Some days, I’ll be reading a novel and I’ll think, “How did this get published? I could do SO much better.” Then I think about my novel-in-progress and how much work it’s been (and more importantly, just how much work there still is to do) and I think I’m never going to finish a novel, much less get one published. But just when I really start to despair, the Universe sends me a nudge that makes me think again.

My degree is in accounting, so I guess it’s only fitting that the Universe sends me signs via the banking system. The first time it happened was several years ago, in the days when banks still sent you a copy of your canceled checks with your statements. I opened my bank statement one month and discovered that the bank had sent me another woman’s checks — and she happened to have the same first name as my novel’s narrator. It’s not a common name, so needless to say, I felt like this occurrence wasn’t just chance or coincidence, but some higher power trying to give me encouragement (or possibly a kick in the pants).

Last year, something similar happened. I still do a good bit of accounting work to keep the wolf from the door, and I have one client who needs me to log in on his behalf to get bank statements. The bank’s website will often prompt me with security questions, so I went through the list of questions with him to get all the answers I might need. One question in particular got my attention: the middle name of his child.

I will give you one guess what that name was. (Ten points to everyone who said “your narrator’s name.”)

If I didn’t believe a certain amount in fate, I’d probably be really weirded out by these little incidents. Honestly, do you know how many women’s names are out there? It’s easily hundreds, if not thousands. I’m not an expert on statistics, but I think we’re well beyond the realm of coincidence here.

Yesterday, the sign was much more subtle, but I still think it was too coincidental to really be a coincidence. You might have seen my earlier post called The Wrong Characters, about how my writing last week went off in an unexpected direction after some inspiration in the form of sexy Scottish actor Gerard Butler. After I wrote that post, I sternly told myself that I needed to put the gorgeous Mr. Butler out of my mind and get back to the first novel, lest I embarrass myself when I have to hand it over to Nayad for her thoughts and comments. Then this morning, since I was exhausted and practically brain dead, I decided to do a mindless but occasionally necessary task: cleaning out my email SPAM folder.

I had nearly 200 SPAM messages. Lost among the ton of loan promises and pharm ads was one — ONE — with a celebrity name in the subject matter. (Again, you get a single guess on who it was. Did you guess Gerard Butler?) I almost wish I’d done a screen capture to convince myself that I wasn’t flat-out hallucinating.

But I can hear you saying, “You tweeted about that blog post and used his Twitter handle! Spambots love reading Twitter!” And my response is: the email was dated Saturday morning — roughly 36 hours before that blog post was written or published.

I’d say the Fates want me to keep writing.

As dumb as it might sound, these little nudges really do help. When I’m on the mountain with the other writers, I feel confident and everything seems possible. But when I get back to the real world, I rapidly start doubting my abilities and becoming disheartened by the enormity of my goals. I’ve read parts of my novels to the retreat writers and even had a couple of chapters critiqued, and the response from both the instructors and my peers was very positive and encouraging. But it’s hard to hold onto their words and keep the faith once I start drowning in the million mundane responsibilities that life showers on me at home.

So I’m going to keep asking the Universe to give me reassurance where it can. And maybe someday, a few of the books on my shelves will finally have my name on them.

(I’ll end with one last pitch for Nayad’s anthology Kickstarter, What Fates Impose. It closes this week, so be sure to check it out if you haven’t see it already. Thanks!)

So, as I might have mentioned, I spent last week at a creative writing retreat in the North Carolina mountains. I was supposed to be working on my first novel, getting the front end in shape in advance of the lovely Nayad Monroe giving it a once-over and giving me some advice (always assuming, of course, that the Kickstarter for What Fates Impose is successful — our deal is part of a Kickstarter reward). I had five entire days to work on whipping those pages into shape, filling in the gaps, and fixing issues with consistency. So what did I do?

I worked on a sequel.

( I never said this whole writing stuff made any sense.)

I’m willing to accept part of the blame, and the rest I lay at the feet of that handsome devil Gerard Butler. You see, early in the week, I figured out that a certain character in the sequel looks pretty much like this, albeit with a touch of gray in the hair and beard. (And he talks with a Scottish accent. Yum.)

You can probably understand why I was completely unable to ignore this guy and stick to the plan.

I ended up writing at least 3,000 words around this character while I was on retreat and did another 575 yesterday when I got home. I already know he’s got to die at the end of the book and I’m probably going to cry writing that scene. I may have to give him a prequel book or something — always assuming that I get that far.

I guess the only solution to get back on track is to find some equally attractive British gent to cast as the romantic lead for the first book. Your suggestions are welcome. 🙂

When I was in college, I was writing both mainstream fiction and genre fiction, and I felt like those arenas were two different worlds: oil and water, Montagues and Capulets. So rather than commit definitively to one or the other, I submitted my genre work with a pen name. I saw nothing wrong with that option; it was made for a logical reason, and the name I chose was slightly exotic but not outlandish.

I can still vividly remember sending a story to Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy and opening the magazine a few weeks later to see a scathing editorial she’d written about pen names. I couldn’t help feeling that my submission had sparked her tirade, and I took it very personally. She dismissed pen names as frivolous and clearly had never considered that someone might have a good reason for wanting to use one. I didn’t agree with her opinion then, and I reject it again now.

You can probably see where this post is heading. I’m about 99% convinced that, if and when I ever publish my novel, it’s going to be under an alias. (No, I’m not going to reveal it here — that would largely defeat the point.) My reasons now are different than they were in college, but I have them and they’re good enough for me. I don’t really care if they’re good enough for the Marion Zimmer Bradleys of the world. There will always be people with strong opinions about things, and I’m not worried about pleasing them. As they say, you can’t please everyone, so you might as well please yourself.