Let's Talk About Grace

I know it's been a while since I've posted on my blog. I've been so busy writing books the last two years, the blog has gotten a little neglected. But what I want to talk about today doesn't belong in a book, though it definitely has to do with writing. I thought about the best way to deliver this message last night as I was attempting to fall asleep. I considered a Facebook Live because I feel like it might get a little more attention than a blog post. But I'm not sure I'm ready to put my best face forward just yet. That is, I'm not sure I'm ready to go live and say coherent things to who knows who might be watching. So for now, I'll stick to what I do best and get my thoughts down on "paper" where I can always go back and revise if something doesn't quite come out right.
Last night, I was perusing Amazon as I often do, looking at books in my genre, checking out reviews and rankings and book covers and all of those sorts of things, and a couple of reviews caught my eye. I'm not going to mention the books or the authors here, and I'm not even going to call out the reviewers who seriously need to consider some life changes, but I am going to talk about something that was missing from the reviews in question, and that important item, which seems to be missing more and more from our lives in generally, especially when we are hiding behind screens and keyboards, is grace.

We all need a little grace sometimes. Picture credit: Pixabay

Grace--the ability to give a person a little bit of space, some mercy, to forgive a little or a lot because it's the kind thing to do. That's not Merriam Webster talking or the Bible or even the nagging sound of my mother's voice I sometimes hear in my head when I need to make better choices. That's life telling me that sometimes we all need a little bit of mercy, a little bit of forgiveness, a little bit of "overlooking."
I was reading reviews of some new authors, people who have just started their careers, trying to launch books with little to no funds, I'd guess, no mailing list, no publisher, no social media following. Some of the reviews were so harsh and ugly, it just made me sick. Why do we have to be so hard on each other? If you read a book by a new author, and you don't like it, of course you have the right to tell others what you disliked and possibly warn them from making a purchase of a book they will also have problems with. But one star reviews because a book needs a proofread, or because you found the plot too predictable, just seems spiteful to me.
I have never left a one star review on a book ever, and I have hundreds of reviews posted on Amazon with over 50,000 views. Even when I've read a book that seems absolutely terrible to me, I always find some good to focus on in the review and give at least two stars, often three, because everyone needs hope, everyone deserves to know they are not a complete failure, that they may have hard work ahead of them, but that doesn't mean their dreams are shattered all over the floor.

Why would we want to make anyone else feel this way? Picture credit: Pixabay

Grace. Why not come to the review page with a handful of grace? Why not sprinkle a little bit of sunshine in a world full of anger and madness?
I've been writing long enough that I realize that my style might not be everyone's cup of tea, and that's okay. Occasionally, I will get an ugly review, but I have enough good ones to let those others go. I do read every single one of them, though, and I try to learn what I can from the bad ones, though, for the most part, there usually isn't much to learn except that people can be angry about books sometimes for reasons that seem irrational to me. In the case of these other authors whose work I looked at yesterday, I read some of what they wrote, made some downloads, will finish and review, and when I do, my reviews will remember that I am talking to real people with feelings. I get that reviews are for other readers and not for the author, but that doesn't mean we can't be kind when we communicate our feelings, knowing the author will most likely read every word.
Grace--that's all I'm asking for in this world of keyboard warriors who feel invincible behind their screens. If you take those screens away, you'll see people just as frightened of criticism as the ones they are attacking. And face to face with harsh reviewers, I'm sure they would also appreciate a little grace.

An Open Letter to a Negative Reviewer

Dear Reviewer,
Thank you for taking the time to purchase, read, and leave a review for my book, Ghosts of Southampton: Titanic. I understand that you have millions of books to choose from, and I am honored that you selected mine. While this particular book sells far more copies than any of my others, for some reason, I am struggling to get reviews, and since yours was only the sixth one to post in almost a year, I was excited to see that five finally change to a six.
Unfortunately, that is where my excitement ended.
Before I comment on your rude and practically pointless comment, let me go back up a bit and tell you a little bit about myself and this book. I am not a full-time writer. I am also a mother and a teacher. One of my daughters has autism. I have a long commute. I like to visit Disney World and the beach.  My point? I am a human person--a real one--with a low budget and a passion to tell stories. I am not a traditionally published author with the backings of a major publisher to catch all of my "vocabulary" mistakes--I pay an editor a nominal amount for that. I hire talented, practically undiscovered cover artists to make my covers. I rely on my own devices to spread the word and hustle my own books. I am an amateur writer with the goal of becoming a household name someday.
Yesterday, I was feeling pretty good about my possibilities, too. I found out that my tiny little Amazon check was going to be twice as much this month. It's been almost two months since a day has passed with zero book sales, though my sales are usually only one or two books per day, not the hundreds or thousands professional writers sell.  Still, I am hopeful that someday I will be able to count on my Amazon check to make my car payment.
So, I was feeling hopeful yesterday, thinking about my next work of historical fiction which should be ready to ship to the editor soon (remember the editor--the person who is supposed to check for mistakes in my "vocabulary"?) and then I read your review.
You see, I don't mind critical reviews if they are politely worded and constructive. One of the best reviews I ever got was three stars and it really caused me to reflect on my character development. It made me a better writer.  I even got a one star review once and that made me realize I needed to go back and look at a book I hadn't touched for years. I needed to have my new editor take a look at that one.
But your review was not constructive at all. It offered nothing but the snidely worded advice that I needed to check a few errors in my manuscript.  Let me quote it in its entirety for anyone else who might be reading this post.

Learn Vocabulary
I forced my way through the ridiculous wording. "she clinched her eyes" "later" instead of "latter" & a host of other mistakes. Bleh...

Now, let me say, I appreciate the sentiment. You found some errors that both my editor and myself overlooked.  I have since gone in and made the changes.  But let me ask you something, is this how you typically address people in your everyday life? Do you normally tell colleagues or even random people on the street that they need to change something by using such rude commentary? Do you realize how ridiculous you sound in pointing out two mistakes in a 70,000 word book and not even commenting on the plot or anything else? Did you just assume that I, the author, wouldn't read your review, or do you even  care that you actually offended a real-life person--who has feelings--and called something I labored over for months "ridiculous"?
But it seems I am not the only victim of your wittily worded feedback. I checked out some of your other reviews.  Even the ones where you said you liked the book you gave some backhanded compliment or were downright overly critical.  Thankfully for me, mine wasn't the worst review you left, though if you read this, I have no doubt you will go and change what you had to say and make it even uglier. But that's okay because on behalf of all of the other authors you have left rude and unhelpful feedback for, let me just say, we hear you--and nobody cares.
You see, I've sold just as many copies of this book today as I have every other day this month.  I know for a fact that at least five people have marked your review as "unhelpful" in just a few hours.  I look back at the reviews Ghosts has received on Amazon and Goodreads, the emails I've gotten from random readers, the comments people have left on Facebook, and I realize that I cannot let the comments of one clearly unhappy individual dictate how I feel about myself as a writer or as a person. At the end of the day, not everyone is going to like everything that I write, and while I am always thankful for the feedback, some comments are more meaningful than others, and I am done worrying about yours.
So... thanks again for letting me know we'd missed "clenched" and "latter." I'm sorry the storyline and the characters of Meg and Charlie were not enough to help you get passed these "vocabulary" errors.  I hope that, if you are a writer yourself, you will take the leap and put your work out there because, while it is scary as hell, it's worth it. When you get positive feedback from just one stranger, you know you made the right decision.
For my fellow writers who may see this post and say, "You just have to let negative reviews go and ignore them," I agree.  That is what I usually do. I may regret ever writing this. But I must say I feel better for the moment. In the time we live in where everyone is standing up for their beliefs and their rights, why should we as authors continue to put up with this type of review without reminding the world that we are people, too? If you can't say it constructively, then keep your views to yourself. Otherwise, the only person who ends up looking ridiculous is you.

If you'd like to check out Ghosts of Southampton: Titanic for yourself, you can find it on Amazon here. If you've read it and you have some helpful feedback to leave, even if it's critical, please leave a review. I love to hear from readers, especially when what they have to say helps me to become a better writer.

How to Publish a Book That Doesn't Suck (In 4 Easy Steps)

Let me start by saying, I am no publishing expert. These are just words of wisdom I have picked up as I have traversed the field of writing, editing, and publishing. Besides writing eight books, I have edited hundreds of manuscripts, and read thousands of published works, many of which were self-published.  Based on this vast experience, this is my advice to you, my fellow members of the Indie Writing Club.

1) Think long and hard about your plot, talk it out with someone, and look for holes.

Don't let your readers fall in a plot hole!

Pretty much anything you can think of has been done, one way or another, before you were even born. It's hard to think of a completely unique idea.  Sometimes authors get overzealous with their creative juices and end up concocting story lines that don't make sense or have lots of plot holes in them. If your story idea is no good, the flow is messed up, events happen out of order, the pacing is off, or it doesn't make sense--it's not a very good story. Find someone you trust (another writer, perhaps) and talk through the plot before you even start writing. Otherwise, you may be spending a lot of time writing a really crappy book.

2) Take your time

Time is on your side!

It seems like some authors try to turn out a new book every couple of months. If you've got a team of experts behind you, maybe you can do this. Otherwise, slow down a little bit and make sure that what you are producing is a quality product. I know I published my first book, Deck of Cards, before it was ready, and I paid for it. If you don't believe me, check out the one star review that is still haunting my dreams today. Even though I have since gone back and made a lot of changes (including hiring a new editor, having several other authors read over it and suggest changes, etc.) that particular reader had a poor experience, and I may never see that horrible review go away.  Let my mistake pay off for you and learn from it. Slow down and make sure that all of your ducks are in a row before you hit publish.

3) Hire a good editor!

Everyone can benefit from a good editor

Someday, in all your spare time, look over a random sampling of ebooks on Amazon and notice how many of them list an editor. Now, of the ones that do, look to see how many of them are Indie books.  Have you noticed that not very many Indie books list an editor? There are a lot of reasons for this. Some people just don't think about giving their editor credit. Some editors would rather not be listed. However, in my recent experience, I have noticed that a lot of Indie books don't seem to have an editor to list. You need an editor--or at the very least a good proofreader; you cannot possibly catch all of your own mistakes on your own.  Of course editing costs money, but there are some good editors available for less than you might think. You can find some of them on Fiverr, and the best ones will usually take more than one look. It's worth your time and money to hire someone else to look over your work--and no, your spouse doesn't count unless he or she happens to be an editor.

4) Beta, beta, beta!

Let other people read your work before you publish it

Please don't publish a book that no one else, other than you, has ever read.  You may get lucky and have a great story with no plot holes and nothing out of sequence that makes perfect sense the first time around. But chances are that's not what you have. You need at least a few people to read over it before you release it to the world to check for all of the other things we've talked about. They are not necessarily proofreaders or editors, although I have had a few betas catch mistakes my editor missed.  I try to have at least five, and sometimes as many as twelve, people read over every book I write before I publish it. People who give lots of feedback and ask lots of questions always get invited back, and I usually give them a signed paperback copy. It's not hard to get a few friends to read your stuff, but I suggest getting a few other people as well--fellow writers, friends of friends, avid readers, etc., You want people who won't spare your feelings.  There are a lot of groups on Facebook that provide beta readers. You just have to look around, and don't be afraid to ask. Most people don't mind getting something for free and having their opinion listened to as well.

Again, these are just my suggestions. If you follow them and your book still sucks, don't blame me.  I love Indie writers and the whole idea that we no longer have to have our work approved by big publishing houses to get our stories told, but we have to be smart about it. Let's work together to stop the crappy books and fill in those plot holes with roses, not manure.
If there's anything I can do to assist you in your writing endeavors, please let me know. You can reach me at authoridjohnson@gmail.com. Happy writing!

The Doll Maker's Daughter Chapter Three: NaNoWriMo

I am posting the chapters of my novel for NaNoWriMo as I finish them!  This is completely unedited so please keep that in mind. Please let me know what you think. If you'd like to read the first two chapters, you can find chapter one here and chapter two here.

Chapter Three

The Letter

At first, Serendipity went about her business as she would any other time.  After a short nap, she was always ready to dive right back into her work, picking up precisely wherever she had left off. Today should be no different: she picked up the dress, realized her needle was missing, and chose another one from a wide selection stuffed inconspicuously into a well-used pin cushion. She threaded the needle without looking on the first try, and settled down into her chair, training her mind on other things, anything, other than that letter that sat across the room from her.  She decided to concentrate on the doll she was working on, number 1,452, or as she had nicknamed her, Lizzett Sassafras, thinking how smart she would look attending a cotillion in the pink lacey dress she was currently creating for her.  Lizzett sat on the table near the head of number 1,468, the one she had been working on earlier, which she had chosen to name Hester Pineyfrock (her dress would be green, of course) Lizette’s  rosey cheeks showed their approval of the fabric shade Serendipity had chosen, and for a few moments she was able to live vicariously through the dolls she was bringing to life.

After a few minutes floating around in another dimension, one where dolls went to fancy parties, waltzed for hours with handsome young gentle-dolls, and ate dainty pastries, Serendipity felt eyes boring into the back of her head, and she wasn’t sure if it was one of her four-legged friends, or the letter itself, but she was no longer able to fight the voices, and she quickly found herself lost in a different world.

“Serendipity! You are the dumbest person I’ve ever met.  How can you be twelve years old and still not know how to read!”

“What a bobolyne you are, Serendipity! Do you even know how to write your own name?”

“Dalcop!”

“Nincompoop!”

“Lazy good for nothing cumberground!”

Even as she sat in the solace of her own home, tears began to sting her eyes at the memories, not only of how the words had stung but of how her own actions had assured those people would never have the opportunity to hurt her again--or do so many other things…. If only she had never asked about the dolls. If only she had paid better attention to her mother. If only she had tried harder to be a good sister, finish her chores, learn to read….

Serendipity swiped at her eyes, determined not to let the voices from her past haunt her, not today. Yet, the longer that letter lay behind her, the greater the reminder that she had faltered so grossly in a similar situation.  Eventually, she turned her head slightly to look in the direction of the letter and noticed it appeared to have moved closer to her. She dismissed the thought and returned to her sewing, swiping away some wayward tears as she did so.

“Serendipity, I shall teach you to read myself.”

It was the voice of her father now filling her mind, and she sat the fabric down on her lap momentarily, squeezing her eyes tightly, turning her face up towards the heavens, as if he could somehow see her if he looked down upon her. She held that position for a long pause, taking a deep breath, filling her lungs, trying to remember his scent--tobacco and leather--and then exhaled slowly. She slowly opened her eyes, and before setting them on the doll dress, she stole another glance at the letter, wondering if it had moved forward again.

At least another five minutes went by before she thought of the letter again. This time, it was the quite familiar voice of her own beloved Maevis who had worked with her endlessly trying to teacher her letters and sounds, short words, how to combine syllables, so many thing she just never could seem to grasp.  But rather than coaxing her to attempt to sound a word, her friend’s voice was saying simply, “What have you to lose? Give it a go.”

And she was right, of course.  Serendipity knew that nothing terrible would happen if she were to stand, retrieve the letter, open it, and attempt to read it. In fact, the tragedy that had occurred some eight years ago hadn’t happened because she had read--in fact, it had happened because she had not read. While it was the thought of attempting to read that caused her heart to pound and her palms to sweat, if history were to repeat itself, she’d need to ignore the letter--to not read it.

So with that realization, Serendipity stood, sat her sewing aside, turned, and took one step towards the letter, her bare foot sliding across the rough floor, dragging along the splintered wood cautiously. With a deep breath, she took another step forward and then another, until the letter was at her feet. All she had to do was bend over and pick it up.

Her hand shook as she reached for it.  She examined it again, feeling its weight, light, and its significance, quite important. She read her name again--something she could do easily, and then held her breath as she slipped one thin finger beneath the seal and broke it open. She slowly pulled out one thin sheet of paper and watched the envelope flutter to the floor.

Carefully, the unfolded the halved paper, noticing immediately that the ink was black, not the same gold as the outside.  It was written in flowery cursive, not calligraphy, certainly not print, which would make it easier.  She glanced down at the words, squinted, realized the room was too dark, and stepped over to the fireplace.

Her eyes adjusted quickly to the new light, but she continued  to squint, thinking, perhaps, that would somehow help.  She attempted to remember the things her father had told her--about letter names and shapes. She glanced up, thinking of Maevis’s words, then she returned her eyes to the note and did her best to decipher the message.

Dear Ms. Fizzleswitch:

Yes, that part was easy. All letters started out with “dear” and she knew her own name.

“You are c or g lee in vtb to jo in us as an e lit mem der of tyou mak rs atthe N or the P old.  Please ex qct me onw eek for tob ay. We areh on orb to have so me one of yor tall enbs am go st us.

Sincerely,

Serendipity did not dare attempt to decipher the signature, as it was signed in such  a

way that none of the letters looked recognizable at all.  

She sighed.  None of it made much sense.  She looked at the body of the letter again.  She knew some of the words--and parts of it seemed to make sense. Clearly, she was invited to go somewhere. But where? And who had invited her?  Why would anyone want to invite her to go anywhere? Everyone knew what she had done…. No one would ever associate with her by choice.  No, whoever sent this letter was clearly poking fun at her grim situation or had sent it to her by mistake.

At any rate, she wasn’t going anywhere.  That was for certain.

She glanced over the letter one more time, let one more sigh go, and then folded back up, and retrieving the envelope from the floor, she shoved it back inside. For a moment, she contemplated tossing it into the fire, but then she remembered it wouldn’t burn, and she tossed it into her rocking chair instead.  

A small squeak at her feet let her know her friend had returned.  Bending over and scooping him up, she made her way back to her straight back chair next to her work. “There you go, Mr. Pozzletot. I tried--and I failed.  At least I gave it a go,” she thought to herself, shrugging.  Then, discarding the thought as quickly as she had discarded the letter, Serendipity returned to her work, hoping to finish number 1,452 in time for Maevis to ship her out by the end of the day tomorrow. Somewhere, a little girl was waiting for Lizzette Sassafras, and Serendipity did not wish to disappoint.

The Doll Maker's Daughter Chapter Two: NaNoWriMo

I am posting my novel for National Novel Writing Month chapter by chapter as I write it.  This is Chapter Two of The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas. For Chapter One, click here.

The Doll Maker

“A merchant, who had three daughters, was once setting out upon a journey; but before he went he asked each daughter what gift he should bring back for her. The eldest wished for pearls; the second for jewels; but the third, who was called Lily, said, 'Dear father, bring me a rose.' Now it was no easy task to find a rose, for it was the middle of winter; yet as she was his prettiest daughter, and was very fond of flowers, her father said he would try what he could do. So he kissed all three, and bid them goodbye.”

“Papa!  That merchant had three daughters, as well, just as you have three daughters,” Serendipity laughed as sat upon her father’s knee, listening to his deep voice portray the tales of the Brother’s Grimm in full spectrum.

“So he does,” Rudolph Fizzlestitch confirmed.  “But I’m sure that his three daughters are not nearly as beautiful as mine.” He lay the book aside for just a moment and smiled at the sweet face of his youngest daughter, her blond curls pulled into sharp braids behind her ears, just the way her mother liked them.  

Serendipity giggled, looking up at the ruddy face of her dark-haired father. “When shall I learn to read, Papa?” she asked, shifting her eyes to  the much-loved volume as it sat on the end table next to Papa’s comfy chair.

“Soon,” he confirmed. “You’re going on five years old now. Both of your sisters learned when they were about your age. Have you been studying the ABC book I brought you from my last trip?”

Serendipity glanced across the room at where the volume poked its spine out from the shelf, its binding already showing some wear. “Yes, Papa,” she nodded.  “I’ve been looking at it each day. I have asked Charity and Grace to help me with my letters, but they are always so busy with their own lessons.”

“And what of your mother?” Rudolph asked, adjusting her small body on his knee so that he could better meet her eyes and running a finger across the end of his bulbous nose.

“Mama is quite busy with the household. Ms. Maevis has sat with me from time to time but….” Serendipity hesitated, her finger instinctively hooking the corner of her mouth.

Rudolph gently tugged her hand away. “What is it, darling?”

“Well, sometimes, some of the letters look exactly the same.  And… sometimes I think the book has grown new letters, ones that weren’t there the day before.”

Rudolph chuckled and patted her knee. “Oh, Serendipity, my sweet, you’ll get the hang of it.  I promise, as soon as I get back from my next trip I will take some time off and I shall work with you myself.”

Serendipity’s face lit up. If anyone could teach her to read, it was her father. “Do you promise?” she asked, clasping her hands in front of her chest.

“Yes, yes, my dear,” Rudolph replied, hugging her to his neck.  Her arms squeezed him tightly.  “As soon as I return from Germany, I shall teach you to read.”

“Germany…” came her mother’s voice from the entryway to the parlor.  “Of all the silly notions…”

“Now, now, dear,” Rudolph said, lifting Serendipity as he stood, sitting her in his chair and crossing to his wife. “Though I will fully admit it was Serendipity’s idea to broaden our horizons, I’m not at all against this change in goods. You know as well as I do that the cotton market is drying up. If the States go to war as expected, there will be far less opportunities to procure enough marketable goods to continue current profit levels.  Diversifying our assets just makes sense.”

Prudene Fizzlestitch shook her husband’s arm off of her shoulder and took a few steps into the room.  “Rudolph, you can spring those canned phrases on our associates as much as you’d like to, but I for one know that the only reason you chose to explore the bisque doll market is because of this young lady right here. She has you completely wrapped around her finger.”

Serendipity’s eyes widened.  Her mother was a tall, thin woman with proper shoulders and a pointy nose. Though she had often witnessed pats of affection and confirm glances aimed at her sisters, she had very few remembrances of tenderness, and while she often supposed that her mother had possibly loved her once, when she was an infant, that time had long since passed for some reason completely unbeknownst to her. Though she was never cruel, she was often sharp and impatient, always choosing to side with Charity and Grace whenever there was the slightest possibility that Serendipity had remotely wronged either of them.

However, staring into her mother’s blackened eyes, the kind voice of her father reassured her that she was loved, and his fondness for his youngest daughter more than made up for any disdain seething from her mother. “Prudence,” Rudolph chuckled, absently stroking his nose again, leaving it a familiar shade of red, “to be sure, our sweet girl did have some influence on my decision. After all, no one loves her dolls more than our little Serendipity. But I do not make business decisions based on the whims of wee tots.” He crossed to stand next to her, his eyes silently asking if she would evade another attempt at fondness. Her eyes softened slightly, which he took as acquiescence, and he rested his hand softly on her shoulder. “We’ve already made a significant profit on the first two shipments. I promise you, this is my last trip to Germany for some time, and I will return to the cotton mills just as soon as these last pieces arrive.”

Prudence shook her head. “You already have an entire warehouse full of heads, fabric, glass eyes--human hair…”

“Mostly mohair…”

“How many more pieces do you need?”

“Prudence,” Rudolph implored again, taking her gently by the shoulders to face him, “this is a wise investment, I promise you. You’ll see. Have you ever known me to throw away good money?”

Prudence turned her head and her eyes bore down on Serendipity where she sat in an over-stuffed chair. The longer her mother looked, the more she began to sink into the chair, a lump forming in her throat, her stomach knotting beneath those dark eyes. After what seemed like ages to the small child, her mother returned her stare to her father and said calmly, “I only hope you haven’t let the dreams of a small child destroy our fortune.”

Rudolph Fizzlestitched laughed, his smile reaching his eyes. “I haven’t, I assure you.  After all, I named her Serendipity for one simple reason. She is our fortune.” And giving his wife one last squeaze, he turned to his daughter, still laughing, scooped her up in his arms, and began to dance her around the room.

At the touch of her father’s hands, Serendipity’s trepidation melted away, and she began to giggle, swaying through the air to the tune of “Ring a Ring of Rosies,” as her father hummed. As the verse ended, he lifted her high into the air and then brought her quickly back to the ground as she sung, “We all fall down!”

Serendipity shut upright, her heart pounding in her chest.  She glanced around the room for a moment, not  quite sure of where she was or where she should be.  The familiar surroundings of her own loft began to calm her raging pulse, and she put her hand on her chest, pressing down slightly least it should chance to try an escape.

She half expected to see the smiling face of her father, half expected to see the disparaging stare of her mother.  Neither were there, of course. She wiped beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.  They were both gone, long gone.  She had done them both in, one at a time, through different, yet ultimately equalizing circumstances.

After a few moments to shake the memories from her head, she threw the thin blanket she allowed herself off of her legs and slid across the rough hewn floor to the ladder, half climbing, half falling down the stairs to her workspace below.  

Regardless of the time, the room always looked the same--dark--and though she had a pocketwatch somewhere, she never cared to look at it. She could tell the time only by the arrival of her friend Maevis, who came by at least twice each day, once in the morning and once in the evening, and occasionally by her own stomach, which would often alert her when she had not eaten for several days. Other than that, time was of little importance to Serendipity, and she measured the passing of her life only by the number of dolls she completed and the number she still needed to finish. As she made her way to the table and the previously cast aside dress, she was certain of two things: Pozzletot would show his disappointment in her behavior through his absence, and the letter would still be present--staring at her just as distinctly as the unfinished dolls.

NaNoWriMo Chapter One

I am participating in NaNoWriMo again this year (that's National Novel Writing Month) which means I have challenged myself to write 50,000 words in November.  After much contemplation, I finally decided to write a fantasy Christmas story. It is definitely different than anything I have ever written before, but I think it will be a lot of fun to write. I hope it is just as interesting to read! I have decided to post the chapters as I go. Please keep in mind this is all raw--none of it is edited even by me--so there may be errors and I may end up going back and making some structural changes as well. But this is a great opportunity to let you in to my writing process and also share my story with you as it is literally unfolding (pun intended.) I would really love to hear your thoughts!
Here is Chapter 1 of The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas.

The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas by ID Johnson

"Serendipity"

Marwolaeth Hall was an imposing structure with its gabled roofline, imposing turrets that numbered three, and the seemingly daunting sharpness of even its rounded turret that capped the bay window on the eastern side.  It wasn’t necessarily the largest  dwelling one might chance to come across in the moorland near the village of Dunsford, England, but it was certainly commanding enough to make one stop and consider the nature of those who would make such a place their home. Even in the daylight it seemed to whisper of treachery and consternation, and it was no wonder the original owners had given it such a fortuitous name.

Serendipity Fizzlestitch had not called Marwolaeth her home for nearly eight years, choosing instead to occupy a much smaller, much less daunting cottage nearly twenty furlongs to the south of her original home, off in the woods where the trees blocked most of the view of the gothic structure. Not that she ever went out where she could potentially catch a glimpse, nor did she ever dare peek out the tightly drawn, black woolen curtains. Her mind was apt to visit Marwolaeth even without a visual reminder and she found it best to distance herself in every way possible if she were to hold on to lingering strands of sanity, no matter how drifting or fleeting they may be. No, Serendipity had not stepped foot inside Marwolaeth even once since she had been dragged out screaming by Dr. Tweedlton and Deputy Shillingpepper the morning of April 8, 1862, the day she had killed her family.

The cottage consisted of one large room with a loft where Serendipity kept a mat on the floor where she occasionally gave in and rested for a few hours from time to time.  More often, she dozed restlessly for an hour or so here and there in a wooden rocking chair situated near the fireplace, which was often the only source of light.  Maevis was always telling her to open the curtains or light one of the lanterns she kept oiled on her weekly visits. But Serendipity preferred the dark. It was harder to see one’s sins in the absence of light.

It was also a bit harder to see her work, but she had become so accustomed to the repetitive movements of her art that she truly required very little of her eyesight.  There were times, however, that she felt her eyes had become so accustom to the dark that she was fairly certain she would be able to see even in the pitch black. She has always had pale skin and light hair but now, whenever she accidentally caught a glimpse of herself in the tin tea pot or one of her other meager dishes, she hardly recognized herself.  Which was not unwelcome.  The idea of being someone else was a pleasant one, and perhaps, if she had the smallest spark of hope that she could ever metamorphosize into someone other than who she was, she might entertain the possibility of doing just that.  But she knew in her heart she would never be more than the doll maker’s murderous daughter who occupied a cottage behind her childhood home which continued to mock her in every passing thought and memory.

She sat in her straight back chair near the fire, her large magnifying glass posed between herself and the head she held carefully in her right hand, a finely tipped paint brush slowly tapping against her chin as she contemplated precisely the expression for this newest beauty.  Over the years, she had become so familiar with the medium she now felt as if she were able to interpret the personality behind each blank  slate and bring forth a living individual from within.  It generally only took a moment of careful contemplation before the face began to speak to her, and then the paint brush would begin to dance in her hand, and before she knew it, there was a jovial smiling face looking up at her.  

After each layer of flesh toned paint, the doll would need to be fired. Since the kiln was located elsewhere on the property, Serendipity relied heavily on Maevis to take away her sweet friends and bring them back unharmed in a timely fashion.  She had eventually come accustom to taking leave from one companion for a spell only to be reunited with her again time and again, finding solace in another equally precious individual as she waited, until at last the paint was set. Once that part was finished, Serendipity was free to complete each doll one by one, laying each solitary strand of hair, attaching the body and limbs, and crafting the perfect fashionable outfit and shoes to represent the personality that spoke to her from behind the blank facade.

Now, after several moments of quiet contemplation, this new friend began to speak, and Serendipity allowed her hand to flow freely across the surface of what would soon be a lovely face, the picture in her head projecting onto the bisque in fluid, unhurried movements.

As she worked, brushing on tiny eyebrow hairs one by one, there was a fluttering at the fireplace that momentarily caught her attention.  The magnifying glass before her would have given any spectator a magnificent view of her left eye, had anyone been nearby, and she hurriedly pushed it aside so that she could attempt to discover what had apparently flown down the chimney.  

Glancing about, she realized a medium-sized stark white envelope was resting comfortably atop the flickering shards of orange and purple waving about inside the hearth.  It struck her fancy that the paper was not instantly engulfed in flames, but since she was rather busy with her new companion, she dismissed the phenomenon and returned to her work, certain that scurrying over to retrieve it would be of little use should it be capable of catching fire, and if for some reason it was impermeable to flames, it would be thusly situated upon completion of the feature she was now creating.

Several moments, perhaps half an hour, passed before Serendipity was satisfied with the smiling face, and she eventually sat the doll head down carefully on the roughly hewn wooden table that held her paints and turned her attention back towards the fireplace, certain that whatever wayward piece of postage had haphazardly found its way into her chimney would be long gone. But it wasn’t.  It still sat there uncharred and unblemished atop the dancing flames, staring at her almost as intensely as the blank canvas she had just personified.

Serendipity stood and stretched her back, noting that it no longer seemed quite as erect as it once was from so many hours of carefully examining her work, and crossed the few feet to the fireplace.  Before she made a move to retrieve the stalwart article, she contemplated its existence a moment longer.  Finally, taking the poker in her long, spindly, paint-stained fingers, she drew the envelope out of the flames, and it came to rest on the brick surround, no worse for the wear.

Again, Serendipity hesitated.  The envelope was seal side up, red wax with a mistletoe imprint anxiously awaiting the tear of a quick finger.  She was certain that, once she flipped it over, she would see some print--something she would likely find indecipherable, as most writing was, and she did not like being faced with such a predicament within the solace of her own solitary abode.

At last, she bent down and took the letter in her hand, surprised that it didn’t even appear to be warm.  With an audible sigh, she flipped it over and was surprised to see that she could, in fact, read the inscription. It simply said, “Serendipity Fizzlestitch,” written in neat, gold ink in legible, if not slightly fancy script.

A soft squeaking near her feet caught her attention, and she sighed again, this time in relief.  Glancing down, she saw one of the few living creatures she considered a friend. “Well, Pozzeltot,” she said, bending to scoop the little mouse into her free hand, “it seems we’ve received a message.”

Pozzletot wiggled his little black, whiskery nose to and fro, rubbing his hands together several times before resting back on his haunches against Serendipity’s palm. His eyes were large and curious, and his tail wiggled back and forth as if he were trying to form a question mark.

“I haven’t any idea who it is from,” Serendipity admitted, flipping the foreign object over in her hand.  “I would suppose it is some sort of a magic letter, if I still believed in magic,” she continued.

Once again, Pozzletot made an inquisitive sounding squeak, gesturing as if to ask a follow up question. He rubbed his nose with his hand and shook his tail.  Then, looking off across the room, he squeaked again, louder this time, and within a few seconds several of his colleagues skittered across the room, congregating near Serendipity’s feet.

“Well, hello my little loves!” she exclaimed, dropping carefully to her knees and bending closer to the floor. “It seems like it’s been days since I’ve seen any of you, I’ve been so preoccupied with my work.” She lowered her hand so that Pozzletot could join the others and sat in silent observation as they seemed to chat in a language she could only assume to understand.

After a moment, she realized they were all gesturing toward the letter now, and she returned her attention to it as well.  Once again, she examined the front and the back, turning it over in her hands several times, before shrugging her shoulders and addressing the small audience. “I suppose I could open it. It’s only…  you know how I feel about… reading.”

Pozzletot stepped forward, an encouraging expression on his whiskery face.  As she stood staring down at his innocent wide eyes,they momentarily morphed into the shocked expression of pain and disbelief she had created the last time she was in a similar situation, and her stomach began to tighten, her breathing labored. “No,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, my friends. I… can’t.  Not now.”

Before she could catch a glimpse of their disappointment, she stood, tossed the letter aside, not even watching as it landed near her rocking chair on the wooden floor, and returned hastily to her work.  There was hair to string, gowns to stitch, shoes to assembly. Whatever the envelope contained could wait. Eventually, most of her tiny roommates scampered off, back into the solace of the cottage walls, leaving only Pozzletot to accompany her as she worked. He made his way up the gnarled table leg and found a seat next to Serendipity’s spool of thread.  Though a dusty Singer occupied one corner of her living space, she preferred to stitch by hand, as her grandmother had shown her when she was a wee lass, and she was quick and accurate with her weapon of choice.  Pozzletot often watched her work, often in silence, though the occasional squeak of marvel served as quality assurance even if her mind wandered from her work to distant times, as it so often did.

Occasionally, she would share her remembrances aloud in whispered stories to her tiny friends. Pozzletot was often joined by other members of the household; Bitsy, Muffincrumb, Mr. Waddlepants, or Gypsim, perhaps.  Today, however, it was only he, and after a few moments, Serendipity began to justify herself.

“It’s not as if I have invited the outside world in, mind you,” she began mid-thought, insisting Pozzletot infer the context.  “It’s probably nothing anyway, mind you. Perhaps a Christmas card….I believe the holiday season has just past. Perhaps it’s nothing but a piece of recently discovered postage the postman mishandled. I should think it would have been better directed to… the main house, where Maevis or Ms. Crotlybloom could have given it some attention.”

Pozzletot squeaked, and Serendipity shifted her eyes away from her work momentarily before returning them to the hem she was working on so adamantly.  “I have no explanation as to why it didn’t catch fire and turn to ash,” she admitted.  “Perhaps the world has invented some flame retardant paper in these past few years.” Once again her eyes flickered in his direction, and he seemed to scratch his head in disagreement. Huffing, Serendipity’s pale blue eyes crinkled a bit as she peered closely at the small stitches she rapidly, yet precisely, placed along the folded edge of gingham.  “Don’t look at me like that,” she replied sharply.  “You can’t begin to understand what it’s like for me….”

This time, Pozzletot seemed to disagree quite harshly, stamping his narrow foot and knocking Serendipity’s favorite paint brush off of the paint jar where she had rested it a few minutes ago.  “Now, now,” she scolded, righting the instrument, “I won’t have you questioning my motives. It simply won’t do.  You’re a guest here, after all, my tiny friend,” she reminded him.

Pozzletot slowly shook his head from side to side, a disparaging expression on his pointy face.  

Serendipity tossed the dress onto her lap, paying little care for the sharp needle, which came loose from the thread and tinkled across the floor.  The knot in her stomach was making itself known again, and flashes of grim faces, the wretched smell of vomit mixed with blood, and the harsh voice of her mother all came back to her.  “Serendipity! What have you done? Foolish child! You’ve killed us all…”

“No!” she exclaimed, snapping back to the present. “I won’t do it.” Rising from the chair, she flung the dress on to the table, only slightly leery of the open paint jars, and turned her back to the astonished mouse sitting nearby. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Pozzletot, my head is aching. I think I shall retire to my quarters for some rest.”

Pozzletot squeaked at her retreating back as she made her way across the room to the rickety ladder that led to her loft space.  His protests fell on deaf ears, and Serendipity ascended to her private chambers with nothing more to be said from any of her permanent house guests.

2015 Three Day Novel Writing Contest Recap

You may recall that I spent last Labor Day weekend writing Transformation--a feat that nearly killed me.
Okay--that may be an exaggeration, but writing nearly 80,000 words in three days is a pretty difficult task.
This time around, I decided to tone it down a bit for my 3 Day Novel Writing Contest entry. I only wrote 54,000 words.
In three days.
It nearly killed me.
(But only because I was already sick.)
Compared to most of the other writers I was keeping up with that weekend, it still seems to be quite a lot of words.
But it's not the quantity that counts. It's the quality.
And I think you'll really like what I produced.

Learn more about the 3 Day by clicking here.

The name of the book is Ghosts of Southampton: Titanic. I have added the Titanic part recently because I have decided this will, in fact, be a series. I have a few alpha readers looking it over now and no word yet, but I think y'all are gonna like it.
The story is about a woman named Meg who boards the Titanic in Southampton, her home town. She is running away from someone, but we don't know who, not at first.  She is determined to start her life over again.  Unfortunately, we find out pretty quickly the man she has been engaged to for the last three years is also on the ship.  Only he doesn't recognize her because they've never met.  He's a billionaire from New York City named Charlie Ashton. And when Meg finally meets him face to face, she realizes she's made a terrible mistake.
But he's not the only person Meg is running from, and it seems some of her other ghosts have also followed her aboard the Titanic. If she doesn't figure out a way to explain to Charlie why she left Southampton without ever even meeting him, she knows she'll lose him forever.
Oh, and the boat is sinking....

I don't want to give the ending away, but the boat sinks.

Over the course of the three days I spent with Meg and Charlie (and Kelly, Daniel, Jonathan, Molly Brown, Ruth, and Baby Lizzy) I fell in love with them and their story! And I can't wait to share it with you! The only problem is, if I want to have any chance at winning the 3 Day, I can't publish the story until after the winner is announced, and while I really don't think I'll even make the short list (I didn't last year and look how successful Transformation and the rest of that series has become) I still feel like I should wait.
Luckily for you I've decided to go back a bit in Meg and Charlie's story and write Ghosts of Southampton: Inception--which will be a prequel to Titanic. And--I may go back further than that as well. AND--I'm thinking about publishing it on Wattpad and some other free sites.
What do you think?  Does Meg's story sound interesting?  Are we all Titaniced out or are we good for another go?  I'd really love to hear your thoughts.
P.S. If you're a writer at all, you owe it to yourself to try the 3 Day. It's one of the hardest most amazing things you will ever do in your life. The last 3 Day saw the creation of Cadence, Aaron, Elliott, and Eliza, and who doesn't love them?  You can purchase Transformation here for only 99 cents and see what can be done in only three days!

Writer Problems: Hesitating to Drop the F-Bomb

Let's face it, there are certain things you will probably never hear a sexy, badass, male lead character say--things like:
"Dag nabit!"
"Holy malarkey"
"Jumpin' Jehosaphat!"

No, chances are, if you are reading a dramatic tale where a male (or the female, for that matter) is royally pissed off about something, chance are in our day and age in particular, they are likely going to drop the F-bomb--or to quote one of my favorite Christmas movies "the F dash, dash, dash word."

But as a goody-two-shoes, it is extremely difficult for me to say, or even type, that word. Why? Visions of my sweet aunt who has probably never even used the word crap before cross my mind. I see her sitting in a rocking chair, an afghan over her lap, deciding to finally see what it is her precious, innocent niece has been up to with her writing, and a few seconds later she is passed out on the floor, my use of the F word sending her heart into overload. Yes, in my mind, using the F word will kill my loved ones!

What is your opinion on swearing in books?

I know it's ridiculous and absurd. And so with this book, Repercussion, I'm taking the plunge. I'm using it--Aaron will say the F word if it is the last thing he does! (I bet you're hoping it's not the last thing he does, but remember, main characters die in this book, too, so....)

Now, don't worry. The entire book is not laced with curse words. It's fairly similar to my other books as far as swearing is concerned, and I vow to only include the F word once, because in my opinion, one can generally think of a more creative way to express one's self. (Unless one just happens to be dying....)

Fellow authors, what are your feelings about using the F word or curse words in general? Am I unique with my hang up?
Readers, how much cussing is too much? I'd love to hear from you.

And remember, if you pre-order Repercussion, it's only 99 cents and all proceeds go to help the Whitley family with medical expenses for their sweet daughter's kidney surgery. You can read more about Sophie Whitley here.