Be-Mused — Karen Templeton

Since I start jury duty two days from now and don’t know how often I’ll get to blog, I’m doing two tonight. The last one was (duh) on writing, but this is just one of those whatever-pops-into-my-head things. So don’t say you haven’t been warned.

I noticed in the toolbar at the top of this page an advert (as my Brit buddies would say) for something that would require people to make a monthly donation in order to read my blog.

Okay. Let’s stop and think about that.

So. . .the deal is, since I’m not exactly pulling in the hordes now, I should make people pay for the privilege of reading my ramblings. Uh-huh. Yeah, that oughtta increase my traffic. (insert imagined eye-rolling smilie of your choice here)

Speaking of smilies (can I seque or what?), #5 lost his retainer late last week. In the house. Somewhere. He was upset because he’d have to endure another impression (which doesn’t sound pleasant to me, either, so just this once I can’t accuse him of overreacting); his parents were upset because the friggin’ things cost a hundred bucks. And, natch, tearing the house apart was an exercise in futility. However, since there wasn’t anything we could do about it over the weekend, I tidily pushed it out of my pretty little head. Until this morning, when I realized I couldn’t put off calling the orthodontist much longer or the kid’s teeth would get out of whack again, and there would go a thousand bucks down the drain. *

But first, I decided, I might as well pay bills, because of this jury duty thing coming up and all. And to do that, I had to clear away several weeks’ worth of receipts and catalogues and various school missives off my desk in order to find a flat surface on which to write. It was when I unearthed the Laffy Taffy wrapper that my heart stumbled. . .and then. . .YES! There it was, lurking underneath a Wal-Mart receipt the length of my arm, the prettiest little red retainer you ever did see!!!!

I let out a little squeal not unlike Bree’s in DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES last night. Yes, it was that good.

*Before anybody heads out here because of the “cheap” braces, this was only a partial treatment of the top front teeth, because of a recalcitrant baby tooth that resisted moving out of the way like an old man determined not to let the developers tear down his shack to make way for the new highway. I don’t even want to know how much the “real” ones will cost down the road.

I’m reached that stage of my WIP that I can only liken to being in the middle of a vast ocean. When I started, I had the still-visible shoreline at my back. And I vaguely know what the opposite shore looks like (or at least I have faith there is one). But here in the middle, there’s nothing but endless, shapeless water as far as the eye can see. In real life, I imagine people with whatever one calls the fear of being stuck in the middl of ocean (meraphobia?) must get pret-ty panicky ‘long about now. Or feel disoriented at the very least. So that’s me. Not exactly panicky (although there have been plenty of books where “panicked” doesn’t even begin to cover it), but definitely disoriented.

It’s not that the words aren’t coming (been through that, too). It’s that I don’t feel particularly connected to them. But all I can do is keep putting them down on the page, trusting that, as they’ve done more than two dozen times before, they’ll eventually lead me to The End. And that the finished product won’t make my editor wonder what I was smoking while I was writing.

As usual, my characters have gone off on their own, leaving the synopsis in the dust. This was supposed to be a simply Surprise Fatherhood story. But no. As I wrote, Plot Twists popped up at every turn like little Bunny Foo-foo. Part of this is my editor’s fault, because she told me the guy was weird and desperate, so in the process of unweirding and de-desperating him, what does he do but tell me things about himself that completelychange his motivations. Okay, so it’s not really my editor’s fault, but I have to blame somebody and my characters aren’t real, after all. Which would leave me, and I’m neurotic enough as it is.

But as I was saying, I’ve been here before, in this vast where-the-hell-am-I? Sea of Doubt. For a change, though, I’m not contemplating sending back the contract unsigned. I do trust I’ll finish this time, because, somehow, I always have.

And just think: It’s only taken me twenty-five books to get here.