I am so lucky to be an occasional recipient of an Advance Reading Copy of a new or upcoming novel.
It not only allows me to read books by my favorite authors a wee bit early, but it introduces me to books by "new to me" authors I might otherwise miss.
I've discovered several authors through ARCs who are now permanent residents on my auto-buy list. I'm happy to have their books on my shelves, or on my Kindle.
Here's a few upcoming novels that I enjoyed that I'd like to share in hopes you might enjoy some of them as well.
This is hard for me to tell. Hard for me to write. Which is usually a bit easier for me than telling. And many of you will "get it." Oh, yes. By now you've read my piece about the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame event we attended this past Sunday. Can I tell you a personal highlight? It was when Margaret Maron, friend and personal literary icon, introduced me to a friend of hers saying, "This is Kaye Barley. Kaye's a friend of mine. She's a writer." I will always puff up like a banty rooster when Margaret refers to me as a friend. I'm that proud. But, do you have any idea how this might have felt to a person who is, frankly, unable to refer to herself as "a writer?" To be introduced to someone. By Margaret Maron. As a writer. Did I cry? Almost. (well,yes, okay, I did get a wee bit teary . . . ). But I didn't burst into sobs. I would have if Margaret and I had not been standing there, holding hands, while talking to her friend. 'Cause I would have run off to some private little place and boo-hooed. Probably loudly. And since I've never been able to cry "pretty," it would have been nasty.
And then? Then, riding home I was browsing through Facebook and saw a picture that Bob Witchger had taken. A picture of me with Sarah Shaber, Katy Munger, Brenda Witchger aka Brynn Bonner, and Diane Chamberlain. Most of you will recognize these women - writers, all. Excellent writers. Known writers.
Brynn had posted it on her FB page and said this, "On this beautiful sunny day in North Carolina I was privileged to be with writer friends at Weymouth in Southern Pines to see our good friend, Margaret Maron, inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame. Lovely ceremony and a well-deserved honor."
And I started to cry a little. (Again! for God's sake).
Donald looked over and said, "Miss Kaye? (yes, he does sometimes really call me Miss Kaye), what's wrong?"
And I sobbed, "nothing."
This is when husbands have, I think, a hard time deciding whether to laugh, or roll their eyes, or pat you on the leg a little while muttering those little nothings meant to be soothing, or say, as Donald did, "Nothing. Really? Nothing. Well, okay then."
Knowing full well that I would spit it out.
And, so I did.
And he listened.
And then he said, "I don't understand why you can't call yourself a writer. This is the first I've heard of this. I tell people you're a writer. Why can't you tell them you're a writer?"
More tears.
"I don't know," I wailed.
And, of course, I do know.
Sorta. Even though it sounds silly. Especially in this day and time, I think.
And.
It's very hard to admit.
But, I did. Finally. For the first time, maybe.
I told Donald that it comes from all the years of self-published writers being the red-headed step children of the writing community.
And we talked about this.
But then, bless his ever-lovin' sweet soul, he took the time to remind me that my "Whimsey" had gotten some awfully nice reviews. Reviews from people who did not know me from Adam's house cat and did not know I don't (can't) call myself a writer.
And he took the time to remind me I've had a few juried pieces accepted in magazines and anthologies.
And, reminded me about how excited I'd been when I heard about being a finalist at Southern Writers Magazine.
No. Of course I had not forgotten these things. Of course not, but still - it is nice to be reminded of them.
Y'all?
Suffice to say, it was an emotional day.
It was also a day of creative motivation for me.
I don't know, truthfully, that I will ever be able to refer to myself as a writer when someone says to me, "What do you do?" The best I've been able to do, so far, is say, "I write a little."
If you know me, you know I try not to whine. I may rant and shout like a sailor. But I don't "think" I do too much whining. Well, honeys, this is a whine of a sort to make up for all those past un-whines. Skip it if, like me, you're pretty turned off by the noises made by a constant whiner. Pitiful is just not my thing. And I do not mean this to sound as though it's directed at those of you who have very legitimate complaints. There are, after all, real reasons for complaints and then there are those who feel as though if they don't "suffer" a drama a day they're not going to get the attention they so need. THOSE are the people I'm talking about here. But enough about them - this is gonna be all about me. All about me whining . . . Being pitiful . . . I hope I've made that perfectly clear. (insert little winking emoticon here) So. I was suffering a bad case of the blues about this week. Thanksgiving. My birthday. Happening this week without my mom. My answer to combating this week of the blues is the same as it is for so many other things. A week at the beach. Now, as you may have figured out over time, the beach, the ocean, any big expanse of water meeting the sky is a balm to my soul. It's not something I simply enjoy. It's something I truly need. Need from the very bottom of my feet to the very depths of my heart. If I had known my ties to the water were so strong I doubt I could have ever left Cambridge where every drive I ever took was, sooner or later, going to have me going across a bridge. Or have me within just a head's turn to see the water. Cambridge Creek. The Choptank River. I get emotional by only thinking about them. But. Had I never left Cambridge, what are the chances I would have ever met Don Barley? Or many of the other people I've met on this life journey. People I'm privileged to call "friend?" So. There's my making lemonade out of lemons. Oh, hell - enough of that. I am here to whine, I tell you! We were able, on very short notice, to rent a house at Topsail Island. Our favorite "go to" beach of the past many years. The house was perfect. Dog friendly. Ocean front. Large deck facing the ocean. A sunroom in case the weather was a bit too nippy for early morning/late night coffee times. As long as I can see, hear, or even sense those ocean waves, I am a contented woman. And there was going to be a bonus this trip. Because we pass closely to my friends Margaret and Joe's place we sometimes get to visit with them on this trip to the beach. I was hoping to meet them for lunch today on our way. But, as chance would have it - that couldn't happen this time because Margaret was already planning a trip to Topsail and would already be there. Long story short - plans were made for me to get together with her for dinner this evening. The dinner was to also include some of her writing group - The Weymouth 7. The Weymouth 7 includes Margaret Maron, Sarah Shaber, Diane Chamberlain, Mary Kay Andrews, Brenn Bonner Witchger, Katy Munger and Alexandra Sokoloff. Pretty stellar group, huh? While all seven were not part of this week's writing retreat at Topsail, Margaret, Sarah, Diane, Mary Kay and Brenn were. And my beach bonus was to include dinner with those who were there. Except Brenn who ended up not feeling well. Oddly enough, she apparently was pretty contagious with vertigo which she passed along to me. (is that even possible?! I don't think so . . . but I need to place blame on someone and Brenn gets to be it). <insert another winking emoticon right here> So. Not only are we not spending this week at the beach. I am not having dinner with Margaret, Sarah, Diane and Mary Kay. Insert every four letter bad word you have ever heard uttered in your entire life right here. And now do it again with greater emphasis. More gusto, please! Believe me, you're not even coming close to expressing the disappointment I feel. Except for Mary Kay, I know these women. I was looking forward to meeting Mary Kay because I've been a long time fan. Loooong time fan. I lived in the area she used to write about under the name Kathy Hogan Trocheck in her Callahan Garrity series. And I love the books she's writing now. So. A group of women, most of whom I'm lucky enough to know. Women I admire. Read. Women whose work I read for heaven's sake - how cool is that?! How could I not be sad and disappointed. I demand a "do over!" (and Brenn joins me in this demand). In the meantime, today I'm picking up my copy of Diane Chamberlain's newest book, "Pretending to Dance." I'll read it and about 6:00 this evening I'll lift my glass in a toast to the women at Topsail who I'll be missing. <clink>
"I want to write a book, but I
can't get started."
I hear that over and over again, so I'd
like to give wannabe writers some encouragement. I think a big part of their
problem is that they expect the first words they put on paper to glow with
perfection. I'm a big believer in what Anne Lamott calls "the Shitty First
Draft", so I thought I'd share my first draft attempt at a few paragraphs
from my September 3rd release, Necessary
Lies.
Necessary
Lies is my 22nd novel, and I've been using the Shitty First Draft
method a very long time. The book is set
in 1960 rural North Carolina and is the story of a young, green social worker named
Jane and her fifteen-year-old client, Ivy. As Jane discovers the secrets in
Ivy's life, she's thrown into a moral dilemma that jeopardizes both her job and
her marriage. Ivy is one of my all-time favorite characters and it was immense
fun writing from her point of view.
I keep all the drafts of my novels
as I write. Below I'm going to show you a paragraph and the road it traveled
from Shitty First Draft to the final form you'll find in the book. I hope it
encourages those of you who think you need perfection right off the bat.
In this scene, Nurse Ann, the public
health nurse, is visiting Ivy. Ann is concerned that Ivy might be having sex (she
is) and she wants to give her contraception. Ivy's seventeen-year-old sister
Mary Ella already has a child. The scene is written from Ivy's first person
point of view.
***
First
Draft
Nurse Ann showed up with
contraceptives. "Open this bag."
I opened it up and pulled out a box
of spermicidal jelly.
"This kills sperm. Sperm comes
from the boy and makes babies."
"I know that."
"And this is what you use to
get it inside you." She pulled a long tube from the bag.
"I need to sweep the
yard," I said.
"You need to stay right here,"
she said.
She opened the bag again and brought
out Trojans. "These are rubbers," she said. "The boy wears
these. They're even more protective than the jelly."
"You mean protection from
having a baby?"
"That's right."
"I don't need these things. You
should talk to Mary Ella. She's gonna get pregnant again any day."
"Mary Ella's not your business.
These things are for you and you can have more if you need them."
Why
was she giving me this stuff instead of Mary Ella. I'd told Mary Ella the boy
should pull out to have no babies, but she ignored me as usual.
Pretty
shitty, huh?
Okay,
here's a draft about halfway to the final.
Middle
Draft
Nurse Ann opened her bag in her lap.
"I have some things here for you," she said, handing me a paper bag.
I opened it up and pulled out a box
that said spermicidal jelly on the
side.
"You don't eat this kind of
jelly," she said. "It kills sperm. Sperm comes from the boy and
that's what makes babies."
"I know that."
"Now here"—she opened the
box and pulled out a long tube—"you use this to put the jelly inside you."
She said how to do that and I knew my cheeks was red.
She reached in the bag one more time
and brought out little packages that said Trojan
on them. "These are rubbers," she said. "The boy puts these on.
They're more protective than the jelly."
"You mean protection from
having a baby?"
"That's right."
I handed the bag back to her.
"I don't need none of this. Mary Ella's the one you should be talkin' to."
"I'm not worried about Mary
Ella right now. I'm worried about you."
"I ain't doing nothing.
"Well, just in case, I want you
to have these things and I can bring you more if you ever need more."
I
didn't know why she wasn't giving these things to Mary Ella. I'd give them to
her myself. I'd told Mary Ella about pulling out to have no more babies, but
she ignored me as usual.
And
the final draft, where I show more of Ivy's emotions.
Final
Draft
Nurse Ann opened the medical bag in
her lap. "I have some things here for you," she said, handing me a
paper bag. "Look inside and I'll explain how you use them."
I opened it up and pulled out a box
that said spermicidal jelly on the
side.
"This is not the kind of jelly
you eat," she said. "It kills sperm. Sperm comes from the boy and
that's what makes babies."
"I know that." I wished I
was someplace else.
"Now here"—she opened the
box and pulled out a long tube—"is the applicator you use to insert the
jelly in your vagina." She went into a long description of how to do that
and I knew my cheeks was red, listening to her. This talk was turning out worse
than I expected.
She reached in the bag one more time
and brought out little packages that said Trojan
on them. "These are rubbers," she said. "The boy puts these on.
They're more protective than the jelly. And the best protection is using both
of them together."
"You mean protection from
having a baby?" I wished she'd speak plain.
"That's right."
I handed the bag back to her.
"I don't need none of this. Mary Ella's the one you should be talkin' to.
She already got herself a baby and any day she's gonna end up with another for
sure."
"I'm not worried about Mary
Ella right now. I'm worried about you."
"No need to be. I ain't doing
nothing."
"Well, just in case, I want you
to have these things and I can bring you more if you ever need more."
I
didn't know why she wasn't giving these things to Mary Ella. I'd give them to
her myself. I'd told Mary Ella about the pulling out to be a way to have no
more babies, and she just looked off into the blue yonder the way she always
did, like she didn't hear a word I said.
So,
there you have it, from first draft to actual book. I hope it encourages you to
put your story on paper. And I hope you'll pick up a copy of Necessary Lies. Author Dorothea Benton
Frank calls it "the most important book Diane Chamberlain has ever
written". I look forward to hearing your thoughts about it as well.
Diane Chamberlain is the international bestselling author of
twenty-one novels.Her books are part
suspense, part mystery, and one hundred percent family drama. A former hospital
social worker and psychotherapist in private practice, Diane began writing
while waiting too long in a doctor’s waiting room and she will always be
grateful for that doctor’s tardiness.
Her most recent novel, The
Good Father, is a May release from Mira Books.It’s the story of a young single father who, after losing his
home and job, takes desperate measures to provide for his beloved daughter.
About The Good Father, Diane says, “I
hope readers will imagine themselves in Travis’s shoes, because his situation
could be ours in a heartbeat. None of us is immune to the hardships that can
come from a personal catastrophe coupled with a poor economy. How would each of
us respond if we were suddenly homeless with a little child depending on us to
keep her safe?”
Diane lives in North Carolina with her significant other,
photographer John Pagliuca, and their two Shelties, Keeper and Jet.
Sex and A Good
Father
by Diane
Chamberlain
I
was listening to NPR the other day when Dan Savage was being interviewed. Dan
is a journalist, activist, and creator of the It Gets Better Project, which he founded to prevent suicide among
gay adolescents. When I tuned into the show, he was talking about how people
learn about sex. Dan said he learned about it from a combination of Ann Landers’
advice columns and a Penthouse magazine forum. Dan wasn't talking about the
birds and the bees--he was talking about Sex with a capital S. The discussion
brought back a memory. A sweet one.
It
was the day before my first date. I was a new high school sophomore who’d been
asked out by a senior from a neighboring school. I’d had a boyfriend over the
summer, but apparently my parents had ruled him harmless. This senior boy,
though—he was the real thing, and it was time for The Talk.
I
knew The Talk was coming, although I'm not sure exactly how I knew. Somehow, it
was common knowledge that my sister, seven years my senior, had received the
talk and my brother, eleven years older than me, had endured it as well. My
siblings and I weren’t close back then, given our age difference, so I don’t
think they told me. Somehow, I just knew.
So
when my dad came into my room and sat next to me on the little step by the
bookcase, I knew what was coming. He was so good. Even at the age of fifteen
and despite my embarrassment at having him mention the words erogenous zones, I knew he was doing
something rare and remarkable for a father. I was quite certain none of my
friends had a father with the guts to talk to them about how guys felt when
they got close to girls and how girls could keep their wits about them. I
remember thinking, even at that moment, how proud my mother must have felt to
be married to a man willing to take this on. I felt his trust in me. I felt his
love. And now, many decades later and with Dad gone, the memory puts a tender
lump in my throat. He was, in so many ways, a good father.
I
know how lucky I was. How about you? Did your parents teach you about Sex with
a capital S?
Diane is the bestselling author of twenty novels, including her newest, The Midwife’s Confession. She grew up in New Jersey and lived for long periods in San Diego and Northern Virginia, but her heart was in North Carolina long before she moved to the state and many of her novels are set there. Formerly a medical social worker and psychotherapist in private practice, she’s been writing “forever” and loves that the imagination that got her into trouble as a kid now pays the mortgage. Diane lives in North Carolina with her significant other and her two Shetland Sheepdogs.
Ten Things I learned on My Book Tour (that have nothing to do with books)
by Diane Chamberlain
I need to get out more! Yes, I write most mornings at the Opium Den (my local Starbucks), but after touring the past couple of weeks for my novel, The Midwife's Confession, I realized the world has more to offer than the scenery between my house and Starbucks. I thought I'd share with you some of the things I learned.
1. First, and most important, recipes.
In Wilmington, North Carolina--the setting for Midwife--my publicist, Tori, invited me over for dinner. She and her housemate, Judy, treated me to some great company as well as some super salmon. I'm always looking for a new way to make salmon, since John and I eat it two or three times a week (in an attempt to make up for all the pizza and take-out Chinese we consume). I don't have the exact recipe, but I watched pretty closely as Tori did her thing, and here's what I saw.
***
Tori's Roasted Salmon Provencal
Amounts vary according to how many people you want to serve
-Salmon
-cooked potatoes (boiled, baked or nuked) cut into chunks
-veggies cut into chunks (Tori used zucchini and red peppers)
-calamata olives, pitted
Place salmon in a roasting pan, surround with the veggies. Then splash your favorite light bottled Italian dressing over everything and bake uncovered about half an hour. Delish!
***
I also visited an amazing book club in Charlotte. These women not only read well, they eat well, too. On a perfect evening, I met with thirty club members in the stunning garden of the hostess, Sharon. We sat at tables scattered on the lawn and ate and ate and ate. Oh, yes, we also discussed the book they'd read (my The Secret Life of CeeCee Wilkes) and they asked thoughtful and provocative questions, but what will stay in my mind for a long time is the ambience, the camaraderie . . . and the lamb! This was far and away the best lamb I've ever tasted, and the woman who made it, Janice Habash, was kind enough to send me the recipe along with permission to share it with you here.
***
Janice's Leg of Lamb Recipe (adapted from a recipe in Ken Hom's Travels with a Hot Wok )
-Boneless leg of Australian lamb (Janice gets hers at Costco). Trim all the white fat. Janice says this is where the gamey flavor resides. Cutting the fat breaks the lamb up into different sized pieces. One leg is enough for 12+ servings.
Marinate for 1-2 hours in a combo of:
-Soy sauce
-Sesame oil (can use olive oil)
-Rosemary- fresh or dried
-Thyme- fresh or dried
-Some type of chili (flakes, cayenne or a garlic chili paste)
-Salt and Pepper
-Sugar
-To cook lamb, broil on high for 15 minutes, turn over and cook for 10-15. Cooking times depend on the thickness of the pieces. You can also cook on the grill. The mixed sizes means you will have some well done and some med rare at the same cooking time.
***
2. Il Divo
The second thing I learned came from Tori's housemate, Judy. She introduced me to Il Divo. I knew nothing about Il Divo! I feel so out of it. As I said, I really need to get out more. Their music played in the background as we ate and chatted and it was so beautiful I finally had to ask what it was. Judy told me about the four tenors Simon Cowell had brought together, and later, she sent me this video, which is pretty enticing whether you have the sound on or not!
3. It's Possible to use an Electric Toothbrush on your Dogs
I stayed with old friends, Joyce and Rachid, in Charlotte, and there I picked up a great tip. . . sort of. I have two Shelties, thanks to Joyce. When my beloved three-legged Bernese Mountain Dog, Bruin, went to the Rainbow Bridge, I decided it was time to downsize. Rheumatoid Arthritis had left me a bit "imbalanced" (though some friends would argue I'd been that way for a long time already), and a big dog was getting hard to manage. Joyce is a Sheltie lover and she took me to visit a breeder where I was instantly surrounded by balls of energetic fluff. I ended up with two of those fluffballs, Keeper and Jet, brothers from different litters. Shelties are wonderful dogs. Sweet, loyal, great guardians, gentle with kids. But they have terrible teeth. Terrible! I think my vet loves to see a Sheltie walk through his door because he knows he has a guaranteed income stream for the life of the dog. I've tried brushing Keeper and Jet's teeth. It's sort of the same way I am with exercise: I go at it full tilt for a couple of weeks, then I miss a day and the next thing I know I'm paying my monthly fee for nothing. Shelties have these long snouts with hard to reach teeth and they loathe the whole process. Anyway, that's Rachid told me he cleans Mini's teeth (that's adorable Mini in the picture) with a battery-operated toothbrush. So I tried this when I got home. Hmm. I couldn't get near their mouths because just the sound of the brush made them hide, Jet in the laundry room and Keeper under the guest room bed. Dog owners, I'm open to your suggestions!
4. Southern Women can still be Yankee Fans
Isn't Facebook the greatest invention? I've made so many honest-to-goodness friends there. They may have started out as "fans" of my books, but as we've communicated via Facebook, we've become something more than just "readers" and "writer". Before my signing in Wilmington, I had dinner with FB friends, Tina and Linda, and Tina's "Momma". Of course I loved meeting Tina and Linda after chatting with them on Facebook for a few years, but it was Momma who was the biggest surprise and delight. This born and bred southerner is a diehard Yankee fan. Who would have guessed it? Long ago, she made her passion known to Yankees management and was treated to a special seat in the old Yankee Stadium shortly before its demolition. Plus, she was hugged by Reggie Jackson! Talking to her reminded me of my father's passion for the Yankees, but he was a) a guy and b) a New Jerseyite. Momma, on the other hand, is an original!
5. I do have male readers!
Okay, they didn't exactly come out in droves, but every place I went, I met at least one or two. Here's Carl from Charlotte, who I believe has read every one of my books. (He says he has a special place in his heart for Annie in Keeper of the Light.) He's surrounded in this picture by some more wonderful 'Facebook friends who've become real-life friends', Debbie and Terri and a few of their family members.
6. Signing Books in an Airport is a Humbling Experience
My fans come to my signings. They make me feel loved, appreciated and accomplished. They sometimes even make me feel famous! But the bookstore at the Charlotte Airport invited me to sign books there two afternoons and the experience definitely cut me down to size, since people were just passing through and no one was there specifically to see me. ("Diane Who??") In two afternoons, I met only one person who'd heard of me. He told me that he and his wife hit the flea markets every weekend looking for my old books, and he bought a signed copy of The Midwife's Confession from me to surprise her. But sitting there surrounded by Grisham and Picoult and all the other Big Names was humbling indeed.
7. Never Forget to Laugh
When you're working your butt off as I have been the last few years, it's easy to take life too seriously and forget to just kick back. Staying with Joyce and Rachid was such a treat for that reason. It was so relaxed and Joyce and I laughed about stuff from our pasts and our--ahem--aging processes, and our men and our dogs and just life in general. It made me realize how little I let my hair down these days and I hereby resolve to do more of it!
8. It's Nice to Meet People in the Green Room, but Even Better to Meet a Dog
I did some TV interviews on this trip. They're second nature to me now, but with each new book, I find the first interview unnerving. This all goes back to an interview I did about ten years ago. I had a rocky time getting to the station. It was a two-hour drive away from home and an ice storm hit as I was on the road. The car in front of me spun out and I just made it onto the shoulder to avoid a collision. By the time I reached the town where I was to do the interview, I was pretty shaken and I stopped at a 7-11 for a bracing cup of coffee. Back in my car, I found the engine wouldn't turn over. A helpful 7-11 customer fiddled with something under the hood as the minutes edged closer to the time for my interview. Soon I was on the road again. I rushed into the station and they whisked me onto the live set. The cameras started rolling even before I caught my breath. "Tell us what your book's about?" the interviewer asked me. I stared at the book on the table between us, my mind a complete blank. Seriously. Total dead air on TV. What was my book about?? The interviewer saved me, but I've never forgotten those few seconds of that near-death experience. Anyhow, all this is to say that the first TV interview of the season always makes me a little nervous. This time, in the green room I chatted with a few other people waiting to be interviewed, but it wasn't until Harold arrived that I truly relaxed. Harold was the adoptable pet of the day. He bounded into the room and I was instantly in love. A huge, friendly hound, he was in my lap and my arms and there he stayed, communing with me in his doggy way until I was called for my interview. This is Harold in the picture. He may still be available for adoption, so if you're interested (he's in the Raleigh area), let me know and I'll get you in touch with the agency. (note: he's BIG).
9. "Forgiveness is a way of Taking Control"
This is the most profound thing I learned on my tour. In addition to eating and listening to Il Divo, Tori and Judy and I got into some heavy discussions--ethical, spiritual, emotional. During that talk, Judy made the statement above and it has really stuck with me. I don't understand why, but my books nearly always have a theme of forgiveness in them. That's certainly the case with The Midwife's Confession. I'd never thought of forgiving as a way of taking control of a situation, though. It was a real "aha" moment for me. Kind of a heavy thought to ponder, no? I'd love to hear your take on it.
10. There's no place like home
Well, I already knew that, but it's still worth saying!
Diane Chamberlain is the bestselling author of nineteen novels. She lives in North Carolina with her significant other, John, and her two Shelties, Jet and Keeper.
-----------
The Lies We Told: a Trailer and Three Drafts by Diane Chamberlain
I'm grateful to Kaye for helping me celebrate the release of my 19th novel, The Lies We Toldwith a guest spot on her blog. I'm going to use this opportunity to share my book trailer with all of you and also to give you a small peek into my writing process. Welcome to my world!
The trailer was created by my significant other, photographer John Pagliuca, and yours truly. We wanted to capture the feeling of the book instead of trying to tell the story itself. I did the narration, reading from the very first page of the book. It's a huge challenge to create a book trailer, but we had a good time putting it together and I hope you enjoy it.
People ask me how many drafts I write when working on a book and I'm never sure how to answer, so this time I counted. The answer? Six. I'm tired just thinking about it! The picture of my office was taken somewhere toward the end of the fifth draft. What a mess! I thought I'd demonstrate how those drafts differ from one another by sharing the same paragraph from an early draft, a middle draft, and the (almost) final draft.
The Lies We Told is the story of two sisters, Maya and Rebecca, both doctors working with a relief organization after a hurricane nearly wipes out Wilmington, North Carolina. You can read the prologue and first chapter on my website if you like. (www.dianechamberlain.com)
We are in Maya's point of view in the scene below. I hope that seeing the first draft will encourage those of you unpublished writers who think you have to write something perfectly the first time!
Early Draft:
A guy walked into the restaurant. She noticed him the second he walked in. there was something about him. the way he scanned the restaurant. unsmiling. a flare to his nostrils that reminded her of ___. His eyes came to rest on the two men at the table next to her and Adam's he walked toward the table with a deliberate stride, and she watched him pull a gun from his jacket pocket and before she could scream or duck or even widen her eyes, he'd shot the man at the table in the head. Everyone screamed then. She had a lot of company.
-------------- Middle Draft:
Adam said something to Brent and Rebecca, but I didn't hear him. My gaze was on a man who had just walked into the restaurant. He was dark-haired, wearing a white t-shirt and beige pants and he stood in front of the door, looking from table to table. There was something about him that sent a shiver through me.
He started walking toward us--or at least, I thought he was heading toward us. Then I saw that his gaze--his ice-blue eyes--was on the two men at the table adjacent to ours. Adam said something that must have been funny, because Brent and Rebecca both laughed, but I'd set down my fork and was beginning to tremble, my heart thudding beneath my breastbone.
I knew how quickly these things could happen. He reached behind his back, then whipped his arm out straight, the gun a gray blur, and I saw the small symbol tattooed on his finger as as he pressed the trigger.
-------------- (Nearly) Final Draft:
Adam said something in response, but I didn't hear him. I was watching a man who had just walked into the restaurant. He was Caucasian, dark-haired, wearing a white t-shirt and beige pants, and he stood in front of the door, shifting his gaze quickly from table to table. Something about him sent a shiver through me.
He started walking toward us--or at least, I thought he was heading toward our table. His stride was deliberate, his nostrils flared. Then I saw that his eyes--his /ice-blue /eyes--were locked on the two men at the table in front of ours. Adam said something that must have been funny, because Brent and Rebecca both laughed, but I'd set down my spoon and was gripping the corner of the table, my heart thudding beneath my breastbone.
I knew better than anyone how quickly these things could happen. He reached behind his back with his right hand, then whipped his arm out straight, the gun a gray blur as it cut through the air, and I saw the tattoo of a black star on his index finger as he pressed the trigger.
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Imagine 400 pages of this! No wonder I'm so tired when I finish a book--tired but excited. I hope you've enjoyed this little peek into my world. I'll pick one of the commenters to this post at random to receive an autographed copy of The Lies We Told. Good luck!
