Today I’m blogging about momnesia over with Michelle Buonfiglio and the bellas. Stop by and say hi. I’m giving away copies of Sweeter Than Revenge…

Today I’m blogging about hating winter over at Access Romance. Stop by, say hi, and leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of Sweeter Than Revenge.

I’ve been thinking and talking a lot about my writing process recently, and have come to think of it as a giant puzzle that I need to put together—say, a thousand pieces or so—without benefit of a picture to see what the finished puzzle should look like.

The process is, in short, a frustrating mystery to me, something designed to make me want to occasionally pull my hair out by the roots.

But there is one thing I’ve figured out: I always have a tiny moment of panic when I’m two-thirds of the way through the book. A moment of wondering, what the hell happens now? I think it has something to do with being within striking distance of the end of the book and wondering about all those loose ends that still need to be tied. All those elements that I threw into the book, thinking that they’d lead somewhere and I’d figure it out later, when the lightning bolt of inspiration finally struck me. Only later is now here and I still haven’t figured it out. Two-thirds of the way through is when I start thinking about word count and all the things that still need to be crammed into, say, a hundred pages.

Two-thirds is when I ask myself what I was thinking with this book. Why did I think this book about these people was such a great idea? The synopsis is no help, because of course the synopsis, as I’ve already discussed, is a patchwork of cobbled-together ideas that lead nowhere helpful.

Two-thirds of the way is where I get hopelessly, frustratingly, maddeningly STUCK.

If you’re wondering why I’m whining about this now, I’ll tell you. It’s because I’m two-thirds of the way through my February, 2009 book, A Friendly Love Affair, and I am … wait for it … stuck. Like a saber-tooth tiger in a tar pit. Like a fly in a Venus fly trap. Like a bear with a paw in a trap.

STUCK, I tell you. Stuck, stuck, STUCK.

The good thing is that, having been through this so-called process several times before, I know that being stuck right now is normal for me. I will get myself un-stuck. I’ve done it before and will do it this time, even if I can’t, at this very moment, see HOW.

Somehow, I’ll get it done. But until then I’m … yeah, well, I’m just stuck.

USA Today is reporting about momnesia, a memory problem in women caused by having children. To which I say, this is news??? Hell, I coulda told ‘em that …

I have, you’ll be happy to know, slashed and burned at least fifty-two pages from my October book, Tender Secrets, and FedExed it back to my editor. What she’ll think of the changes is anyone’s guess, but I worked pretty hard on keeping the emotional impact strong and the pivotal scenes intact. I got rid of some descriptions and a lot of the “white space” I tend to write with. I only hope it’s enough …

And can I just say … I really love this couple. Andrew Warner and Viveca Jackson. Love them. Yeah, yeah. I know romance authors always fall in love with their latest couples. It’s a normal part of the process, like, oh, I don’t know—actors and actresses falling in love on the set of a movie. It just happens.

Still, I gotta say, with a big grin on my face, that I really love this couple.

What a disappointment.

The best thing about this movie is, sadly, the costumes.

I wanted to love it. I really did. I think the casting was wonderful. Scarlett Johansson as Mary, Natalie Portman as Anne, and Eric Bana as Henry were all perfectly cast. David Mossissey as Norfolk was wonderfully wicked. No problems there.

But the movie was strangely … flat. I guess when you compress a six-hundred page book into a two hour movie, some of the characterization and subplots will be lost, but, really, this was ridiculous. I never got to know any of the main characters and, worse, never saw the romance develop between Mary and Henry or Mary and Stafford. The pivotal character of Boleyn brother George was all but lost, as was Mary’s first husband, William Carey, who disappears a few minutes into the movie and is never referenced again. Did he die? Was he abducted? Beheaded? Moviegoers who didn’t read the book will never know.

And this whole dramatic license thing—I understand it. I really do. Timelines speed up with movies, events are rearranged a little and other things are skipped altogether.

Fine.

That’s not what happened here. So many things are changed from the book—for no apparent reason that I can detect—that it just makes you want to scream. And a pivotal scene between Henry and Anne was changed so dramatically and idiotically that I wanted to hurl what was left of my popcorn at the screen.

So if you’re going to see this movie and you’re a big fan of the book, be forewarned. It’s a pretty movie and the costumes are stunning jewels. The movie itself? Not so much.