I’m blogging over at CataRomance.com this week about fan-girl moments, books, trips. All sorts of cool things. Stop by and visit, won’t you?

I recently came across this interesting blog post by Justine Lee Musk that discusses what it really takes (according to some) to become a successful author. I love this quote by Malcom Gladwell: “When we look at any kind of cognitively complex field — for example, playing chess, writing fiction or being a neurosurgeon — we find that you are unlikely to master it unless you have practiced for 10,000 hours. That’s 20 hours a week for 10 years. ”

Some would argue that good writers are born, others argue the plot and craft can be taught. For the record, I agree with both statements. Some people are born with a knack for the written word. Some folks just grasp grammar and “the rules.” But others, the dedicated ones, are certainly capable of studying the greats, dissecting the classics, learning from everything and everyone around them.

And I think that is precisely what Gladwell means. Just like a degree, writing takes time and dedication. At a recent chapter meeting writer Tami Brother’s delivered a presentation on what she knows now that she wishes she’d known back when she started writing. One thing that really stuck with me was when she said learning to write takes time or money. Sometimes it takes both.

It takes money in the form of buying how to books, a computer, perhaps workshops and conferences, contest entries, and postage. Then there are the books you buy that you’re passionate about and learn from even though they’re purely for enjoyment.

Writing takes time in that you must pay for all of the above and then scour those books, listen in those workshops, take notes at conferences. Networking takes time. Building an author platform takes time. Research takes time. Writing…takes time.

Musk goes on to remind us that 10,000 hours equals 10 years. Ten years of study, networking, and practice. Even if you have five books under your bed gathering dust, those were still good practice. I’ve heard more than one author say that each book they write is better than the last. And I imagine that’s true. Most of us cringe when we look back on that very first manuscript we ever wrote.

Here’s a secret about my first novel…I wrote it long hand in a journal, and I never gave dialog it’s own line. It had quotation marks, but everything wrapped into the paragraph. Honestly, I did that to save space. There were only so many pages in that little notebook. But now when I try to go back and read that story, the lack of proper formatting drives me crazy.

So, lesson learned. There’s a reason why they say practice makes perfect. And if that’s the case, well, I’m on…year 14, so… well on my way to perfection, and past my 10,000 hours.

I’ve been reading several “how to” books recently and one thing that I’ve noted in two of them in particular is that characters should be extraordinary. They should be more handsome than the average man, more beautiful than the average woman. Smarter, wealthier, etc.

Plain, dull characters should be extremely plain and dull.

Kim Llewellyn recently said something similar on twitter. She continued “The reader will identify with a unique character more than a generic one.”

In some ways I agree. On the other hand, I don’t think a character should be so unique that a reader has a hard time relating to the character. I doubt you’d want your character to be so quirky that the reader has a hard time following along, understanding the character, or finds them unsympathetic.

It’s a fine line to walk, making characters memorable without making them memorable for the wrong reasons.

Thanks to Kim for the inspiration for this post.

This is neither writing nor reading related, so I’m sorry if you’re looking for something inspired. But it’s my blog and I can blog about what I want to, yes?

So I’m on the lookout for a cute new tote for spring. Preferably something colorful, classic, not too big or small, with some stripes. Why stripes? I don’t know. I just feel like stripes.

So far, all I’ve found is this cute little market style bag at etsy. $18, not bad. And this other etsy bag is rather cute too. A little more expensive.

This might be the winner, but it’s a smidge more than I wanted to spend.

What do you think? Have a preference? Know of a bag that fits all my criteria?

© Shiloh Walker

Follow up to Fragile

3.2010

Quinn Rafferty is working as a bounty hunter and bail bondsman in St. Louis when a new neighbor catches his eye. He’s tempted by her beauty-but he knows from experience that anyone desperate enough to live in his building is damaged goods. Besides, he has his own soul to mend before he can worry about anyone else.

Sara Davis is on the run, but not for the usual reasons a woman goes on the lam. She’s not an abused wife, and she’s not a criminal. But she does have a plan for her future. And as much as she finds herself attracted to her gruff, tough neighbor, she can’t risk telling him the secrets she’s hiding. There’s just too much at stake.

But Quinn must get closer to Sara when she turns out to be the target of his new missing persons case, and he discovers that there is something more complex and dangerous to her than he thought. Now, both Quinn and Sara will have to expose their true feelings-as well as their fragile hearts-if they hope their love will survive…

shilohwalker.com/excerpt_broken.htm

unedited!

He opened the door-

And stopped dead in his tracks as somebody all but fell into his arms. Somebody…a woman. And not Theresa.

He caught her just above her elbows, automatically steadying her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft and low.

Then she lifted her face and Quinn found himself gazing into the biggest, brownest eyes he’d ever seen in his life. Feeling a little dazed, he studied her face while she stammered out another apology.

Quinn barely heard it.

He was too busy staring at her mouth. A very pretty mouth, a cupid’s bow mouth slicked with deep, vibrant red. Under his hands, he could feel silken smooth skin and unable to resist, he stroked a thumb along her inner arm.

Her skin was soft, soft and warm. He was also pretty sure she had the creamiest, most flawless skin imaginable. Her shoulder-length hair was a shade caught between blonde and brown, nondescript, but for some reason, he found himself thinking about tangling his fingers in that hair and holding her head still while he kissed that red-slicked mouth.

Well, hello…he could all but feet his libido kicking up as he stared at that mouth. Every last one of his senses tuned in on her-

The way she looked…sex and sin.

The way she smelled…sex and sin.

The way she sounded…sex and sin.

The way she felt…the way she might taste. Sex and sin. He knew it without a doubt. She’d taste like sex and sin.

His mouth was all but watering.

“Ahhh…excuse me,” she said, tugging against his light hold.

“Uh…yeah.” He uncurled his fingers and let go, although he hated every second of it.

She immediately backed away, putting a good five feet in between them and eying him nervously. In that moment, he was acutely aware of the fact that he hadn’t bothered shaving that morning, or the morning before. He was also acutely aware of the wrinkled state of his gray T-shirt and the worn jeans he wore. He hadn’t gotten into the habit of wearing the unofficial uniform worn by most of the guys who worked for Gearing, but he’d swapped out the black T-shirt that read Bond Enforcement for a plain one. Wearing those particular shirts outside of work had ended up causing him a headache or two so when he remembered, he changed out of them before leaving the office.

She continued to stare at him, her face expressionless and her eyes measuring. She might have just continued to stare at him indefinitely if Theresa hadn’t come bustling down the hall. “Quinn?”

Tearing his eyes away from the unknown woman, he smiled at his landlord. It no longer seemed so weird to smile at somebody-as in he didn’t worry his face might crack if he wasn’t careful. Still, the smile on his face did feel odd. “Hey, Theresa. I didn’t know you had company.”

She beamed at him. “This isn’t company. This is your new neighbor. She just moved in to the upstairs apartment. Sara…I’d like you to meet Quinn Rafferty. Quinn, this is Sara Davis.”

Sara.

Neighbor.

Staring into Sara’s dark brown eyes, his heart sank just a little. Great.

Some people collected books.

Some people collected knickknacks.

Some people collected coins.

Theresa collected lost souls, as evidenced by the fact that he was living in her basement after she’d charmed him into changing her tire outside Dierburg’s a few months earlier.

The last woman to stay in that apartment had ended up being a battered woman hiding out from her ex. Before that, it had been a girl who’d been all of nineteen, with two kids and a third on the way. When that one had left, she’d ended up stealing from Theresa and skipping out on the piddling amount of rent that Theresa had coming.

If Sara Davis was living in Theresa’s upstairs apartment, that made her pretty much off limits. It didn’t matter that his dormant sex drive was all of sudden flaring up on him.

The last thing Quinn needed to be around was another lost soul, not when he still struggled to find his own.

—

Have a blog? Spread the word about Shiloh’s book and be entered to win a Nook!

At my house, we call this massage “mooking” and our one kitty, Snickers, just loves to mook a soft blanket. If she ever mooked her sister, my heart would probably explode. Maybe it’s good she hasn’t ever mooked her sister.

Have a great day!

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