I do not faint until my third day in the dyehouse. I am relatively new to these shores, and possessed of a stronger constitution than those who have toiled here a year or more. I feel it coming on before it happens, and step back from the fire and the steam before falling to my knees upon the packed dirt floor.

My sight becomes as black as the swirling liquid in the dye vat, and when next it clears, I am in a cooler place, resting upon a pile of undyed garments as Matron Jarvis leans over me.

“Do not breathe the steam,” she says as I squint up at her wrinkled, spotted face. Her eyes are overhung by sagging lids of papery skin and I can barely see them for the folds. Her mouth is a grim line of thin, pale lips with deep wrinkles all around, like cracks in a field of dried mud. There is nothing kind about her—she is as obtuse and unyielding as the wall outside, and has only allowed me this respite so that she may wring more work from me before the bell sounds for evening Meeting.

“You shall return to the vat tomorrow, but for today you may remove buttons and gewgaws from the finer garments so that the dyestuff does not tarnish them.” She points to a rough-hewn bench in the corner beside a garish pile of cloth, and beneath a smoking oil lamp.

I tell myself I should faint more often. It would not be a difficult thing to pretend a weak constitution, a delicate sensibility. I could groan and moan in all my tasks, but continue bravely on, grimacing like a martyr keeping silent on the pyre. I could pretend weakness, and these people would love me for it. In this place, there is no better standard of a pure soul than a suffering body.

I settle on the bench, and start to pick gilt threads from the hem of a brown satin doublet. I am slow at the task, savoring the soft feel of the fabric between my fingers. No, I do not have it in me to enjoy suffering, nor even the appearance of it.

I finish the doublet and retrieve another garment from the pile. This one is a hooded velvet cloak, as deep red as the last drops of wine poured from the bottle. The buttons are carved of bone. The hood is lined with sable. The fabric warms in my hand, soft and soothing as a pleasant memory.

The back hem falls longer than the front, making the cloak’s purpose apparent. Like all the garments of the wealthy, this hooded cloak was designed for a single activity and is quite impractical for any other. It was not meant for walking but for riding. I will have to cut the extra fabric from the hem before it will be suitable for the muddy streets and endless work here within the wall.

The Elders would rail at the vanity of such a garment, but I can only smile as I imagine myself wearing the cloak. The sable lining of the hood caresses my cheek, catching the warmth of my skin and keeping it close. The long rear hem of the red cloak trails out behind me, spilling over my horse’s withers as we travel across the snowy white fields and through the dark forest toward the cold blue sea and a ship that might carry us Home.

Reluctantly, I think of the woman to whom the cloak belonged. She is small—roughly my size. She arrived last week. Last night at meeting I watched her raise red stripes upon her back with the flagellant’s whip as she confessed her sins. By her confession, her life was a litany of lust, greed, pride and curiosity. Her tale stretched from birth until the moment she decided to leave the Old World for the new; to trade her red hood and cloak for a shredded back and bloodstained shift.

Here be monsters.

I cannot rend this garment. It is too beautiful; too soft and warm. I can no more cover its brilliant hue to make it seem humble and holy, than I can blot out my hatred of this settlement and my longing for a place where my thoughts and beliefs are my own concern.

This cloak and I, we are the products of an other place; of an other, less humble people. My mother feels safe within the wall. She finds comfort in confession, peace in penitence, and ease beneath the Elders’ ever-watchful eyes. But for me this place is as poisonous and penetrating as the steaming liquid in the vats. I will die if I stay here.

The moment is so ordinary, so natural. Like a door opening in a dark room, the thought of leaving illuminates my mind. All of my silent complaints and petty rebellions were useless stumblings in the dark. I must find my own path. I must leave the darkened room to walk blind and blinking into the light.

This is not the faith the Elders want for me, but it is the faith I have found. I do not want the wall, or the dyeing, or the cold comfort of their pure, white Heaven. I want the world outside the chamber; the unknown places on the map.

The Elders say the land beyond the wall is wicked and untamed, but what good is protection from the world without if it comes at the cost of conformity, penitence and pain?

My red cloak and I, we will keep our colors and our character. We will forgo the certainty of salvation and take our chances with the wolves.

Thanks for reading!

I know we have had our differences in the past. And, ok, I am willing to admit that much of the animosity between us came from me. Me with my mutterings of “It’s so boring and flat!” or “It’s so hot!” and “They should split it into three states just so you’ll feel like you’re getting somewhere when you have to drive through it.”

But this last road trip, I saw a different side of you, Texas. I saw a softer side, a prettier side. I’d like to say I saw a less swelteringly hot side, but you are Texas and this is July–I might as well wish for a unicorn to gallop up to my door with a winning MegaLotto ticket pressed between its pearly teeth.

Anyway, Texas, the point is, even though I know many a kind soul who was born or who lives within your borders, I’d always secretly suspected they were a tad heat-addled when they swore to me that you were “beautiful country” or even “God’s country”. But that was likely because I hadn’t yet been to Texas Hill Country, which aptly illustrates both of the afore-mentioned descriptions. Lovely.

Oh, Texas, I’m so sorry I thought poorly of you. But I’ve changed. I now appreciate your many, many, many miles of smoothly-paved, well-tended roads. Your vast, wide-open vistas, and bright blue skies, and your numerous roadside shrines to oil, cattle and BBQ.

In addition to your many wonderful sights, you are also home to some wonderful people. You are home to the kind yet wise-cracking stock from which sprang my beloved SmartAss, and you are home to the talented and charming Ms Sherry Thomas (who was kind enough to let me talk her ear off for quite a while–Sorry Sherry!) and her wonderful family.

One last thing, Texas: You may not know this, but I once wrote a story that started out in a BBQ restaurant in a small Texas town. The kind with a Victorian-era court house square, and a park with a gazebo and a bronze statue. I gave up the story, or, at least the part that was set in the restaurant in Texas because I figured I just didn’t know enough about Texas to make it realistic. But on this latest trip, Texas, you gave me the town and the courthouse, and the park with the gazebo and the statue. And then, a bit later, you gave me the restaurant, too.

This abandoned Bar-B-Q is pretty much the setting I’d imagined for that long ago story. Everything from the sign to the porch to the windows. The only thing missing is the green linoleum floor on the inside, but I won’t hold it against you, TX. You gave me back a story I thought I couldn’t write. You set my imagination off in a million different directions. When I finish the current crop of Works in Progress on my schedule, you can bet I’m going to dig up that old story. I’m going to resurrect the BBQ, and I owe it all to you, Texas.

I’m sorry I doubted you. Thanks for everything.

XOXO

bettie

But the really sad part is, at least when it comes to the over-the-top and unethical alleged behavior regarding Amazon Reviews, I can kind of understand what motivates it. Authors are sensitive creatures. We get freaked out easily. I totally understand that first rush of horror and anger when you read something that seems to threaten or disparage your work. It seems so unfair!

Sitting in front of a computer as much as we do, it’s easy to get sucked into the Internet and imagine that it actually matters (see my irrational mini freak-out over the other Bettie Sharpe, below). The important thing is to step back, relax, and remember that the only graceful response to a negative review–if you must respond–is, “Thank you for reading and reviewing my work. I hope you’ll enjoy my next story more than you enjoyed this one.”

Kinda makes silence look appealing, doesn’t it?

Yeah, what she said: Shiloh Walker has a calm and collected post on the matter. Want to read more? Go there.

Kate’s post about authorial taglines got me thinking about all the advice authors get to “build a brand”. And, certainly, plenty of authors do just that, creating different pseudonyms for different genres, sub-genres or heat-levels. I guess if you write both erotic and non-erotic romance, a different “brand name” is a good way to let your readers know what to expect from your story.

But what do you do when you don’t even know what to expect from your stories?
I write what interests me, and I have the attention span of a gnat. Maybe I’ve already messed this one up. Ember and Like a Thief aren’t very alike–not genre, not heat-level, not POV or tone. People who wanted something like Ember were probably disappointed by Like a Thief.

And when I look at the WsIP on my hard drive, with the exception of Nieves, which is the sequel to Ember, and Split which features characters from Like a Thief, everything else is very dissimilar. 3 sci-fi in 3 completely different futures (okay, two and a half) and 2 fantasy stories in two completely different worlds. 4 first person narrations. 1 3rd person. 1 scorching erotic, 2 regular romances and 2 that have “romantic elements”. Two of those WsIP don’t even have bad-girl heroines! What the fuck am I thinking?

Anyway, here’s my question: How important is authorial branding. How important is it to get the type of story you expect from an author you know?

The World Without Us presents houses, cities, museums and monuments–the man made environments we imagine will last centuries after we are gone–as fragile, perishable creations that endure only through our constant vigilance and care. We are ants, ever building, patching, pumping, and shoring-up our constructions. Without us, the passage of decades would wear down even the greatest cities, bury them in greenery, or wash them away like sandcastles in the rain.

This book is a must for anyone who reads or writes sci-fi. I just started reading, and only 6 chapters in, it has reshaped the baker’s dozen of post-apocalyptic futures sitting in limbo on my hard drive. This book rocks. Get it, read it, love it. The World Without Us by Alan Weisman.

Anyway, here it is. I still have a bit of work to do. I reserve the right to redo the title graphic at some point. I also need to redo the menu on my website home page…the list goes on.

If you’re looking for a way to procrastinate, may I recommend Joanna Bourne’s The Spymaster’s Lady? It’s one hell of an awesome book. I read it in one sitting, and ended up ordering in dinner because I read instead of cooking. Oh, well. Good books make up for mediocre food any day. At some point I will write a post to enumerate all of the things I loved about this book.

One nice bit of news, over there on the left. Like a Thief in the Night hit number 7 on the My Bookstore and More list. Thanks to everyone who has purchased and/or reviewed Like a Thief in the Night.

I’ve heard several stories of writers who entered contests–agented writers, writers who have been published, and writers who IMHO turn out high-quality writing no matter what–and were given good marks overall, but received exceptionally low marks and persnickety, nitpicky comments from one or two judges. And, usually, the judges getting their hate on are unpublished, or have only a couple of publishing credits to their name.

Maybe it’s because I’m new to all this organized writing business, but right here is where I start not getting it. The judges mark all these categories and are supposed to judge the readability and saleability of the submission–but how can they do that if they haven’t sold much, themselves?

And if the writers doing the critiquing don’t have a solid string of sales under their belt, what is their opinion but the opinion of a reader who may or may not like the type or style of story the contest entrant writes? What special insight do they have into the industry that can benefit the contest entrant? Now, if Nora Roberts or some other luminary of the genre were judging the contest, the whole setup would make sense: Experienced, successful expert offers learned opinion and judgment. But otherwise?

If I were judging a contest, my opinion would and should be worth exactly as much as the average reader’s. Sure, I’m a writer, but I don’t have any great string of credits under my belt. I don’t have any experience, except my love of the genre as a reader, that makes me qualified to judge the saleability of a story. And as a reader, I’ve never quit reading a book over minor details, plot points I think should have been included, or the occasional punctuation error.

If anyone reading this has entered a contest, I ask, honestly, earnestly, humbly, “Why?”

1. Are contests helpful?
2. Do you feel like the critiques of the judges are useful?
3. What usually prompts you to enter a contest?

1. I know the place of purchase and price of every article of clothing I own, no matter how long ago I got it. If I bought it on sale, I can also tell you the original price and how much I saved.

2. I love fabric. I am, in fact, a fabric whore, known to wander the aisles of fabric stores across Los Angeles admiring the color and weave of wares I rarely purchase. Bonus: every story I’ve ever written contains at least one fairly detailed description of fabric–the material, the color, the weave, the pattern or the dye-process.
3. I am just under six feet tall.
4. The reason I use a lot of exclamation points in my blog posts and comments? I really talk that way. Really!
5. I love false/created spaces. Las Vegas, Disneyland, miniature golf courses, malls built to look like 19th century European or American towns, odd little houses around LA that look like hobbit houses or castles or pagodas.
6. I’m fascinated with trains. From 19th Century steam engines, to 20th century trollies, to Angel’s Flight (Los Angeles’s late, and much missed funicular rail line) to subways to light rail. Trains are cool.
7. I am almost unbeatable at “Connect 4″

Okay, now I have to tag 7 people. I tag Sarai, Isabelle Santiago, Carolyn Jean, Grammar Geek Laurie, Kate Rothwell, Sherry Thomas and December Quinn

Ann Aguirre–talented author; email correspondent of La Nora; and recipient of a kickass cool cover blurb for her forthcoming novel, Grimspace, from none other than the awesome Sharon Shinn–also wrote a review of Like a Thief in the Night. Which I also love. That one, I think I will stitch into a warm scarf to wear outside when it’s cold like it is tonight–terribly windy and barely 40 degrees. Brrrr!

I will keep those reviews close when someone inevitably finds my characters too unlikable to bear, or gets annoyed by my “everything and the kitchen sink” approach to genre, or notices that place on page 73 where I used the same adjective twice in two paragraphs.

Now, I’ll go to sleep. It’s a quarter to two, and the work-week from hell hasn’t yet let go of me. Good night.

* All quotes will be properly noted and attributed–perhaps on a matching pair of socks. As footnotes. Foot notes. Ugh! I think I really need sleep. I always get punny when I’m tired.

But how should I promote the novella? Maybe a contest? I wracked my brain, which took all of 2 seconds, and came up with these ideas:

• The “Guess Bettie’s Favorite Color Contest”
• The “Tell Bettie Why You Deserve a Free Book” Contest
• The “Guess How Many Fingers Bettie is Holding Up Behind her Back” Contest.

Maybe I’m not so good at this contest thing. Maybe I used up my one good idea on the Hard Boiled contest. No, wait, I have one more idea: I’ll let potential contest entrants make up their own contest.

So, here’s the deal. Post your single best idea for a contest in the comments of this post. If I pick that idea, you’ll win a free copy of Like a Thief in the Night and I’ll hold the contest in February, with a second copy of Like a Thief… as the prize. Entries must be submitted by 6 P.M. Pacific on Monday, January 14, 2008.