Click the play button after a few seconds to get you in the country mood.

I’ve always said (okay, not really but I’m saying it now) that in another time and place, I could have been a cowgirl. I love me some cowboy fodder and every once in awhile I listen to country music. As I sing, I have been known to throw in some southern twang. I can sound genuinely hick.

I love horses. They’re just like big ol’ puppy dogs to me. In another time and place, I’d own several—a Red Dun, a Black Stallion, a Strawberry Roan, and maybe even a Dapple Gray. Oh, and a miniature horse too. Just for fun.

I’d slap on my cowgirl hat, strap on my chaps, and mosey on down the trail into the glowing sunset. Can’t you just hear the clippity-clop of the horse hooves on the trail, the jingle-jangle of my spurs, and the wind rustling through the tumbleweeds? Giddy up, Widow Maker, giddy up.

Yep, I’d make a mighty fine cowgirl and if you say otherwise, be prepared to meet my Quickdraws. (Just kiddin’. I don’t own no Quickdraws. But I do have a Nerf gun and darts).

Writing my zombie western romance novel has been a hoot—writing the twang and slang of the wild, wild west cracks me up.  And, in my research, I found some wonderful resources to help me to decipher our normal day verbiage into western idioms.

There was a point in which my male MC dresses up kind of fancy and I wanted to say something more than just, “He looked nice in his fancy clothes.” (That’s telling not showing by the way, and I would NEVER do that). I was able to find a website that said fancy clothes were called, “Best Bib and Tucker.” Oh, I snatched that up. That’s a good phrase right there. And, back in those days, a handsome man was called a Thoroughbred. That’s nice. So what the heck, I implemented the two. It worked.

Of course, I have to be careful not to add too many western phrases into my novel. It could come off over bearing and creepy. Besides, a few are impossible to understand. Someone would read it and be like, “What the heck?” But a few here and there to provide a more western feel and make it more authentic is mighty fine by me.

So I thought it would be fun to give you a few slang terms and see how well you do in defining them. Oh, let’s make it a contest! Yeah, that would be fun!

First, we need RULES (I’m making this up as I go here):

1)      Follow my blog. Just click on the join this site button. So easy to do.

2)      No cheating. No looking it up online. Okay, you can look it up online, but it would be a lot more fun if you didn’t.

3)      Leave your guesses in the comment section.

4)      The one who gets the most right, wins. (In case of multiple winners, a name will be drawn from a hat—a ten gallon cowboy hat).

5)      If you tweet this (and why wouldn’t you?), just tell me you did, I’ll believe you and then TWO of your wrong answers will be made right. Like extra credit.

6)      Make sure to include your email so I can get a hold of you.

7)      That’s all of the rules I can think of. No point to make this technical. This is just something dumb, yet fun to do.

PRIZES: You have to have prizes. Hmm…not sure what kind of prize to offer. It should be something cowboy related, right? If I sent you a bottle of lotion, that would be weird. Shoot. I don’t know.

Okay, okay. I think I got it. How about a gift card for you and a friend to go to a movie theater in your area to see “COWBOYS vs. ALIENS.”  Not quite zombie, but pretty darn interesting none-the-less OR a Barnes and Noble gift card if you’re just not that into cowboys (Shame on you. Shame. Shame).

Here we go (I gotta make this hard):

1)      Adam’s Ale

2)      Milestonemonger

3)      Dough Belly

4)      Paintin’ his nose

5)      Get the mitten

6)      Texas Cakewalk

7)      Windies

8)      Rod

9)      Fice

10)   Amputate your timber

11)   Doxology Works

12)   Belly Wash

13)   Hay Seed

14)   Rot Gut

15)   Sheepherders Delight

16)   Texas Butter

17)   Fiddle

18)   Horn

19)   Roostered (I use this one in my book)

20)   Honey-Fogle

Good Luck ya’ll. I’ll post the answers this Friday, May 20th along with the winnerest winner of this here contest.

Voice.

“Ugh, no,” you say while pulling out your hair. “NOT another blog discussing writer’s voice. Blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it all before. I’m moving on to Creepy Query Girl’s blog post on getting naked in France.”

But wait, don’t go! Not yet. I’m not going to discuss what voice is or even make an attempt to define it, since there are several hundred blogs out there that try. No. I’m not going to discuss what it is or what it should be. I mean, that’s like asking how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop—nobody truly knows.

But we’re all supposed to have one. Kind of a catch twenty-two, don’t you think?

No, what I want to discuss today is more along the lines: so you think you have a great voice—unique, different, super cool—only to find out that editors “just aren’t that in to you.” What do you do and where do you go from there?

Those are the types of questions that have been floating around in my head for the past couple of days since receiving a rejection from an editor saying, “I hate Angela Scott’s voice.” (Okay, it didn’t quite say that exactly, but the gist was pretty much the same).

I’ve worked hard to create a pretty awesome thick-skinned coat—it’s multi-layered and deflects criticism so my heart and soul will not be crushed—yet, somehow, this rejection found a weak link in my armor. It’s now an irritant, like when you get your haircut and the trimmings fall down the back of your shirt, inside your collar. Itchy and annoying.

Tell me my story stinks. Tell me my characters are unbelievable. Tell me my anything other than my voice reminds you of the time you accidentally drank a glass of water while on vacation in a third-world country (No, they didn’t say that, but it felt that way).

My voice is my voice. It’s me.

It’s like telling me you hate my face. It’s my face! Right there on the front portion of my head. Unless I do major plastic surgery, I will always have this face.  I can temporarily put some makeup on it—a slew of rainbow colors on my lids, lips and cheeks. I can even add sparkly glitter to my eyes or put on a red-balled clown nose, but it’s still going to be my face.  Just weirder looking.

Darn me and my stupid face!

My voice is ALL over my work in progress as well.  Every single page—80,000 words of my voice. Shoot!

Logically, I know it’s all a matter of preference and subjectivity. I get that. I do. But I think voice is a very personal thing, a character trait, a part of your personality. It’s me.

Can voice be changed? Is it even possible?  Could Stephen King, JK Rowling, or JRR Tolkien change their voices? I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong here, I’m in no way comparing myself to this fine league of writers. I would never do that. All I’m asking is if it’s possible to change?

And more importantly, should I?

(Oh, and go check out my previous blog post below for a chance to get your hand on some free books I'm giving away).

First impressions are everything. Whether we're sizing up our blind date (Oh, my gosh. He looks likes George Costanza!) or trying to decipher if our manuscripts have the "IT" factor. Kristina Fugate is hosting a blogfest (see button above) to helps us find if we have "WOW" in our first 550 words. It's not too late to sign up. It's actually rather easy. What do you get for participating?  A chance at a $20 Amazon Gift Card AND you will hopefully receive some very helpful feedback.

If you need to email me, check out my About Me (Sorry, stupid linking thing on weebly isn't working. So  just go to the very top and click it) tab above or click over there--->. Email will be listed there. Thanks.

Here's my entry:

                                                         WANTED: DEAD OR UNDEAD

                                                                         Chapter 1

                                                                          Marked

The zombie saved his life. Normally, they don’t—it wasn’t within their nature—but this one did, and for that, Trace was grateful. 

            Because had that flesh-eating cowboy not limped its way into the saloon, causing a much-needed distraction, Trace was certain he’d be wearing a bullet between the eyes. The colt-peacemaker, cocked and ready, had not only marked him a liar and a cheat, but a dead man as well. 

            Trace didn’t view himself as a cheat. A liar maybe, but a cheat never, and he’d argue any man who thought otherwise. What one man defined as swindling, another defined as skill, and Trace felt he’d been blessed with an abundance of skill. Not many men counted cards to the extent he could, or bluffed as well either. Most men relied on the luck of the draw, but for Trace, luck had nothing to do with it. Instead, he figured it more prudent to determine his own fate. Grab the bull by the horns, so to speak. He held the same philosophy when it came to money and to those of the opposite sex. Up ’til now, he felt it had been working quite well. 

             Unfortunately, Trace hadn’t foreseen the cunningness of the poker player sitting directly across from him. He had figured the old man daft at first glance, an easy target, but appearances proved deceptive.

            But once the saloon doors swung open and the zombie wandered in, cheating, lying and stealing, became less of an issue. Staying alive, above anything else, became everyones primary focus. The timing couldn’t have been better.

             “Hell, that’s Bill Johnson!” Miss Krissee called from the balcony above. She pulled the Derringer pistol from the garter encircling her leg. If anyone were to know, it would’ve been her. Nearly all the men in town had visited Miss Krissee at least once, though no one ever readily admitted to it. 

                If what she said was true, and that creature was indeed Bill Johnson, it meant only one thing . . .

            The ailing disease had made its way to town.

            “Y’all better run,” Miss Krissee said. “He’s got it a’right. I’ve seen it before.”

            “Then someone should go fetch the doc.” A cowboy at the bar made the suggestion, but no one moved to do so. Trace didn’t blame them. Someone would have to push pass the zombie to escape the saloon, and no one was foolish enough to try that—unless they had a death wish, of course. Even though zombies were slow, they could be tricky sun of a guns too.

            “It’s too late for him.” Miss Krissee shook her head. “He’s already dead.”

            Trace knew exactly what she meant. There was no known cure, though many hot shots in the east, and even a few in the west, bragged about working on finding one. Didn’t matter no how. Cure or no cure, it was all the same. By the time a person sought out help of any kind, the infected person would become part of the walking dead before a powder could be swallowed or a shot injected into the arm.

            The only cure Trace knew of was not to get bit. Simple, yet effective. 

My nine-year-old son for his last birthday received an onslaught of Nerf weapons—all sizes, all shapes.

He hardly plays with them.  His birthday, just as a note, was last October. They normally just gather dust.

But as I sat at my trusty pink laptop last night, scanning Twitter and searching blogs (because that’s what I do instead of write novels now days), he decided to pull out the Nerf guns and spongy darts. Then he decided to involve his younger sister in a game called, “You’re a zombie/ No I’m not.”

It kind of went something like this:

The boy: “You’re a zombie.”

The girl: “No I’m not.”

The boy: “Come on, please. Just chase me around and try to bite me.”

The girl: “I’m not playing”

The boy: “I’m still going to shoot you, so just do it.”

The girl: “Why do I have to be the zombie?”

The boy: “Because I have the guns and you don’t.”

Girl moans her frustration (much like a zombie, hmmm). “Can I really bite you?” (This is the part in which a good parent, an observant parent, would have stepped in and put an end to the game. Sadly, I’m not a good parent. I’m just so-so).

I didn’t hear too much more conversation going on as the game got under way. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, running around, up and down the stairs, the dog chasing after them while Nerf darts littered the house. They seemed to be having a good time. A real good time.

That should have been a clue right there as well. (Again, a more observant parent should have raised a brow. These two children don’t tend to play well with one another. Not for long anyway.)

Next thing I know . . .

The scream.

“She bit me! Mommmmmm, SHE BIT ME!”

Yep, the girl sunk her teeth into the boy. Now, playing the devil’s advocate here, I did hear the boy say, “Chase me and bite me.” (See above transcript of thus said game).  So in her defense, he was kind of asking for it.

Me: “You shouldn’t have bit your brother.”

The girl: “But I’m a zombie. Zombie’s bite.”

Me: “I know. But you’re not really a zombie and so you should’ve just pretended to bite. Like this,” (I go on to demonstrate how a fake bite should be by fake biting her arm).  

The girl: “Then I don’t want to play.”

She’s a stubborn lass. She really is. But I get her point. She has two older brothers who terrorize her on a daily basis. I had a brother (have, he’s still around) growing up and given a free pass to bite him, I probably would’ve. I would’ve sunk my teeth into him and made him cry and beg for mercy (You don’t know my brother. Don’t judge me).

But now was the time for me to step up and be “Super Mom” and instill some kind of moral-like wisdom and advice on my dear daughter. “Don’t bite your brother,” I said.

The girl: “Why?”

Me: “Because I said so.” Sorry, that’s all I had. Moral-like wisdom is not my strength.

Off she went, the problem solved. (Just to clarify, the boy sustained no visible injuries. Lots of salvia, but no blood or teeth marks).

A while later, these little zombie hunters of mine came creeping into my room, Nerf guns tucked into elastic waist bands of their pants, a clear see-through rifle shoved down the back of my son’s shirt, both of their hands clutching mini Nerf pistols, and proceeded to pelt me with sponge bullets. They had reconciled their differences and found a new target—me.

“Get her!” The boy yelled. “Get the zombie queen!”

A queen? I could get used to that—even if it is queen of the zombies. (Dang! That would be an awesome Twitter name @zombiequeen . . . Dang! Just checked. It’s taken. I’m gonna go follow that person).

So I played my part and chased after them. They jumped on the sofa and called it their “free zone” to which I replied, “There is no free zone. Zombies don’t know what that means.”

They squealed in delight as I blew raspberries on their necks and bellies and tickled them all over.

A fun, yet disturbing kind of game, right? I know what you’re thinking. I do.

Here’s the thing—I’m writing a zombie western romance. All three of my kids know that.  Do I read it to them? No. Do they watch zombie movies? Heavens no. Do they know about zombies? Apparently, a little too much.

But it isn’t all my fault, folks. Scooby-Doo has them. Even Barbie (YES, Barbie) has them. Zombies are everywhere.

Was this my best mothering moment? Probably not. But I can tell you, playing a pretend zombie game with my children probably won’t be the worst thing I do to them either. I’m a so-so kind a mom, so I’m sure I’ll screw them up in a completely different way.

Trace (Male MC): I hate you. You know that, right?

Me (aghast): No, I had no idea. I thought we had a mutual respect for each other. Why? What’s going on?

Trace: I know what you’re thinkin’ and I don’t like it one bit.

Me: What I’m thinking? I’m not following you.

Trace: Yeah, the way you’re planning on ending the book. I saw your plot plans and I think you suck.

Me: Whoa! That’s mean and uncalled for.

(Trace shrugs his shoulder indifferent).

Me:  So, do you mean the plot sucks or I, as a writer, suck?

Trace: All of the above.

Red (Female character): I agree with Trace. You totally suck.

Me: Red? You’re here too?

Red: I’m always here, remember? I live inside your head.

(Me putting my hands up in surrender): Okay. Okay. So what exactly are you both upset about?

Trace: I finally get what I’ve always wanted, and now you’re thinking of takin’ it away. That just ain’t right.

(Red nods in agreement): Why can’t you jus’ let us be happy?

Me: Is that why you guys have stopped talking to me? Why writing the last two chapters is like pulling teeth.  (I know I used an idiom. I couldn’t come up with something clever. Forgive me).

Trace: We’re finally happy, well as happy as we can be while surrounded by a hoard of flesh eating zombies, and now you’re thinking of messin’ that all up, throwing us back into the mix of things.

Me: Well, umm, you guys do know there is a book number two in the works? I have to set up things up for that.

Trace: So you’re saying that you’ll fix everything in book number two? Make it all better? Give us our happy ending?

(Red talking to Trace): I heard a rumor that she’s got an idea for a third book in the making too. Book number two is jus’ an excuse to make us miserable now, but really we’re gonna be miserable FOREVER.

(Trace glares at me): More zombies? Are you kiddin’ me? So this is never goin’ to be over, is it? You’re just going to keep writing us into horrible zombie infested situations where we have to shoot our way out or die. That’s just great. That’s just spit in my beans fantastic.

Me: Wait. No. Someday it’ll get better--

(Trace turns his back to me): I ain’t talkin’ to you no more. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I’m outta here. I quit.

(Red shakes her head while staring me down): You make me sick. You really do. Write what you have to, you’re just gonna have to do it without me. I’m leaving with Trace.

(All the minor characters walk away as well , each carrying picket signs and chanting: “Make Love Not Zombies”, “Give Peace a Chance”, “Angela Scott Sucks Snot”).

Me: Please don’t go. I need you. Come on guys, don’t be this way. Let’s work something out. I’ll give a brand new pony to anyone who chooses to stay. A pony? Wouldn’t that be nice?

Everyone turns and flips me the bird. 

 
This is where my writing stands to date—it’s not happening. I have two or three more chapters to write to have a completed first draft and yet, the voices have vanished. They’re on strike. They hate me.

It’s been several weeks now and I’m not sure how to get them back. I need them.  I’m picking out sentences here and there, but the feel isn’t right. I’m stumped and worried, what if they never come back? I will have a book with no ending. A BOOK WITH NO ENDING—there’s  no such thing as books without endings (Okay there is that movie called “The Never Ending Story” but still).

I have to have an ending. That’s kind of a pretty set in stone rule—beginning, middle, end.

But I don’t know what to do. The voices that lead and direct my path have disappeared and I’m not sure what to do to entice them back. They didn’t go for the pony idea and so now I’m at a loss.

What do you do when the voices say bye-bye? Or are they always there? Or am I just crazy?

Whenever I’m asked about what my current work in progress is about, I get slightly embarrassed. This is how a typical conversation tends to go:

Them: So whatcha writing now?

Me (cheeks flush red): Ummm . . . A zombie western romance for young adults.

Them: What?

Me: Yeah, a zombie . . . western . . . romance.

Them: That sounds . . . different. (Their way of saying, “You’re strange.”)

Me: (trying to make myself sound less strange): It’s really more of a romance set in the wild, wild west really, with only a sprinkling of zombies, not a lot, but enough. It’s actually quite fun to write.

Them: Sounds . . . fun. (Their way of saying, “You’re even more strange than before.”)

Me: I write other stuff too. More contemporary stuff, not just zombies. My other three books are more contemporary actually, like Lesley Kagen and Elizabeth Flock. That kind of stuff.

Them: Oh, tell me about those. (Now I’m back to just “strange” and not “strange-strange” and that makes me happy).

I need to learn to own my strangeness. Just embrace it and go with it. It is what it is, and the truly bizarre thing about zombie novels (something I didn’t know about until well after I started writing one) is that their HOT. People like their zombies. They do. (I bet you do too. Go on, admit it). From costumes, to movies, to the new show called “The Walking Dead” on AMC, to shirts and clothing—zombies are EVERYWHERE. Well, not literally everywhere. Their not real—duh? But you know what I mean.

So I shouldn’t be embarrassed. I mean in the hierarchy of paranormal creatures and writing, it goes something like this:

1)      Vampires (super big genre, but slowly losing momentum. How much more can we take, really?)

2)      Zombies (I’m biased here. I think their much cooler than the following. But like I said, I’m biased)

3)      Witches/Ghosts

4)      Aliens

5)      Monsters/Goblins

6)      Wicked clowns (clowns suck)

In an article in The Writer magazine, October 2010 issue, it says that zombies are the next BIG thing. Who knew? Not me. Not when I started. Jonathan Maberry goes on to say, “Nowdays, zombies offer greater storytelling potential than vampires . . . in recent years the vampires themselves have become the story. They are beautiful, tragic figures, and much of the writing is about them. Not so with the living dead. Except in a handful of zombie tales, the walking dead do not possess intellect or personality, and therefore all the writer has to do is establish that they are the threat. Once that’s done, the story can focus on the humans who are caught up in that threat.” He also says, " They allow the fiction writer to create and sustain suspense. They are a constant and pervasive threat. Blood and gore, however, is not absolutely required." 

That’s what I do. It’s not about the zombies. It’s about the people (the alive people). AND, I'm not a horror writer. so there's not a ton of blood and gore in my novel. It's actually quite tame as far as zombies go. The article even goes on to say that you don’t have to like zombies to write about zombies—their talking about me, folks.

So YES! I’m writing a zombie book and I like it. Think what you will (but I'd much rather you think kindly please).

Who knows, maybe it will be this zombie book of mine that will break down the door to publication and not my more contemporary works.

Now wouldn’t that be funny . . . Angela Scott, Zombie Writer Extraordinaire (I added the extraordinaire because I wanted to). Oh, and don't forget to check out my cool "Got Zombies?" tab above.