Snoopy, Come Home -- Please!!

The other day I was working on a piece -- okay, okay, it was my Lost fanfic Grace Period -- and one of my characters -- okay, okay, it was Sawyer -- was having a childhood flashback that involved Snoopy and it came back to me in my own flashback just how much I LOVED Snoopy when I was a kid.

When I was an elementary school child, I won a plastic Snoopy wallhanging by selling magazines or something in school. That piece of modern art hung on my wall until I left home whereupon it went missing in my mother's storage building. But writing that piece made me remember my Snoopy and how much I loved that thing. So I went on a search for it.

Snoopy was my childhood hero. I didn't just think he was cute or funny. I wanted to be Snoopy -- not the whole sleeping on top of a doghouse thing -- I wanted to be that incredibly inventive individual who was writing the Great American Novel, It Was a Dark and Stormy Night. I wanted to have the kind of imagination that enabled him to be the World War I flying ace shot down behind enemy lines one moment and a vulture in a tree the next.

Snoopy was whoever and whatever he wanted to be whenever he wanted to be it. He wasn't just a dog on a house. He was Joe Cool. He was on a quest to find his brother Spike in the desert Southwest. He was unstoppable. But he was also Charlie Brown's loyal beagle.

I never found my Snoopy wallhanging. That bummed me out because I had a sudden vision of it hanging on my wall in the nursing home somewhere around 2042. I figured I'd hang it in my closet safe until then.

So I got on ebay and found a new one -- well, actually two, so I have a backup.

When it arrives in a few days, I'm going to open it and hold it in my hands and remember. I fully expect to burst into hysterical tears. I wanted to be Snoopy, a writer, an inventor of outlandish tales. Man, I still do! I still want to be that! Maybe The Blacksmith's Daughter isn't the Great American Novel, but it is longer than It Was a Dark and Stormy Night and contains all kinds of wild creatures and magic. And a real publisher has published it so you can buy it on Amazon and Barnes and Noble and Smashwords and such. So that makes me a writer too.

And you know, just like Snoopy, I'm still rocking my day job. Maybe I don't sleep on a house all day, but I too have my mundane life. Snoopy didn't resent his job as Charlie Brown's beagle and I shouldn't resent mine either even thought it cuts dramatically into my creative writing time.

So, Snoopy, when you get here, I'm going to pull you out of your packing, cry hysterically, and probably hang you on my bedroom wall. You won't match, but I won't care. As long as I remember my hero, I'll be able to keep the creative fires burning.

Finally, here's a big "Curse you, Red Baron!" from me to all you other Snoopy lovers out there. Keep the fires burning!

My Interview with Jeanne Bannon

Everyone please welcome my first guest, Jeanne Bannon!!! I feel like David Letterman! Jeanne's new book Invisible is just out and the first chapter sounds wonderful.

Hello Jeanne. Your latest release is called Invisible. Where does the inspiration for this story come from?

Hi! The inspiration for Invisible came from two sources. My 8 year old daughter hated swimming lessons and one Sunday afternoon while watching her, I had the thought that I bet she wishes she were invisible ... and that how the plot for Invisible was born. The second source came from my own life. There was a time when I was bullied. I remember thinking that if I could just vanish - be a fly on the wall, then I’d be happy.

What was the hardest part of writing the story?

On the whole, writing Invisible was not really hard. I wrote it in four months and that included a few rewrites. That said, there were a few scenes I cried over. But it was in a good way. It was very cathartic.

Can you tell us about your research process?

There was not much research needed to write Invisible. It’s a story about a teenage girl who’s bullied and finds solace in her relationship with her grandmother and best friend. Most of it came from my imagination with a bit of my own life sprinkled in.

Do you feel that you grow more as an author with each book that you write?

Yes. As a matter of fact, there are times when I contemplate rewriting Invisible just one more time because I’ve grown so much as a writer since it’s been published. I don’t there will be a time when I stop growing as a writer.

To date, which of your own works is your favourite and why?

I love Invisible because the story is so close to my heart. The novel I’m working on now, Dark Angel, is pure fantasy and although I love the intricate plot, I don’t feel as close emotionally to the characters as I do to those in Invisible.

Do you have any hobbies away from writing that you would like to tell us about today?

I used to make jewelry. I loved using Swarovski crystal and sterling silver to make beautiful bracelets and necklaces but with all the promotion for Invisible and trying to finish Dark Angel, I don’t have time for jewelry making anymore.

Thank you for joining us today, Jeanne!!

It was entirely my pleasure!

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Invisible-Jeanne-Bannon/dp/1466368756/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1318029462&sr=8-1

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/88217

Solstice Publishing: http://www.solsticepublishing.com/products/Invisible-%252d%252d-Print.html

 Excerpt from Invisible

Chapter One

“Lola, get your suit on and help supervise the pool. The more eyes the better,” Justine, the athletic, sun-kissed, twenty-one-year-old camp director orders once we’re off the bus.

Immediately my heart takes off in a sprint. “What? Why?” I try to hide the wobble in my voice.

Curious, expectant gazes turn to me as my fellow counselors wait with evil half-smiles for my reaction. Although I haven’t told a soul, except my best friend Charlie how I feel about wearing a bathing suit, they know my private horror. It’s the horror of every fat girl.

Justine flips through the sheets on her clip board, running a finger down the column of names. “No campers will be sitting out today.”

The impossible has just happened. Not one kid is sick, or has left their bathing suit at home. In my three summers as a counselor, not once has this happened.

For a long, awkward moment, I stand frozen in place wondering how to get out of this. A sudden migraine? My period? My mouth opens, but no words come. Justine leaves and with her, my chance for escape. I’m left teary-eyed, searching through my bag for my black one-piece. Stuffing away the panic, I march past the onlookers, who I’d never consider my friends despite working with them the entire summer. In the change room, I find an empty stall and with great reluctance, pull on my suit.

It’s my last day of work as a camp counselor at Inglewood Day Camp. My group of kids consists of eight six-year olds — four boys and four girls. On Thursdays we take the campers to the local outdoor swimming pool. It’s a short ride, only five minutes on the creaky old school bus and my job is to watch the kids who won’t be swimming, either because they don’t feel well, or they’ve forgotten their swimsuits. Believe me, this job suits me just fine, as a matter of fact, I volunteered for it.

Not only am I fat, I’m freakishly tall. God only knows why, since Mom’s petite and Dad’s on the short side. My older sister, Eva is the spitting image of Mom, fair and fine boned. I take after Dad’s side, bulky, dark and thick. Dad says I must have gotten some of Uncle Sammy’s genes, the giant of the family, who tops out at 6’ 4”. Anyway, I’m sure you’re getting a good mental picture right about now.

My insides drop as if I’d placed a foot on a step that wasn’t there when I peer down at the coarse dark hair creeping from my calves to just past my knees, where it gradually peters out. Then I run a hand across the tops of my thighs. The triple bulge of my belly prevents me from a good look at my sorely neglected bikini area. Even in the blazing August sun I wear baggy cotton Capri pants, never exposing more than an ankle. There’s never been a reason to shave. My eyes mist with tears, but I pinch them away. It’ll be hard enough to go out in public like this, but I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I lift my chin in resolve and open the door.

The whistle blows, signaling the beginning of the session. Screams of delight fill the air, as the kids begin jumping into the pool to find relief from the 90-degree heat.

I fasten a towel around my waist as best I can. Towels never seem large enough to wrap completely and comfortably around the bulge of my belly. To the pool I go, treading silently so as not to draw attention.

“Where’s Lola?” Sonia, a fellow counselor, asks.

At first I think she’s joking because I’m right in front of her. I toss her an annoyed look and don’t bother to answer as I trudge past to the edge of the pool, where I pull off my towel and slip into the cool water.

“She’s probably taken off,” Jerod replies. He’s a year younger than I am, but looks older with his muscular build and chiseled jaw line. The girls love him. “I hope she doesn’t show,” he continues, “who wants to see a hippo in a bathing suit anyway?”

Sonia laughs, a little too hard and places a hand on Jerod’s shoulder.

Puzzlement and anger compete on my face. I’m standing not more than three feet away from them. I’m used to rude comments and know what everyone thinks of me, but this is way beyond mean. The tears standing in my eyes spill down my cheeks and I slip under the water, hoping to wash away the evidence of my pain. Not that anyone would care, but crying could give them more ammunition; just another reason to taunt me.

Kids bounce around me, laughing and playing. Justine stands like a sentinel, looking like a Bay Watch babe in her red suit, one hand gripping an emergency flotation device. Her steel blue eyes are focused on the activity in the pool.

Jerod jumps in, nearly landing on my back. I barely have time to leap out of the way. My anger boils; blood rushes to my temples and pounds there, giving me an instant headache. I hurl myself at him, pushing with all my might, elbows aimed at his chest. I hit nothing but air and fly into the rough concrete wall of the pool, scraping a hole in my one-piece and rubbing raw a patch of skin. Blood pin-pricks to the surface.

“Hey,” I scream, bewildered about how he’d maneuvred out of the way so fast.

Jerod slips under the water and emerges at the other end of the pool in one long, slick glide.

The steel in me comes up, anger replacing humiliation. I pull my bulk out of the water and march over to Justine.

“Did you see what that asshole just did?” I bellow.

Justine brings the whistle that hangs from her neck to her lips and blows two sharp blasts, making my ears ring. “Stop horsing around,” she calls to a group of boys, who offer sheepish grins and stop instantly.

I step forward so she can see me. “Justine?” I reach to touch her shoulder but impossibly, my hand falls through her.

“Justine?” I call again, louder, my voice panic-laced. With both hands, I grab her, or try to. Again, it’s as if she’s not there. My mind is swept along in a current of anxiety. What’s happening?

Then it hits me . . . it’s me who’s not there.

All About Jeanne Bannon

       I’ve worked in the publishing industry for over twenty years. I started my career as a freelance journalist, then worked as an in-house editor for LexisNexis Canada and currently work as a freelance editor and writer. I’ve had several short stories published and won first place in the Writes of Caledon Short Story Contest. My novels, The Barely Boy and Dark Angel were finalists in the 2010 and 2011 Strongest Start Contests. One of my short stories “Thom’s Journey” is part of an Anthology entitled A Visitor to Sandahl and is available at Amazon.com.
Invisible, my debut novel, is about a teenage girl who isn’t happy with herself and wishes she could disappear. And one day she does. Invisible is available on Amazon, Smashwords, and the Solstice Publishing website.

When not reading or writing, I enjoy being with my daughters, Nina and Sara and my husband, David. I’m also the proud mother of two fur babies, a sweet Miniature Schnauzer named Emily and Spencer, a rambunctious tabby, who can be a very bad boy.

Psycho-Writer!

I am up to no good yet again. I swear I have lost my mind. Right this moment I have TWO works in progress. This is so not good.

I am about 27000 words into a Lost fanfiction called Grace Period, which I stopped writing in order to get about 27000 words into my new paranormal romance WIP, Golden Coil. But the funny thing is, the writing is going pretty darned good on them both. And they are WAAAAAY different.

I am the type that is so one-track minded I don't read when I write, much less write two things at the same time. Now I'm rocking this split-personality writer thing. I've even got different pennames for each--Arcole for the fanfiction at www.fanfiction.net/~arcole and Leigh Daley for the paranormal stuff. And The Merchant's Son as Arley Cole is always cooking in yet another crockpot in my brain.

Oh, well, there's a first time for everything. I'll either turn out two books or lose my mind.

Things I Don't Give a Rat's Butt About

I am super glad the world is such a diverse place with such diverse people in it. But on a day like today when I feel like I've been stretched out like pantyhose a size too small, I come to realize there are things in this world I just am not interested in.

Football, for instance. The rest of my bunch is happily tuned into the Cotton Bowl, but I have my headphones plugged in and am writing blog posts and working on my ill-considered WIP (yep, Lost fanfiction - but I swear I'm doing the mental work on my other stuff at the same time). Monday (I think) is the National Championship and everything will stop here in Alabama as the Tide plays LSU. I love my people and will support them with fried catfish as they watch, but I swear I don't give a rat's butt about the game.

I have also found that I do not give a rat's butt about most of the stories that pass for news nowadays. I worked for a newspaper for a while and discovered that very little real news happens. Truly most of what's reported is gossip. Real news of important events that will shape the economic and social future of the world isn't nearly as juicy as who's got a baby bump or who's been arrested for drunk driving, so these stories just don't get as much airplay. Consequently, coverage of an important trade summit will take a back seat to some story about Celebrity X trading in her old mansion for a new mansion. I just don't give a rat's butt where Lady Gaga lives (as long as she doesn't move in next door).

Finally, I am having trouble caring about dinner. What's for dinner? is the clarion call of the nation starting about 5:30, but I am just not in the mood to cook these days. Sometimes I get all enthused about trying a new dish, but right now if it doesn't try to eat me, I am happy. Tonight's football meal was purchased at the local fish and steak house because I don't give a rat's butt about cooking dinner. If Lady Gaga is coming over for a meet-the-neighbors party, she can have fried catfish from the Front Porch Restaurant along with the rest of us.

What I do care about is that my folks are all happily watching a football game with their bellies full of fried catfish (that I didn't have to cook) and that none of them are pregnant or driving drunk or Lady Gaga. That's worth a whole bunch of rat's butts.

It's Such an Honor Just to Be Nominated!

I have just found out that The Blacksmith's Daughter has been nominated for Best YA Novel in the Preditors & Editors Readers Choice Awards.

I cannot say how psyched I am to hear this! Wow! I am darned near speechless and that's saying something.

But for such a talkative person, I don't blog nearly as often as I should. Quite frankly, I am afraid that if I start spilling I will not be able to stop and will tell all kinds of awful crap that shouldn't be told.

But I swear to do better. So in addition to my super great news about the nomination (please vote at www.critters.org/predpoll and spread the Musa Publishing love by supporting my peeps at Musa!), I would also like to let you all know what else I am up to.

Well, I am spending a little time on a fanfiction piece as Arcole on Fanfiction.net. Okay, before my editors at Musa start fussing at me for not working on my other stuff, oh, like the sequel to TBD, The Merchant's Son, or my possible upcoming other paranormal romance or that sci-fi piece I'm dreaming up for the Urania line, let me say that I am working on those in my head as I am playing in the Lost sandbox with "Grace Period."

It is really funny how the more I write, the more I write. So working on some playtime helps me work on big plot points for my real stuff as well. I guess blogging counts toward that too. So more writing means more writing and that means more blogging too.

Therefore, look for another blog soon concerning my time and space traveling jacket. That story is true and not crap.

Where the Heck Have I Been??

I have a terrible habit of not keeping up with the news of any variety. I learned the hard way at a newspaper that most of what is called and desiminated as "news" is truly gossip. However, right now I feel a little like I've been kicked in the gut because I just found out that Anne McCaffrey is dead and has been dead for twelve whole days without me knowing it.

Losing Anne McCaffrey is like losing a favorite teacher who changed my life or that neat lady who lived down the road and talked to me like an adult even though I was just a silly kid. I have nearly everything she ever wrote--her books are some of the few that have survived every move-purge over the past twenty-five years. I cut my high school fantasy teeth on her Dragonriders series and she has long been one of my favorite go-to authors for a great read with characters I will like and a world I will be both interested in and find accessible.

Her books were always about so much more than a fantasy/sci-fi premise. They were always about people and relationships and the way connections are forged. That's not to say she didn't also make me want incredible psychic powers and my very own dragon because she did that too.

I guess I need to start watching the news or keeping up with the world better. But then again, if I do I'll only find out more stuff like this that I really just don't want to know anyway.

Thank you, Anne.

"That Ending Sucked!": On Payoff in Fiction

Let me be straightforward---I don't write "literature." Now, that's not to say that I don't try to write well and with literary value. But the primary motivator in "literature" is seldom entertainment. Literature seeks to ask questions and make us think. I hope it makes us better people for having read. And I hope my readers find some really good takeaway value in my stuff as well. But I am all about payoff.

I want people to finish the last page of my stuff and say, "Wow! My questions were answered, my hopes were fulfilled, my expectations were met, and I feel satisfied." Just like after Thanksgiving dinner. Payoff. I love that feeling. I love finishing a book and wanting to hug it to my chest to continue that deep sense of completion. Payoff.

Now, I've read books that were excellent and well-written but left me troubled and pensive in a bad way. Madame Bovary comes to mind. I just wanted to beat the hell out of so many people at the end of that stupid book.

TV shows are the same way. I know that it's got to be the hardest thing in the world to write a series finale. After all, this is TV. People want payoff. And when shows pull unexpected endings--St. Elsewhere and Newhart immediately come to mind 'cause I never watched The Sopranos---people discuss whether or not that unexpected ending gave them payoff.

Take, for instance, Lost. I am beside myself right now since I just finished the show last night. Was that crazy ending payoff? Did I seriously expect payoff? In what way did the show fail to pay me what I expected given the amount of time I invested in watching it? I am still thinking about that.

Because when we read/watch something, we are investing ourselves in it. The closure we get or don't get off of it is the pay we earn by reading. We know if Nicholas Sparks's name is on the cover, part of our payoff will involve major character death and many kleenexes. But what if you're not expecting that? I completely quit reading Katherine Kurtz's Deryni series many years ago because of her tendency to introduce characters I loved just to kill them off mercilessly later. That wasn't the pay I was after!

I have been so thrilled with the reviews The Blacksmith's Daughter has been getting. It has been called enjoyable and a fast, fun read. I am delighted! That's the exact payoff I wanted to deliver. I wanted to take the reader for a ride that they would find interesting and fun, with dashes of deadly peril and romance just to make it extra zippy.

After all, who finished watching Star Wars: A New Hope and wasn't thrilled to see the heroes prevail and Darth Vader spin off into space? Knowing he was out there to come back was part of that excellent payoff. There's nothing wrong with a happy ending.

Maybe I'm just not angsty enough. Maybe I like things tidy. Maybe I don't like to be reminded of my mortality every time I pick up a book or watch a show.

So for all of you out there who'd like to escape the grim realities of life for a little bit, I'm going to keep writing.

Because I believe we can all use a little payoff sometimes.

PS Lost Rant: WTF?!! They are where?? My sci fi/fantasy island expectations just went out the window and my mortality has been stripped bare. I went through eight kleenexes in reunions---OMG James and Juliet---and somehow I still feel robbed. Crap. WTF. End of Lost rant.