And when I say might need some work, what I mean is really needs a complete overhaul.

Maybe not so much my “About Me” page.  I put legitimate effort into that.  Not that I don’t put legitimate effort into everything (Okay.  Most things.  95% or so of the time).  But I sat and thought long and hard about my About Me page because, as much as I apparently like taking pictures of myself, I don’t actually like writing about myself.  What I think needs work is the little subtitle under The Rambling Jour.  The hot momma writing a novel thing.  Which, catchy as it is, isn’t exactly accurate anymore.

I’m still hot, obviously.

But, said novel?  Done!  Edited countless times!  Ready to be edited again!  Why?  Just because I’m an overachiever and a perfectionist.  Yes.  I’ve submitted the first fifty pages and a query to the agent from last Friday (squeal!).  But as the 1960s philosophers Sonny and Cher sang, “The Beat Goes On.”  La de da dee dee.

In a previous post, where I heavily debated log lines, I came up with this winner in a moment of sarcasm.  It is, in all actuality, the TV Guide description of me:

Sassy southern gal changes her clothes a lot, flirts with any man in uniform who stands still long enough, and generally gets caught up in the war and Jeb Stuart.

That’s actually too many characters to fit in the subtitle space.  I think.

So I Googled myself.  Because really, when you need to know something, where do you turn?  Google.  And Wikipedia, but although I’m a huge fan of myself, I haven’t hit Wikipedia heights yet.

Anyway, so I turned to Google for some input.  When I did a google image search of myself–Heather Hambel Curley–the following results popped up:

When it comes down to it, I can honestly say that yes.  I can find satisfaction in photographic association with Jeb Stuart, cupcakes, and surprised turtles.

This doesn’t in anyway help me write a new…whatever it is.  Subtitle about myself?  Caption?  I mean, sure, I guess I could be all dull and boring.  Something simple like, “historical fiction author.”  But what part of this blog is even remotely dull and boring (the answer you’re looking for is the About My Photos page, but it’s dull and boring.  And I don’t think people actually look at it)?

I’m at such a loss.  Not even diet Mountain Dew is helping.

You know what’s going to happen.  I’ve been sitting here staring at the computer for forty-five minutes and then I’m going to get up and go brush my teeth and BOOM.  Caption.

Or, maybe I’ll just leave it as it is.  I mean, after all, technically I am writing another novel.  And guys, get this, I actually started an outline for it.  I have no idea who I am, with this whole plotting-before-writing thing.  I don’t do that.  But I did!  And I feel like it’s totally out of control!

Emma Coats was a storyboard artist at Pixar. Emma compiled 22 “Story Basics” for writing while she worked for the animation studio. I’m expanding each one, comparing them to life on Planet Earth.

This post associates story guideline #6 with the loss of a friendship.

My friend was porn star, Rene Ruth Bond.

But first, Emma’s lesson.

This isn’t a writing rule per se, but an exercise that applies to mastering life and of course, constructing an intriguing plot.

As many of you already know, there are two ways to construct a plot. You can start with a situation (Once upon a time there was ___, Everyday, ___) and then link a series of cause-and-effect scenes around a major disruption (Then one day ___. Because of that, ___. Because of that, ___).

If you’re focusing on interesting situations and inserting your characters into them, this technique yields a PLOT DRIVEN structure.

However, you can also have your hero guide your story. Graph it from his point-of-view as he faces threats requiring interesting thinking, then choices, then actions. Each confrontation sets up various possibilities which motivates scenes building upon scenes.

This writing approach is a CHARACTER DRIVEN structure.

When I started writing screenplays, I relied on plot driven ideas. Hollywood’s “high concepts” come out of plot driven scripts. Today I write novels where my protagonist’s nature decides the adventure. I’m doing this because complex, fully realized characters make a stronger bond with the reader, assuming I can make it all ring true. And to make characters ring true, I have to know what I’m writing about. Recreating “truth” takes research. What’s the funnest kind of research? Answer: Experiencing real life in lots of different ways.

Again, Emma says:

Who is your character that needs challenging? That’s YOU!

Okay, so no one goes out looking for hassles so they can write about them.

Still, I bet you’ve had your share of confrontations, disappointments, grief, humiliations, all that stuff that ends up in novels. Human beings seek pleasure and avoid pain. But bad shit hit you, didn’t it? And you escaped with some struggle or maybe you didn’t.

Either way wisdom was buried in the mess if you took the time to figure out what happened and why.

Empathy is really important here. If you write about people you have to understand what’s happening in their heads. And then you have to ask, “How do I feel about that?” If this sounds like psychotherapy, it is. You’re both therapist and patient.

That’s the homework, kids, figuring out what makes people tick.

This is where my friend comes in.

She needed some serious figuring out and I was new at the game.

I was twenty-two and fresh out of college. I was unemployed, broke and scared. I couldn’t find a job until a job found me – directing “adult movies”. So like everyone else in the biz, I was in it for the money. Sure, getting laid was on my list, but in a nice, safe way that would be appropriate for the Nice Jewish Boy that I was. It didn’t happen. None of the adventures I encountered were anything close to what I knew as “normal” – even the kind of  “normal” played out in porn life.

Back in the early seventies, when the hardcore business was just starting to grow, that tiny universe was populated by no more than a hundred, plus people. It was a family and most of the “models” that stuck around past their first shoot became friends. I knew many of them.

One of the top female stars was a twenty year-old , Rene Bond. I met Rene at a party through mutual friends but I had never seen her perform, naked or otherwise. Consequently our relationship started like others do outside the sex business. Two people meet and they like each other. Rene was sweet and kind. Everyone thought so. She was also cute but not gorgeous, confident but not pushy, personally open but not nosy about you or me. And she was married, sort of, to Ric Lutze, who doubled as her on-camera lover in most of her early films and clips.

As I got to know Rene, I got to know Ric too and I liked him. The three of us became pals. About once a week I’d drop over to their pad after work for some weed, pizza and “free-love” with their friends. Still, I had never seen either Ric or Rene in any sex scene and I had no intentions of seeking that out.

It happened anyway.

I was working for a porn distributor at the time (one of my many fill-in gigs) and I had to screen prints before they got shipped. I know…your thinking THAT was your job – watching porn for bucks? Yep. And it was boring. Adult films weren’t exactly character driven. The plot was always the same: Boy meets girl. Boy gets girl. Boy gets off. Boy meets next girl.

Anyway, there she was, Rene Bond in dazzling 16mm doing what she did best. Suddenly, my job wasn’t boring anymore. Just like everyone said, Rene was an awesomely alluring pixie. And although I wasn’t turned on, (didn’t want to be) I was definitely impressed with her technique.

At the end of the scene she looked into the camera and whispered, “Who could be next? You?”

I guess I wanted to be next ‘cause two nights later, sitting next to Ms. Bond while puffing her husband’s stash, I said something about that sex scene. I can’t remember my words but it wasn’t brash. It was a whimsical flirt that could go places if she wanted it to. She didn’t.

Oh my God, the walls iced. I’ll never forget that look. It said, “Not you too…” Then she got up and silently left the room.

With a few stupid words I had cleaved our connection. I had become a fan with fantasies like the other boys who wanted her bad. She could never again trust my reasons for friendship.

In two seconds that all became clear. I had misjudged her intentions. I thought I was just another guy in her world of admirers – an okay chum for chatting but nothing special. My God, she was like, the Marilyn Monroe of porn! She had tons of “special” people buzzing around, including producers wanting private time. Where was I in all that?

Her stare…that look said it all. With me, “special” was the freedom to be Plain Rene – a no-makeup gal like my sister and yours. She wanted a sanctuary of confidence and a best friend far from the sex. And that’s what we were shaping until I raped her refuge with three words: “…great tongue moves!”

That night was the last time I saw Ric and Rene. I moved back East a few months later and never stayed in touch. A year ago, on a whim, I typed into Google, “Rene Bond” and read about her early demise. At forty-six Rene died from some kind of liver problem.

This is sad. I heard she became a mom but little is written about it. I bet she was a good mom too, like the dear friend she was while it lasted. What did I take away from that? Her looks of love followed by utter disappointment. It made me a better man.

Ah, but you’re thinking, What kind of good mother could she possibly be if her kids can watch her in films over the internet?

Well, I suppose video sex might be considered bad if Rene lived in our world. But she didn’t, nor did her children growing up. While alive, Ms. Bond resided in a place where performed fornication was a job and an okay thing. To understand this though, empathy needs to kick in, by evaluating issues from that space beyond our personal values.

That’s hard to do – which is why Emma’s number six is so important.

To write rich content we need a rich mix of experience. I never would have met this special friend had I not tripped into her place of polar opposites.

I wouldn’t have been challenged, nor would I have grown the way I did and learned more about…

<Prev | Page 1 | Next>

I've heard a lot of hype about this book and I was excited to finally read it. It starts out very well. I liked that Diana Bishop was a strong independent woman with a stellar academic career. Preferring to live her life without using her magic, Diana is confident that all her accomplishments have been achieved on her own. She's in Oxford doing research when she crosses paths with vampire Matthew Clairmont and that's when she starts to change. Her long repressed magic starts to show itself and not in a good way.

This book meanders for 600 pages and that's the problem. It could easily be half that length and it would have been a page-turner. As it is, there are so many paragraphs devoted to her eating and drinking tea. I get it, she likes to eat and drink tea. I don't need to be told endless times. I was very disappointed to see Diana go from a strong independent woman to a weak-willed simpering witch who follows Matthew's every command. Beside that, my biggest complaint is that there is NO conclusion to any of the issues raised in the book. It ends on a cliff-hanger and if you want to know what happens next, you'll have to buy book 2. I understand ending books on a cliff hanger, but that's usually after the author has resolved some of the issues in the book. Ms. Harkness chose not to do that.

I received this book from the publisher in exchange for a fair and honest review.

I have watched my city go under water twice, and seen the devastation of cyclones, but I cannot imagine the utter horror of a mile wide monster tornado coming at me, let alone coping with the deaths of so many people. Please help.

If you are in the United States, donate to the Red Cross at http://redcross.org  or text REDCROSS to 90999 or outside the States, please go to https://www.redcross.org/donate/index.jsp?donateStep=2&itemId=prod10001

To help the Oklahoma Food Bank: you can text FOOD to 32333. More info at http://bit.ly/11T0OLv  and Twitter @rfbo

Please reblog.

Images are from news media sources.

From the American Red Cross: “The American Red Cross is helping people in the Midwest with shelter, food, relief supplies and emotional comfort after tornadoes over the weekend destroyed homes and left thousands without power.

As many as 26 tornadoes were reported in Oklahoma, Kansas, Illinois and Iowa, according to the National Weather Service. Hardest hit is Oklahoma, where severe tornadoes ripped through several counties, destroying or damaging hundreds of homes and leaving as many as 35,000 in the dark. The Governor declared a state of emergency in 16 counties. The Red Cross is supporting first responders and is providing shelter, food, distributing relief items and clean-up supplies and working with local and state officials to ensure people get the help they need.

The Red Cross is also helping in Kansas, Iowa and Missouri, where storms left more than 71,000 people without power. Meanwhile, the response continues following last week’s tornadoes in Texas, where the Red Cross is still operating shelters and providing food, relief items as well as health and mental health services.

MORE STORMS POSSIBLE Meanwhile, the National Weather Service warns that the threat of severe weather continues today for millions of people in communities from Texas to the Great Lakes, moving eastward as far as the Gulf Coast and Northeast on Tuesday and Wednesday.

“These are dangerous storms and we urge people to monitor the situation closely and be alert for severe weather warnings in their community,” said Trevor Riggen, vice president of Disaster Operations and Logistics for the Red Cross. ”Tornado warnings indicate imminent danger to life and property and people should be prepared to go immediately underground to a basement, storm cellar or an interior room (closet, hallway or bathroom).” “

Share this blog post.

As you might have noticed, I don't often recommend writers or books on my blog.  Everyone needs to make up their own mind about what they choose to read and I'm not sure my voice in the mix makes a difference.  But...this book is different.  Donna and I wrote for Silhouette Romance in the day, and Donna's books are always quality, satisfying romantic reads that I will recommend.  We are both publishing in the indie world now and Donna's new release RECLAIM MY HEART was a pure pleasure to read.  I love strong heroes and Lucas is that.  I like heroines with flaws and Tyne is that.  I'm drawn toward the Native American heritage and this novel gives me a beautiful glimpse into that.  So here's an interview with Donna Fasano that I hope helps you get to know her a little better.

Donna, what attracted you to writing in the first place?

I came to writing from my love of reading.  While growing up, I lost myself in books in order to escape an unhappy childhood.

What genre are you most comfortable writing?

Romance.  I wrote for Harlequin for 20 years, writing sweet romance (as Donna Clayton) and women's fiction/contemporary romance (under my own name). I have self-published some of my back-list Harlequin books. The Merry-Go-Round was never published by a traditional publisher, so I guess that would be my first indie-published book. Reclaim My Heart is the second of my front-list indie-published book. Reclaim My Heart is the second of my front-list indie-published book. Reclaim My Heart is the second of my front-list indie-published titles.

How has your upbringing influenced your writing?

I think authors who face a lot of pain and anguish seem to write stories with great depth, with honesty and compassion.  It could be that dealing with trauma brings out the best (or worst) in people. I believe that losing my mother at such a young age had a huge impact on me, not just as a writer but as a human being. I became, I don't know, more maternal towards my family, my friends, heck, towards everyone I meet...more giving of myself. I'm not sure. But I know that the loss could have made me bitter and angry. I'm just so grateful that the exact opposite seems to describe me.

Where do you get your inspiration and ideas from?

My mind is always on the alert. I take ideas from everything I see, hear, read, experience. I have been known to take a snippet of conversation overheard in an elevator and turn it into a book (Return of the Runaway Bride), or from a location (His Wife For A While), or from a person I met (Taking Love In Stride). So be careful! If you interact with me, you might end up in one of my novels.

What's your favorite place in the entire world?

I have visited so many beautiful places.  The South of France, the rolling mountains of Italy, the Mediterranean Sea, the cobbled streets of Brussels, the red rocks of Sedona, Arizona, beautiful Morro Bay, California, and I spend lots of time in Ocean City, Maryland.  I obviously can't pick a favorite. Besides, there are so many places waiting to be seen!

What was your favorite part of this book to write? Which part was the hardest?

I really enjoyed writing the love scenes.  In my sweet romances, all the "spice" takes place behind closed doors. So this was very fun. And which part was hardest? The "kitchen love scene" (naughty pun intended!).

When you were a child, what did you want to be when you "grew up"?

I wanted to be a teacher. My aunt attended college and earned her teaching degree. I always idolized her.

If you couldn't be an author, what would your ideal career be?

Teacher. I love kids, and I often include them in my stories.  I always say that children are very honest and outspoken. Kids inject a great deal of fun into a book.

Give your fans three fun facts that they may not already know about you.

I love to cook! (I often post recipes on my blog.)

My reading tastes are crazy-eclectic. I read anything and everything.

I'm a little on the chubby side.

Chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry?

Depends. If we're talking ice cream, then vanilla...and I love mind topped with sliced banana and warm caramel sauce. If we're talking cake, then chocolate and don't forget the fudge frosting. If we're talkilng milkshakes, then strawberry.  Wow, now I'm hungry.

Please tell us in one sentence only, why we should read your book.

I put my heart and soul into RECLAIM MY HEART, and I think it shows...in the characters and in the story.

So what's next for you as an author?  Any last words?

I'm thinking of writing a book that revolves around three friends in different stages of marriage, but I'm not sure yet. I've worked very hard on RECLAIM MY HEART and I'm going to take a few days off. Then I'll get back to work!

Donna Fasano is a three time winner of the HOLT Medallion, a CataRomance Reviewers Choice Award winner for Best Single Title, a Desert Rose Golden Quill Award finalist, and a Golden Heart finalist. Her books have sold over 3.6 million copies worldwide and have been published in nearly two dozen languages. Her books have made the Kindle Top 100 Paid list numerous times, climbing as high as #17.

Sixteen years ago, Tyne Whitlock cut all ties to her past and left town under the shameful shadow of a teenage pregnancy. Now her fifteen-year-old son is in trouble with the law and she is desperate for help. BUt reaching out to high-powered attorney Lucas Silver Hawk will tear open the heart-wrenching past in ways Tyne never imagined.

Forced to return to the Delaware Indian community were Lucas was raised, Tyne and Lucas are tempted by the heated passion that consumed them as teens. Tyne rediscovers all the reasons she found this man irresistible, but there are scandalous secrets waiting to be revealed, disgraceful choices made in the past that cannot be denied. Love is a powerful force that could heal them both--if the truth doesn't rip them apart.

Buy Amazon

Buy Barnes and Noble

Chapter Thirteen: Simon is Set Adrift

Simon stripped off his clothes, his bandages—anything that Damsel had touched, anything that held the whispering essence of her. All of their supplies, everything in their camp, even the mangrove branches of their sleeping spot, connected back to her with faint gossamer webs. Nothing was as powerful as the door handle, which seemed to hold some significance with her and thus produced the strongest connection, but everything was a part of her.

She was gone. Her Benefactor had claimed her.

And now…

Simon slipped off his shoes, his socks, his filthy overcoat. He left a trail of clothes and bandage gauze like molted skin along the shoreline. Even stark naked, Simon was sheathed in the sweat of chemical withdrawal. Simon wiped thick droplets of sweat from his eyes. Sand stuck to his feet and calves, forming brown gritty socks. Even his teeth radiated a deep ache. Simon's body craved alcohol, benezadrine, and Damsel's touch in equal parts.

Simon walked to the outskirts of the fishing village. He approached the mangrove patch he and Damsel had used to spy on the villagers and their playful children. The branches whispered with her voice, a beckoning that was just audible when a breeze blew in Simon's direction.

“Simon, I miss you. Come to me, Simon. I have something for you.”

Simon avoided the grove. He drifted deeper into the forest. The first homes of the village stood in a cluster dwarfed by towering monkey pod trees. Faraway branches filtered sunlight and painted a  of homes in speckled shadows that shifted with the ever-present ocean breezes. Village women pinched clothes pins and hung laundry on lines strung between their homes. Simon hunched behind a tangle of exposed roots and watched the women. They spoke to each other in rapid little clips punctuated with fay laughter. Though Simon did not speak their language, which sounded faster and more emotive than Spanish, he envied their playfulness, their lack of concern. Some of the women held toddlers planted firmly to their hips. The women with small children worked at the same pace as the ones without. Simon pressed his back to the trunk of a giant monkey pod tree. The tree echoed the thoughts of the women in the same rapid clips. When they laughed, their thoughts laughed as well. Simon closed his eyes and focused on the whispers, anything to take his mind off the hot pain of his body.

The women giggled and gossiped and cajoled each other in voices that dominated the forest clearing. Simon waited for them to leave, waited for them to enter their homes or trek to the shorelines, or do whatever was next in the routine of their peaceful little lives. Simon emerged from his spot in the monkey pod roots and stole a pair of threadbare pants and a rough-spun linen shirt. The clothing whispered foreign thoughts of their past owner. The shirt smelled like a bouquet of sea salt and homemade soap. It clung to the sweat of his body. Simon fingered his sleeve and caught the image of a middle aged man pulling a fishing net into a boat.

Simon snatched a pair of leather sandals from the front porch of one of the homes. The sandals gave him access to the thoughts of another fisherman, this one younger, taller, skin richly browned from the sun. The young fisherman methodically checked his shoreline poles. Simon ignored the thoughts of the fishermen. He walked into the heart of the village. Eyes from porches and windows traced his passage. Simon felt their stares, heard the tones of their thoughts change from curious to hostile. He was an outsider, an inexplicable presence walking through their town, interrupting the pleasant sameness of their days.

Simon approached the village pier. He set foot on the wobbly grey slats that formed a bridge from land to water. One of the village men was tying off a salt-crusted skiff. The man must have been middle-aged—his eyes were lively but his hair was patched with white over black. The man's hands methodically knotted his mooring cord. He raised a hand to Simon and offered a greeting in his own tongue. Simon tried to smile, but the pain in his body twisted his mouth into a grimace. Simon extended his hand to the fisherman.

“I'm sorry, but”—Simon grasped the man's hand and was instantly transported to the oceans of the fisherman's mind. Simon dove under the surface of recent memories, dove deep past the births of children, marriage, the death of a father. Simon kicked his feet and swept his arms. Inside the fisherman's mind, Simon was spared the pain of his physical body. He shot to the bottom, to the unclear patches of childhood, to images that exist without cohesion but were so precious and old even with their lack of clarity. Simon saw the man as a child reflected in a mirror image. A handsome young woman cradled the child against her breast. The child’s eyes were red from wails of hunger, but his body relaxed. Here was mother, here were warm arms, and food, and comfort. Simon embraced the image and closed his eyes.

In the reality outside of his mind, the fisherman lay curled up on the peer. Simon stood over him, envious of these beautiful villagers for the second time that day. The fisherman lay asleep in the remembered love of his mother's arms. Simon had no memories of a mother, no comforting place to retreat to. He entered the man's fishing boat, yanked the motor's rip cord, and cut the mooring line with a rusty scaling knife. Simon pointed the vessel into the oncoming tide and shot the bow over rolling foamy waves. The boat leapt and fought over the incoming breaks, throwing Simon's stomach into turmoil. He sucked breath through gritted teeth. The clouds above shifted their shapes and rolled like the very same ocean waves bellow. Simon refused to look up; he refused to look for a wandering eye or searching psychic tendrils. If the Benefactor could see him, so be it. The only thing that mattered was getting to clearer waters, turning the vessel due north, and getting back to San Diego.

Simon distanced himself from the coast and its choppy shallow water. Beaches gave way to towering sea walls. Simon cut the life of the engine and let the boat drift. His head reeled from nausea. A wave of seasickness struck him with sudden fury. Simon tried to sit up, but his world spun wild. His vision shifted from gray water to equally gray sky, back to the towering rock spires of the sea wall. Simon grasped the side of the boat with both hands and retched overboard. He watched his vomit dissipate in the softly rolling water. Simon spit to get the taste out of his mouth. Silver fishes darted and flashed like sparkling explosions under the water. Simon brushed the tips of his fingers across the surface, spooking the glittering creatures to further depths.

Simon rolled his body back into the boat. Gasoline fumes from the engine assaulted his nostrils and gripped his stomach like clenching, kneading hands. Simon closed his eyes and covered his face with a wet fishing net. The scent of salt and old fish guts battled the gasoline fumes. Everything in the boat whispered in Spanish, the thoughts and words of the owner, clearly distressed at his recent loss. The voices did nothing to quell Simon's pain. He willed himself not to hear them, to somehow drift off into sleep, to do anything to leave the now of his body. Simon tucked his hands into the net, following the gossamer threads of its former owner with his mind.

The fisherman was in his house, exchanging sharp words with a tiny woman. Simon recognized the woman as one of the laundry hangers. She was shaking a diminutive fist in front of the fisherman's nose. She was beautiful in an elfin way, her skin the color of oak. The fisherman puffed himself up and tried to holler over his wife, to no avail. He tried soothing tones and stroking her arm, also to no avail. Her immediate rage was inconsolable. From her hand gestures, Simon guessed she was calling the fisherman's manhood in question. The fisherman threw his hands up, fired off a short expletive, and stormed out of his house. Simon wished he knew the man better. He wondered how long he could stay in the fisherman's mind, observing his beautiful little problems. The pain in Simon's body was a distant echo.

The fisherman stomped outside and slipped on a pair patched canvas shoes. He knocked on one neighbor's door, then another. Gathering a group of compatriots, the fisherman returned to the harbor, this time mounting and loading his neighbor's boat.

In the comfort of the fisherman's mind, Simon drifted off to sleep.

To Be Continued…