Haha, funny story...Or, RUSH before Me Before You.

So, back in March of this year, I was working on RUSH, the third book in my series. It's about a blind recluse, who's bitter and angry at the world for his loss of vision, and who makes life a living hell for those around him. The entire idea came to me in a flash while running. (Some of you have heard this before, so just skip on down to FAST FORWARD for your abridged version).

I take a run most days, and I get in some good plot thinking, flashes of inspiration, and sometimes I unravel story lines as I jog along. But on this one particularly good run, I overheard (in my mind) a conversation. It was a young man--and he sounded bitter. He was giving a young woman a litany of job duties (and not being very nice about it.) Sounded like a job interview. So I listened in, eavesdropped. This man began to ask the girl questions. What do you look like? Hair color, eye color, etc, because he was blind--come to find out- and wanted to know what the "ghost who was to haunt his house" looked like. And he still wasn't being very nice about it, but this girl--god blesser--wasn't taking his guff.

And that, in a nutshell, was how RUSH was born. I ran home, typed up the echoes of that conversation, almost verbatim, and went from there.

FAST FORWARD to a month later, and RUSH is giving me the fits. I could NOT get around a certain stupid plot development I had tossed in there, and had not yet discovered that cutting it out completely was going to save my book. I was stuck trying to write around it and generally feeling shitty about the whole thing. To top it off, I stupidly set myself a crazy deadline by putting it on pre-order on Amazon, where the consequences of failure are swift and dire. Basically, I was in a funk and would go for days doing nothing more than ordering and reordering bits of dialogue, trying to get the stupid thing to gel. 

I finally gave up and decided I needed to do some reading to refill my brain and get going again. I had heard a lot of good things about a book called Me Before You by a super-talented author named Jojo Moyes. So I decided to give that book a gander...and nearly had a heart attack just reading the blurb.

For the uninitiated, MBY is about a bitter, angry recluse who's been injured in an accident, and who gives his new assistant hell because he's bitter and angry and the assistant is plucky and doesn't take his shit and OMFG WHAT AM I GOING TO DO???

Yeah, panic. Straight up, panic. I'm 40% finished with RUSH and then I find this universally beloved book with a similar premise. Only she thought it up first, and I was sure I was going to look like some sort of ridiculous pretender. Oy. That was not a good day. So I did what I always do when I panic, and that is to send an email to Erin. (She's the one the book's dedicated to, and now you know why) I told her the situation and she told me to keep going because Erin's advice is always fabulous and, in one way or another, always boils down to "Shut up and keep going." So that's what I did. I kept going: I dynamited that stupid plot boulder I'd plunked into the middle of the story, and I finished it.

What I did not do was read Me Before You. Not until after RUSH was finished anyway. I didn't want one iota of that book (which turned out to be everything good I had heard it to be and devastating to boot) to seep into mine, subconsciously or otherwise. I skimmed enough to see that the plot lines were very divergent beyond the basic grumpy guy/assistant premise, and mine has a big ole HEA.

When I did read MBY, I was stunned by its intelligence, its smooth flow, and the fact that despite it being the Ugly Cry of the Century, it wasn't schmaltzy or maudlin in ANY way. Sharp, funny, sad...it's a glorious book.

Some people have compared the feel of my book to MBY and for that, I am profoundly flattered, but I'm not egotistical enough to think the two books are in the same league. And I can say that without qualms or self-pity because I'm also proud enough of RUSH to know it can stand on its own, in whatever capacity it has to move readers. I just kept going, because Noah and Charlotte had a story to tell and neither they, nor I--eventually--could let anything stop them from telling it.

But for a minute there? Yup. Shittin' bricks.

ES

Career decisions

I have to care less about the marketing and more about the work, or I'm going to go crazy. That's my new strategy in a nutshell: write more. It's become much too easy--and time consuming--to spend all my time perusing FB and doing takeovers and posting in groups in the hopes of selling a couple more books, getting a few more likes. It's too much and while I love the community, I can't do it anymore. I want to be a better writer, not a better marketer, and so the time to redirect my energies toward reading and writing has come.

Oh yeah, that feels good. ;) 

Shout it from the rooftops!

Once, when I was in college, I had a date with a young gent and we tossed back a few too many cocktails before deciding to see Saving Private Ryan in the movie theatre. We got there late and had to sit about three rows back from the front. And then the invasion began.

If you recall this movie, the first ten minutes or so is the storming of the beach at Normandy. I had to watch it with one eye closed, sort of unable to process it all. Maybe that was the booze, but I think it was more the reality of it. I remember thinking, "Thanks a lot, Spielberg. If I wanted to fight in WWII I would hop in my time machine and go." I felt like I had been right there, in the thick of it. 

What, pray-tell, has this to do with The Man I Love? Because that's sort of how I felt reading this book. Like I was right there, right in it, too close for comfort sometimes. In fact the sweetness of the first 30% I read with a vague sense of unease twisting in my gut. I was anxious the entire time because I knew this sweet, soul-deep love story was going to get blown to bits and I was going to be splattered with the blood and guts of it. 

There's a word, "interiority". There is a regular definition for it, but the literary one is Interiority is defined as a character's thoughts, feelings, and reactions to the situation. It's a flashier word for "show" (as in show, don't tell) but it's a little more than that. The ability of an author to do this is what connects a reader to the characters, and if it's done in the jaw-droppingly masterful way that this author does it, instead of watching or reading the text, you're living in it, absorbing it, you're RIGHT THERE. This novel is a textbook definition of interiority done right. Despite the--sometimes--pages of almost unbroken exposition, Erik's interiority never wavers. We're right there with him, intimately so. Every joy, heartache, pain, loss, grief. You live it right a long with him. His story comes to life, and there's a LOT of story. 

I don't do recap reviews; as a writer myself, I like to focus on mechanics and the HOW of the writing. How did she do it? Why? So this probably doesn't read as a typical review but it's the only way I know to describe and process artistry such as this. Suffice it to say, this author had a story to tell and she told it. She gripped it tight, twisted, and wrung it dry, and was unapologetic about all of it. 

For instance, insta-love. It's a generally hated term in the romance world and something most authors tend to avoid, incurring the insta-wrath of readers if done poorly. And rightly so, as it usually comes off as a cliche. Here the author is unapologetic, having her characters even come out and say it, "It's only been a week." And it worked. Why? Two reasons: The first being once you've mastered all the rules you're free to break them. So she did and fuck it, it was glorious. Secondly, there are those who recognize the longevity of a soul, its agelessness while bodies wither and die. If one is a believer in the idea of soul mates then one must write honestly about how two soul mates would react upon being confronted with one another again. 

She said it with her eyes, he heard it clearly in his head, and it wasn’t hello. It was, “Well, here you are.”

Here I am, he thought.

And that's how it's done. 

"Insta-love" is cheesy and stupid when two characters meet and fall in love in order to speed the plot along or for the convenience of the author. Insta-love, when it's the core principle in the novel itself, when it's soul mates reconnecting, is as integral to it as a beating heart is to a body. There is a difference and this is it. 

Now there were two parts that threw me out a bit, though neither was unable to the shake the book from a 5 star perch. But...(view spoiler)

And (view spoiler)

Those nits aside, I thought this book was astounding. I was RIGHT THERE the whole time and it wasn't always easy. This is not the book you reach for when you want some fluffy escapism, nor is it even the book you want when you're feeling angsty for some good drama. This is the book you read when you want to jump heads and live another life or when you want to submerge yourself into another reality, blood, guts and all. It's the first 10 minutes of Saving Private Ryan, the chaotic battle for survival against impossible odds, and you are--say it with me now--RIGHT THERE. 

As for me, this is the book I will only read once, though I may return to certain parts for the phrasing. And I will read the sequel, though I'm going to need to buffer myself with other books of fluffy escapism first. Then, when I have amassed the mental fortitude to journey into Daisy's mind, I'll read the second which I bought the instant I finished reading the sample. 

Insta-one-click, of this author. Insta-love for the win!

ES
On Goodreads here: Review of The Man I Love by Suann Laqueur