Fiorella heard a very good talk at her local Romance Writers of America meeting last night, but it was also disturbing. The speaker was charming, likable. organized, and knew what she was talking about, which was how to pound out book after book and sell, sell, sell. The answer, of course, is IT--information technology--and the speaker knew her programs backward and forwards, totally unlike the traditional image of the romance writer whose husband discovers her the next day, asleep at the card table she's set up in the kitchen, with her pages sprawled in front of her.
And totally unlike Fiorella, who angsts it out on the couch in the den or upstairs in her supposed office with her computer balanced in her lap, who writes and rewrites, who strives for originality, who has messages of hope and strength she's trying to get out.
Whatever happened to the romance of romance writing? Whatever happened to the story?
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
Endor
Another one of Fiorella's short stories.
As they did every new moon, the three elderly sisters met at Starbucks, reserved a table by depositing their dear mother's cookbook on it, and walked up to the counter to place their orders. In the few seconds it took for the barista to turn toward the back of the store and instruct her co-worker to add extra whipped cream to Glinda's hot chocolate and Irene's latte, an athletically built young man pushed Zelda aside and put in his own order.
"Gimme the biggest cup of Dark Roast that you have and make it snappy! I've got places to go and people to see!"
Hazel gave him a darkling look. "Sir, perhaps you didn't realize it, but you cut in line. Our sister was next."
"Too bad." The athletic young man shrugged and checked out the room for a table.
The three women exchanged hard-eyed glances, but knew better than to make a scene in public. Picking up their drinks, they turned to walk back to their table, then saw that the athletically-built young man had claimed it for himself. Glinda bristled with anger. "Sir, you're sitting at our table! That is our dear mother's cookbook."
The athletic young man glared at her. "Find another table. granny, and take your crazy book with you! Damn thing tried to bite me! "
A table opened up, and the three sisters sat down together, put their mother 's book of recipes in the center of the table, then sipped their beverages, watching the athletic young man the whole time. When he left without cleaning up the table, Glinda swooped down like a night owl sighting its prey, slipped his cup into a plastic bag. and stowed it in her purse. Then, their faces grim, the women drove over to Zelda's, consulted Mother's recipes, set the iron pot to boiling with the standard ingredients, smiled at each other, and tossed in the cup that the athletic young man had used.
Eye of newt and toe of frog work so much better with fresh DNA in the mix.
As they did every new moon, the three elderly sisters met at Starbucks, reserved a table by depositing their dear mother's cookbook on it, and walked up to the counter to place their orders. In the few seconds it took for the barista to turn toward the back of the store and instruct her co-worker to add extra whipped cream to Glinda's hot chocolate and Irene's latte, an athletically built young man pushed Zelda aside and put in his own order.
"Gimme the biggest cup of Dark Roast that you have and make it snappy! I've got places to go and people to see!"
Hazel gave him a darkling look. "Sir, perhaps you didn't realize it, but you cut in line. Our sister was next."
"Too bad." The athletic young man shrugged and checked out the room for a table.
The three women exchanged hard-eyed glances, but knew better than to make a scene in public. Picking up their drinks, they turned to walk back to their table, then saw that the athletically-built young man had claimed it for himself. Glinda bristled with anger. "Sir, you're sitting at our table! That is our dear mother's cookbook."
The athletic young man glared at her. "Find another table. granny, and take your crazy book with you! Damn thing tried to bite me! "
A table opened up, and the three sisters sat down together, put their mother 's book of recipes in the center of the table, then sipped their beverages, watching the athletic young man the whole time. When he left without cleaning up the table, Glinda swooped down like a night owl sighting its prey, slipped his cup into a plastic bag. and stowed it in her purse. Then, their faces grim, the women drove over to Zelda's, consulted Mother's recipes, set the iron pot to boiling with the standard ingredients, smiled at each other, and tossed in the cup that the athletic young man had used.
Eye of newt and toe of frog work so much better with fresh DNA in the mix.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Literary Responsibility
Fiorella spends way too much time on minutia when she's writing her romances. The editor can deal with whether she writes "He did not" or "He didn't." What Fiorella has to do is come up with an engaging story and make every sentence sing.
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