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So I figured something out- I was overcompensating on my protagonists. I didn't want them to be too wishy-washy or "nice" so I was making them cranky and snarky and mean instead. Which is great when you're writing about a newly turned graduate student cum vampire with evil parents, but not so much when you're trying to show the evolution of a woman who is realizing that her food obsession is a genuine talent and a joy.

So, overhaul.

On the teen supe front, I've found some photos that are more like my characters than the ones I was using from the show that inspired it in the first place. It's been a bit rough, though, because I'm trying to find age appropriate pictures so I can get a better sense of what my characters look like and then see if my words 'fit' in their mouths. So many teen girl actresses are slathered in makeup and sexed up, and my characters aren't like that- just like most high school girls aren't. At least not in my limited experience. But then I guess people prefer the books where the characters are what they want to be, and not what they actually are, right?

I'm letting the casting directors decide how much makeup to slap on, but for now, I'm going age appropriate and fresh faced. And a lot less snarky.

Progress.

I'm at about 71 pages. I'm overhauling huge sections of text- things that don't ring true I highlight in yellow and go on to the next so that I know what to attack next time. I'm cutting out chunks that don't work and saving them in a file. Got rid of some really good lines the other day.

One of the problems I'm having is that I feel like my teenage protagonists are being a little too grown up some times, and that at other times they're just unpleasant people. I don't want them to be Mary Sues, but I also don't want them to be wretched little shits.

The suspense book I tried to write two years ago featured what my family decided was an unlikable protagonist and that really shook my confidence. Mostly because she was based on me. Second time that's happened- the first was in a creative writing class when I was working on a short story. Really not a good feeling.

Full up on crazy- not accepting any more.

Lotta changes on my journal and FB. From now on I'll be mostly devoting my time on LJ to writing on pulped_fictions and maybe a few personal posts. But no more fandom asshattery. Just... no.

And on FB I just plain cut a bunch of bitches. I met some really great people recently who made me realize that there are good folks out there, and I'd sooner have a small group of awesome friends than have a lot of half-assed friendships that are little more than mutual toleration. Life is too short for that kind of crap.

I blame Amanda and Jess and Jon. Damn you all for being so far away. If I had the money I would buy a compound and relocate you and your families so that we could all hang out a lot, cook, drink beer/wine, and make each other laugh until we all die of old age.
The ring on my left hand was huge and sparkly. Like Edward's skin on a sunny day. My beloved had fashioned the band from a teaspoon, which he'd bent into a ring with his bare hands. The diamond was a hunk of carbon he'd pulled from a barbecue pit in a campground near Bellevue, and squeezed between his two perfect palms until it was just the right shape. It lit up the inside of the car like a disco ball- the facets throwing silvery, glittering echoes across the windows and ceiling and into my eyes. In short, it was dazzling.

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At dinner, her behavior was what her mother would have termed “atrocious”. Kate sat stiffly, still feeling a bit confused about what Dr. Heinmann had said, and listening numbly as Virginia went down her list of concerns for the new book abstract. She took notes but they petered off in midsentence, which would be a problem when she tried to figure out what “Chianti needs to have…” and “Where is this…” and “What kind of person says…” and make the necessary changes. The book tour, which was discussed over dessert, was something else entirely.

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Kate was sitting on the conference table in the largest room, overlooking Rockefeller Center, drinking a cup of coffee and wondering what nonsense she would get into that day, when Virginia walked in, Manolo Blahnik heels clicking with sharp precision on the marble floor like marionette joints in a puppet show.

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“Fascinating,” Dr. Murphy said drily and scribbled something on her pad. Dr. Murphy was a little too much like Kate’s mother for Kate’s taste, but she’d come highly recommended by Monica Travers, who had apparently dealt with authors like Kate before.

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“She said that?” Tom asked, his fingers twirling her hair idly. They were sitting on the porch swing. Tom was sitting comfortably and Kate was leaning against his chest, her legs over his. It was lovely to be here with him. The weather was strangely warm for late fall and there was a slight breeze. The touch of his fingers filled her with a warm, buzzy sensation that was both exciting and strangely calming. “What did you say back?”


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“What do you want for dinner?” Tom asked, sticking his head out of the pass through in the kitchen. Kate, from her perch on the window seat with her laptop on her knees, groaned and rolled her eyes.

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