Last week I promised I’d try to blog about the writing life. I’m really glad I said “try” because this week I want to talk about movies, not writing. Yesterday I saw “Pride & Prejudice” for the third time. Now that I’m something of an expert on the movie, I feel qualified to make the following controversial statement: “P&P” is the best love story movie ever.

What about “Casablanca”? “Gone with the Wind”? “Doctor Zhivago”? “Wuthering Heights”? Oh, I hear you screaming out there. I know what you’re saying. How can some upstart of a movie trump these classics? I’m glad you asked and I’m happy to tell you. “P&P” wins, hands down, for the following reason:

It has a happy ending.

That’s right. We get all the suffering, angst and longing of a great love story AND a happy ending. There’s Darcy and Elizabeth exchanging that electric first glance at a dance. There’s the unhappy couple getting off on the wrong foot and misunderstanding each other completely when we know that Elizabeth’s light and laughter is exactly what dour Darcy needs. Even better, this movie overflows with subtext. See all the yearning glances. Note Darcy’s subtle but powerful reaction when he touches Lizzie’s hand for the first time. Watch Lizzie steal a moment to recover after their dance together.

And what about the thrilling conflict? This movie couple can never quite manage to be on the same page at the same time. Just when Darcy works up the nerve to propose, Lizzie is convinced he’s a cruel manipulator for breaking up Jane and Bingley. The scene where they argue in the rain and say exactly the most hurtful things to each other breaks my heart every time. But even as they’re hurling accusations, they’re swaying closer, nearly drunk with longing.

And even though we don’t see how these two can ever work it out, they do. A blissful, fifty-year marriage is clearly in this couple’s future.

Take that, Scarlett and Rhett.

I’ll give you “When Harry Met Sally”. But can a love story ever be as fabulous when the heroine wears jeans and a turtleneck?

“P&P” has it all. Compelling characters, including the numerous secondary characters, beautiful scenery and great music. And it’s really, really funny. On top of all that, the hero is everything he should be: misunderstood, strong, moody, a little manipulative and, best of all, desperately in love.

So I’m comfortable with my opinion.

And after I see the movie another time or two, I’ll go back to my work in progress and attempt the impossible task of creating characters as memorable and timeless as Austen’s Darcy and Elizabeth.

Oh, wait. I guess the blog had something to do with writing after all.

Now that my site has been up for a couple of weeks, it’s occurred to me that I’ve unknowingly undertaken a solemn responsibility: blogging. Blogging is, in fact, a little like marriage, isn’t it? I agree to write and occasionally update a blog with some modicum of entertainment value, and any surfers that stumble by promise to read the blog and maybe, if I’m really, really lucky, add me to their favorites list. And if I don’t live up to my end of the relationship, I fully expect my site to be dumped in favor of a younger, thinner, sexier blog.

Agreed? Good.

Now let’s talk about that “modicum of entertainment value” part.

Oh, I’ve seen what the other romance authors have out there: clever, timely blogs updated constantly if not daily. Links to other amazing blogs and resources for readers and writers. Reviews, commentary–the list goes on and on.

You don’t expect anything like that from me, do you?

When do all those fantastic bloggers out there (and you know who you are) find time to write their books? Do they have more than twenty-four hours in their days? Do they take stimulants? Do they have ghost-bloggers who do the actual blogging for them?

Someone please tell me–what is the secret? How do you keep up with a great blog AND write thrilling books?

Anyone? Anyone?

Right.

Since my focus is on learning the craft and writing better books, let’s go ahead and try to set some ground rules so everyone knows what they’re getting (and not getting) with this blog:

1. I will try to take my responsibility as a blogger seriously;
2. I will try to blog once a week(ish);
3. I will try to be moderately entertaining;
4. I will try to blog about the writer’s life;
5. I will try not to preach (too much);
6. I cannot be expected to blog when I’m feeling (insert one of the following here):
· Grumpy
· Tired
· Hungry
· Annoyed
· Anxious
· Bored
7. I cannot be expected to blog when “The Today Show,” “Countdown with Keith Olbermann” or “Apprentice: Martha Stewart” is on; and
8. I cannot be expected to blog when a new Sandra Brown or Karen Robards book hits the stands.

That’s reasonable, isn’t it?

Feel free to add the blog to your favorites list.

I’m an unapologetic couch potato. No, really, I am. Oh, sure—I exercise every day. And I’ll confess I’m even one of those annoying people who, when presented with the choice of side-by-side escalator or stairs at the mall, invariably jogs up the stairs just to burn a few extra calories. So I do move around a little. But what’s the most exciting thing I can think of to do on a normal day where I don’t win the lottery and thereby acquire the money to travel repeatedly around the world? Sitting on the sofa, reading a book. I have great friends who routinely and voluntarily do outdoorsy things like bike long distances, row (in a boat! on the river!) and hike. Hike. Sometimes even in the woods, where bugs like to go. I can only shake my head in bewilderment. Not me. Not on your life.

And I usually have lots of discipline—a trait I attribute to years and years of school and practicing law. When studying or working I had a rule: once I sat down, I had to sit for two hours, barring bathroom emergencies and natural disasters. Work was no joke. When my teacher or professor or judge gave me a deadline, I met it. Period. My own personal motto could have been a variation of Nike’s: “Just sit and do it.”

So you’d think a job like writing, where I get to plunk my butt down in a chair and stay there a while, would be a perfect match for me. Heaven on earth. Manna from heaven. Manolo Blahniks wrapped in a Chanel plaid jacket.

Uh-uh.

The second I sit down in the chair to write, funny things start to happen. E-mails appear from nowhere and I must answer them IMMEDIATELY. Mother Nature calls. My stomach rumbles. My throat parches. Dust bunnies, long since ignored or forgotten, taunt me. The urge to get out of the chair becomes darn near undeniable—like the need to try every sample at Sam’s.

Why is that? I enjoy—no, love—writing. I look forward to it when I’m not doing it. I carve out time for it. I live for it.

So why doesn’t my butt want to stay in the chair?

Is it overwhelming fear of the blank page? Or fear of mediocrity? Or the lunar cycle? Am I mentally lazy? Is that it? Is world building a little too hard some days? Is it me?

Don’t get me wrong. I still sit my butt down and just do it.

It’s just really hard sometimes.

If I’m going to be honest (and why not?), I’ll go ahead and confess
right up front I’m not always the sharpest ax in the tool shed. A
couple years and many rejections into this whole romance novel writing
adventure, it occurred to me I needed some constructive feedback on my
work. After all, first-degree relatives can only do so much. Mom: “I’m
so proud of you! This book is wonderful! Wonderful! But, ahem … Do you
think you’ll ever write medical thrillers?” My sister, who reads more
romances than I do, threw me into an apoplectic fit with her
well-meaning comment. Sister: “It’s wonderful! Wonderful! But, ahem …
It needs something.” Ann (smiling pleasantly): “Great! What’s it need?
More description? More sex? More conflict? Different POV?” Sister
(frowning thoughtfully): “Noooo … ” Ann (one side of her face twitching
uncontrollably): “What? What the @#$%**!! does it neeeeeed?” Sister
(impervious by now to Ann’s weird moods): “I dunno. Just something.”

Well, obviously it needed tweaking because, last time I checked, it
wasn’t number one on the NYT list. Out of sheer desperation, I stopped
ignoring the advice I’d already heard and took drastic action. I
decided (gulp) to suck it up, be a woman, put my baby out there and let
it be critiqued by someone who didn’t love me.

It was a massacre.

Totally unprepared for the harsh realities of contest critiquing, I was
soon making regular trips to my crying spot (a/k/a the toilet seat, lid
down, in the nearest bathroom), which I’d previously reserved only for
deaths and unexpected snow days. There, I turned on the taps, mine and
the sink’s, and cried over those lousy unseen women who obviously
wanted to break my spirit just like that wacko prison guy in “Cool Hand
Luke” tried to do to Paul Newman. What did they want? When they said,
“Write in short, declarative sentences,” I sobbed to the hand towels
that I DID write in short declarative sentences. And when I calmed down
a little and realized, in point of fact, maybe I didn’t always write in
short, declarative sentences, I rewrote the whole manuscript. And when
they said don’t use passive voice, I rewrote the whole thing again.

Slowly my scores began to improve, although I had yet to final. Feeling
daring, I decided we needed to get inside the hero’s (and the secondary
characters’, and the professor’s, and the mother’s) head(s) and wrote
in his/their POV, flitting between POVs like a hummingbird on speed.
Now the judges screamed at me in adamant red ink not to head hop within
scenes. One judge went so far as to write, “I know Nora Roberts does
it, but we are not Nora Roberts.” Well, fine. So I rewrote the whole
thing again, wishing all the while my hero and heroine would have a
tragic and fatal plane crash in Chapter 2 and spare me having to spend
any more time with them.

Oh, there were bright spots. One judge wrote I
had “snappy dialogue.” Snappy. Another liked my voice. Another said she
was “pea green with envy”—yes, that’s a quote—over my characterization
of a secondary character. But I hit bottom the day a judge wrote,
simply, reproachfully, “You can do better.” Back to the bathroom I
went. Seriously wounded but unbowed, I emerged to realize I had,
indeed, used a cliché and could probably, if I really pushed myself and
flexed my writing muscles, do better.

Slowly, almost without my knowing
it, a better, smoother, tighter, wittier, stronger manuscript appeared.
My scores got higher until finally I won third place in a contest. I
landed an agent. How did that happen? Did contests alone do it? No. But
they sure helped.

So I want to spread the word. Contests aren’t fun.
When I mentioned that to my agent, she said breezily, “Oh, they build
character,” to which I responded, “I have enough character.” But …
maybe not.

Can’t we all use more character—and a stronger manuscript? I
try to think of contests as root canals. Not fun, but necessary every
once and a while. And in the end, our books will thank us.