dolls from an old catalog.

Aunt June asked, "Shouldn’t you be going to bed?"

"I can't go to sleep until the fire goes out." Both aunts snickered.

June went back to her album and Judie stuck her head back into the magazine with a picture of a man and a woman kissing on the cover. I grabbed my scissors when something in the window caught my eye. There he was.

Santa!

He had neither hat nor hair on his head. I wondered if I should loan him my new hat. I glanced at my aunts to see if they saw him too, but they were reading. I looked back and Santa held his finger to his lips. He winked and the, just like that, he was gone.

I checked again to see if my aunts saw him,but they kept doing their teenage things. After a quick check of the fireplace to make sure only coals remained, I raced to bed and pulled the cover over my head.

Memories of that Christmas Eve had faded, but the perfect likeness on the greeting card brought the past back. I purchased the card.

Later that night, I called Aunt June. "When I was five, was that Gramps who dressed up as Santa?"

"What are you talking about?"

"There was a Santa at the window. Was that Gramps?"

My aunt remained silent for a moment. "No one ever dressed up as Santa. Even if we could have afforded a Santa Claus suit, your mother would never have allowed it."

"Are you sure?" I persisted. "I saw a Santa outside the window."

"I promise you. While we lived in the farmhouse, there was never a Santa."

Oh but there was. I hung up, perplexed. I still don't know who or what I saw outside that window, but in my mind, Santa will always live.
Copyright © 2011 by Robin Weaver
Now Available! The newest novella in the Merryvale series.

Full Contact Decorating

Christmas Tree Wars

Ebenezer Scrooge -- Defying the Rules of Good Writing?

By Robin Weaver

Say “Ebenezer Scrooge,” and odds are most folks will immediately envision a selfish, miserly old man with no appreciation for fun or kindness. One-hundred-seventy-two years after his creation, the main character from Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol is not only instantly recognizable, but almost universally hated, evidenced by our society’s continued use of the term “Scrooge” to describe a miserable penny pincher.

Which makes me wonder why we continue to read after page one. According to the guidelines of good writing, the hero must be someone to whom we can relate, a person we can envision being. Thank goodness no one told Charles Dickens the main character had to be likeable.

Clearly we don’t like Scrooge, so why does Ebenezer work as the main character?

**Does Scrooge work because Tiny Tim is introduced early in the manuscript?  Ask anyone in advertising--babies and puppies sell. If you want a story to tug at the old heart strings, insert a spunky handicapped child. Works almost as well as a cute little Maltese (even when that child is played by Mary Lou Retton).

**Perhaps Dickens’ self-promotion contributed to the success of A Christmas Carol. Charlie was the first famous writer to read his work in public (at least, he was the first one according to my research).  And our self-promotion guru didn’t just read, he performed, creating a special version of history just for public recitation—with stage directions scribbled all over his script. Dickens dressed for the occasion as well, always wearing full evening dress, with a bright buttonhole, a purple waistcoat and a glittering watch-chain. And you thought creating a trailer was hard work. J

**Some might say A Christmas Carol works because. Ebenezer grows and changes. It’s fairly easy to identify the stages of The Hero’s Journey in Dickens’ tale. Only does Scrooge really change? Our hero only “sees the light” after some imaginary ghosts scare the Dickens out of him. Scrooge “changes” to save his own hide so is that really changing?  Sounds like a new version of selfish to me.  Furthermore, we all know how the story ends, but do we ever think of the “made-over” Scrooge? Nope, he’s the old miser who won’t say “Happy Christmas” to little Timmy Cratchit.

**Or maybe, just maybe—the main character doesn’t have to be likeable. Let’s face it, we American’s like our dirty Christmas stockings.  How else can we explain our fascination with the Sopranos, America’s Most Wanted and Keeping up with Kardashians (etc., etc.).  Let’s be honest, there’s a bit of self-righteous appeal in being morally superior—even it that superiority is graded on the curve.

Whatever the reason for the enduring popularity of A Christmas Carol, Dickens (in this blog author’s humble opinion) illustrates that of all the rules of writing, only one universally applies: If you tell a good story, you can break all the rules.

My Holiday Release....
FULL CONTACT DECORATING
Katarina Snodgrass believes she can get her life back on track. If she can regain her title as the Christmas Tree Contest champion and re-snare the man of her dreams. Too bad soap-opera star, Tripp Anthony, isn’t interested—at least he’s indifferent until Hunter Montgomery arrives and convinces Katrina she needs to make her former flame jealous.The plan succeeds, but Katrina finds herself equally attracted to Tripp and Hunter, the man she loves to hate. Her heart is torn, but can she truly choose either man while she guards a horrible secret?

Ebook available via Amazon November 30.

Print version available now at The Wild Rose Press.