Jessica Scott

Writing is a challenge. It is so much more than simply words on paper. It’s making those words into a coherent story that people care about.

Why on earth would I write, when I’m a full time mom, full time army officer and full time wife, house keeper, veterinarian (all of our pets are another story)? Why would I add one more thing to my already full plate and then go and try to sell it so that it becomes something that I have to do if I want to see a dime of it?

I write because I have to. Because at the end of the day, the stories are in my head and this is something that I can do down the road for years to come.

Coming to Iraq has impacted my writing. Foremost being that I’ve had more time to write this year than I’ll probably ever have again. I’ve used that time wisely (I hope) by practicing my craft daily. This has enabled me to develop certain practices, such as writing every day or editing my stuff in Word rather than Scrivener, where I write. Of the year I spent here, I can honestly say that there was only about a month total where I did not write every single day.

I refuse to believe that I won’t sell. For me, it’s a matter of when, not if. While that may be wishful thinking, I choose to look at it as positive thinking.

I have a new company commander now and it feels like that fresh start when I first start a new project. Clean slate, able to do what needs to get done to tell the story. There will inevitably be rough periods, just like the process of writing a new book, when I step back and try to figure out what the heck happened to get me where I am right now. But that is all part of the process.

I’ve felt smothered of the last few months in my professional capacity. This was part due to my own stubbornness and feeling that I knew what right was supposed to be but also due to lack of communication and a lack of a willingness to communicate. Writing is communication between me and my characters. When I don’t listen to what they’re telling me, I stagnate. When I’m not willing to push the boundaries and challenge them, the story stagnates.

So here’s to new beginnings and fresh starts. In writing and in life!

Tweet This Post

Every mother knows the fear of sending their baby out into the world, alone, undefended and at the mercy of other people’s children. There is nothing more terrifying to me as a mom than my daughter facing some of the agonizing childhood moments that I faced and knowing that I can do no more than my mother did, which is hold her and help her find a way to deal with it. There is a fierce protectiveness inside me that makes me want to find whatever child makes my daughter cry and have a serious heart to heart with said child’s parents.

Which we all know isn’t feasible or practical nor does it teach my daughter to stand on her own two feet. But that doesn’t make the fear of it happening and my reaction to it any less difficult to deal with. All I can do, in reality, is continue to raise my daughters with my family’s values and hope she’s learned good lessons on how to deal with the world.

Writing stirs a similar feeling inside me. My book is something I created, something that I spent hours giving birth to and grooming and shaping until it turned into the book that’s out there today. It takes a whole lot of thick skin and courage to send that sucker out into the world of agents and editors and let them pick apart your hard work. Every book has a piece of the writer in it and no matter how much we may pretend otherwise, no one wants to admit that their baby might be ugly.

In my case, my baby was ugly and needed several rounds of extensive plastic surgery before becoming anything remotely resembling a coherent novel. Unlike a real baby, my novel underwent massive changes and I learned to be ruthless, killing the scenes that I loved if they did not have a vital role in the overall story. While it was painful, eventually what emerged on the other side was a readable book.

Being a writer and being a mom are really the same but the biggest difference is that as a writer, you learn to shut off the negatives (not constructive criticism but the truly negative) and focus on how to get better. As a parent, you just want to make the pain stop for your baby. Both require an ability to cope with challenges and personal difficulties. Being a writer means having the courage to keep sending your baby out into the world until you find that one yes. Being a mom means having the courage to teach your kid that life isn’t fair and that everyone is not nice and that some people just aren’t worth the effort to be around and ultimately, it’s about having the courage to send your baby out in the world as they grow into adults.

Both are rewarding. Both are terrifying. And I wouldn’t give up either experience for anything.

Tweet This Post

Today my oldest daughter starts kindergarten. Because she’s staying with my mom, my oldest will be going to the same school I went to as a little girl. I remember my first day of school. I wore a little green windbreaker and a sticker with my name on it. I was scared getting on the bus that first day. But I had my mom there, holding my hand and taking pictures and making it into a big adventure for me. My mom is there again, being there because I can’t.
The hardest thing about being gone is that my daughter will remember this. She’ll remember us not being there and she’ll remember my mom being there. Which is really great, because she’ll have a closeness with my mom that I never imagined possible with us being dual military. I’ll remember the day through pictures.
I’m sad about not being there. This is a pretty big milestone for my little girl. Just one more thing that as a military mom, I miss out on. We can talk about sacrifice all day long but at the end of the day, it’s personal. It’s about missed birthdays and weddings. It’s about missed first days of school. It’s about time. I’ll never get this day back. I’ll remember it through this blog post and the pictures my mom sends and the phone call tonight to hear all about it. But today is gone.
I can only make the rest of the days count. I made the choice to be in the army and have a family. Doesn’t make the consequences of that choice easier to deal with. I’ll probably find a way to write about this someday, down the road. When it’s a little less fresh and a little less raw.
I hope today is a happy one for my daughter. She’s going to school with her cousin, also something I never imagined she’d get to do because of our military lives. I’m looking forward to the pictures and hearing her tell us about it.
Most of all, I’m looking forward to being home. To taking her to school myself and meeting her teachers and helping her with her homework. Because those are the days I’ve got to look forward to.
Looking back doesn’t accomplish anything but regret. And regret will spoil those days still to come.
So as you’re walking your kids to school today or sending them off on the school bus, remember there are thousands of moms who aren’t there today to do the same. There are thousands of dads who are expected to act like today is just another day. Enjoy the little things.
They really are what’s important.

Tweet This Post

I’m going to be the first person to tell you: I suck at revisions. They are not my friend. They are not easy. Someone once said you have to kill your darlings and that is absolutely the truth.

My agent Kim Whalen is getting ready to pitch my War’s Darkest Trilogy to editors. While I know that I’m not expected to have all three books ready to go before editors, I’d like to go into the pitch session knowing they aren’t completely crap, which is what my first drafts tend to be. Especially since my first draft of my third book in this series was written over 8 months ago.

My fabulous critique partner doesn’t have the time to start on a ms from scratch. I’ve had to develop ways of fixing stuff before I send it to her so that she can really rip me a new one on the important things rather than awkward wording and plot, if that makes sense.

I needed a revision makeover.

There are tons of classes out there on how to revise. I learned a ton from Margie Lawsons Deep EDITS class. It was really interesting. But for me, its along the lines of trying to get me to write a book while outlining. I simply cannot do it.

My mentor told me once that each scene has to build on the last and if it doesn’t, then it needs to be cut. The single best learning experience for me was to write a syn where each scene was lined up (of a book I’d already written but could not for the life of me spot the problems in it) and figure out how it advances the plot. It was a great technique that I used exactly one time and I ended up throwing that draft completely away and writing the book over.

I’ve done that now with two books and the new drafts are better for it.

But this third book that I’m working on specifically for my trilogy pitch is different. I like the story. I think the heart of the story is still there but, like most of my early drafts, there’s a lot of excess that needs to be cut. My biggest challenge with self editing in the past has been being unable to clearly see what needs to go and what can stay.

So I’ve changed how I see the manuscript. I write in Scrivener. Love it. Won’t write in anything else unless forced to by gun point. But for this book, War’s Darkest Sin, I’m trying something different.

I’m editing it in Word. I’m using track changes to go through the entire manuscript like I would a critique partner and you know what? It’s helping me read it like it isn’t my own stuff. I’m able to feel where the beats are off, where the pacing dies, where something is completely extraneous to the plot. I feel the characters where they’re out of place and I’m able to mark it up and keep it in one document so that I’ve got notes. I’m lining through entire sections of text and leaving myself reasons why it isn’t working. And I’m leaving myself snarky comments explaining why something sucks or is too heavy handed.

I’m critiquing partnering my own work. The results? I’m going through about 50 pages a day, making notes, changing text, outlining changes to scenes. While it’s not formal out lining, it’s loose enough for it to be effective for me. When I’m done going through the manuscript on Word, then I’m going to crack open Scrivener and start up in there. Hacking and slashing and finding the heart of the story.

Hopefully, I’ll come out on the other side with a better product that my real critique partner can then slice to shreds before it goes to (fingers crossed) an editor.

Writing is a process. The first draft is the easy part. It’s being able to kill your darlings that makes a difference.

Tweet This Post

Thank you everyone who emailed and commented on what they’ve done during the submission process. It’s been a tremendous learning experience for me just gaining perspective from people who’ve been there and are there now.

The single biggest agreement about the submission process, regardless of whether it’s for editors or agents, is the waiting. For unpublished writers, the wait can be months if not longer. I had a rejection from an agency a year and a half after I’d submitted to them but I adhere to the 90 day rule. If I hadn’t heard from an agent after about 3 months, I assumed there was no interest. The fun part about email queries is that you don’t necessarily get a response. Agents Janet Reid and Jessica Faust have both commented on their blogs how nasty exchanges get sometimes can get when an email rejection is sent. As a result, many agents simply don’t respond, which leaves the budding writer in a near constant limbo.

The next hardest part about submitted, again which there is wide agreement on, is the rejections that come. Either through silence or a ‘it’s just not right for me’ blanket rejections offer little incentive to the writer to keep going. As the writer progresses, however, usually rejections may get a little more informative and sometimes, the best answers are rejections with suggestions for improvements as well as an invitation to resubmit. Those rejections give the unpublished writer the opportunity to revisit the manuscript with comments in mind for specific issues and ultimately, can help the writer grow, both professionally and as a writer.

For many writers, the ultimate challenge is what to do during the wait. Many mentioned working on the next process because for a writer, there is always work to be done. Either copy edits, galleys, proofs or simply starting the next book. Keeping busy is a way to keep from obsessively waiting for the phone to ring or the inbox to chime, plus it helps advance your career as well.

Choosing writing as a career is not for the faint hearted. I truly thought in December 2007 when I’d written the end that I’d created a masterpiece. Said ‘masterpiece’ is in the trash now, though the heart of that idea has been completely rewritten. Stay busy, stay after it, and above all, keep writing. It only takes one yes to move you from hobby to professional.

Tweet This Post

Calling all authors.

I’m curious.
My agent is gearing up for a September submission for my trilogy (yes, that is me trying not to be too squee-tastic). And seeing how I’ve never done this before, I’m a teeny bit nervous (again with the understatement).

What has the submissions process involved for you?

How involved are you?

Do you prefer a play by play from your agent (and if you do, what does said play by play involve?) or do you just want the call that says yes, we’ve sold?

What does your agent ask you for before you submit? Do you do a syn or a pitch?

All advice and information would be greatly appreciated!

Tweet This Post

Well with all the drama that’s been ongoing in my life, I’ve neglected to say thank you for all the wonderful feedback that everyone offered on the new project. Your comments and reactions were greatly appreciated and thank you very much for your candor. So far, the book has proven a challenge to write as I’m really going into that dark place inside all of us.

Along the writing news, I finally received my Golden Heart results today and while I did not final in the widely respected contest, I actually came pretty close with one of my books, so that was exciting in and of itself. 

I’ll say this and I’ve said it before. Writing has most certainly kept me sane over here and I’m not sure where I’d have been without having it as a means to get my frustrations out. I’ve had one hell of a bunch of inspiration, that’s for sure, so here’s hoping the well doesn’t run dry anytime soon.

Later!

Tweet This Post

So here’s the deal. I’m posting the first few pages of my new book over here. It’s just the opening. But I’d really like some feedback. You can post comments here or on Facebook or just email me your thoughts and impressions but I’d really like feedback on this.

Here goes nothing:

Escaping through the lily fields
I came across an empty space
It trembled and exploded
{and left me} in it’s place
- Grateful Dead

He never asked to be a hero. He’d simply run away and joined the army the day after he’d graduated from high school, much to his father’s disapproval and mother’s quiet horror. One day, he was laughing with his buddies and trying to score beer and get Cass McLaurin to let him cope a feel. The next he was surrounded by drill sergeants in a shark attack, being screamed at by Fort Benning’s finest, unable to do anything but obey.
The first time he dreamed of blood, he woke up with a mouth full of it, having bit his tongue after he fell asleep in the prone, his cheek resting on the stock of his M4. His drill sergeant had kicked him in the back of the head to wake him up. He never slept well again after that.
The strange lure of blood stayed with him after that. The resonating answer to the drill sergeants’ cry what makes the grass grow. Blood! Blood! It pulsed in his ears and throbbed in his veins along with the quiet certainty that he would spill it when it was time.
The second time he dreamed of blood was the first night the mortars hit his combat outpost. He’d been dreaming of blood when the pounding in his brain threw him from his bed. The cadence in his head would hide in his dreams, stalking his sleep.
Then it started during the day. Out on patrols, he tasted blood but his gloved fingers would come away clean. In the chow hall, his spaghetti looked like the mangled remnants of his basic training battle buddy, who’d been hit by an RPG.
It seemed Iraq was determined to claim his soul even as he struggled to function on a few hours of sleep a night. Then he saw her. He didn’t know if the first time he saw her was real or a dream. But she was there. Always there.
The dirty child with no shoes and ratty hair. Standing and looking. Just looking even as he tried to see around the tiny body to the men hiding behind her. He saw her on street corners. Behind dumpsters.
And he felt his sanity start to slide away, like a dog beaten by its master.
Now, clean shaven and wearing his uniform for the last time, he cleared out of the Copeland Center on Fort Hood. He’d clung to the ideal of this day. The day he was handed his final out papers and his DD214. He was free. No longer a soldier. A civilian. His own man, who would be able to come and go as he pleased.
And he pleased to not see the shabby child anymore.
She left him alone for a while. He made the drive from Texas to Maine with relative ease and thought nothing of drinking a pint and a half of coffee brandy each night before dropping into a sleep that was anything but restful. He just needed a little help falling asleep, that was all. He was wired from too little sleep and too much coffee.
The old green bridge (XX name?) leading from New Hampshire into Maine welcomed him home. Ten years, he’d been gone. Ten years since he’d walked through the halls of his high school with his buddies and his brother.
He felt like that person hadn’t been him at all. Just a foreshadow of what life would be like as the boy had gone off to war and come home a man.
Hours passed like the ever green trees that lined I-95 and he pulled off in Newport for gas, coffee and a case of Coors Light. He knew better than to look for his favorite German beers or even any of the brands that were popular in Texas. He refused to think wistfully of Fort Hood. He was home now. Back in Maine. Hood had never been home. It had just been a stopping point on the journey into madness.
He started the engine of his Chevy Trailblazer and the headlights flooded the well lit parking lot.
He jerked and dumped hot coffee on his leg. As the liquid spread over his legs and cooled, he wiped his palms on his thighs. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t real. She wasn’t real.
She clutched the dirty rag that he guessed had once held a baby doll and stared at him. Her brown eyes wide and innocent in that dirty face.
He saw himself reach for the coffee like he was sitting behind the driver’s seat instead of in it. The lid popped off with a crunch of styrofoam. And the burn crawled slowly up the tips of his fingers until fire licked at his flesh and he snapped back to his body, his hand screaming in pain.
When he looked back, she was gone. His heartbeat slowed and the heat receded from the skin of his neck. This time, he knew when he reached for the coffee and swore when it burned his lips. But the burn reminded him that he was alive, so that was a good thing. Right?
He pulled into the Maine night, amazed as the stars filled the sky as brilliant points instead of being muted by city lights and desert sand. The moon filled the road until it was almost as brilliant as daylight. Buffalo Springfield came on the radio and that haunting peal that became the anthem for his father’s war pulled him to the present.
He was home. The tires crunched on the gravel driveway of what had once been his parent’s home. It was now his. The log cabin was nestled against a hill in a ten acre field that had once been a pasture. Wide dark windows stoically looked into the night sky and the wrap around porch made him smile as he remembered chasing his brother in summer nights forgotten until this moment.
His mouth went dry and he reached for a beer. The snap hiss was the only sound as he popped it open and slammed half the can. He downed the rest before he pulled the keys from the ignition and walked through the moonlight to house. The urge to rush to the porch and get out of the open nearly propelled him to run. Instead, he sucked in deep breaths and took the stairs. Two at a time but at least he was still walking.
The front door creaked and groaned as he pushed it open, the screen door slapping behind him with a crack that made him jump. The house smelled like apples and cinnamon and home. (XX Mom or Aunt?) had been here and cleaned the place up. The feelings inside him weren’t right. They weren’t his.
He ignored the feeling and looked around the wide open space that made his home. What had once been massive trees formed logs that framed the house and stood as beams through out the great room. The deer he’d shot when he was twelve was still mounted on the wall over the fireplace, right next to his brother’s moose.
A shiver ran across his skin. Christ it was cold in Maine. It was the first week of July, it wasn’t supposed to be in the forties. His t-shirt no longer seemed adequate and he turned toward the door.
He wanted his bag and his bed. A sweatshirt and another beer. The front door suddenly loomed larger in his vision, consuming every particle of visible light. His heart pounded in his chest and he felt the weight of his kevlar on his head. His rifle. Where was his rifle?
He stood and breathed, hard and deep, willing the panic to retreat. And he was glad he was alone as he rushed to the ancient truck and dragged his army issued duffle bag and assault pack from the back seat. He was still breathing hard when he slammed the front door behind him, locking the demons of the night and the wide open spaces out.
He dropped the duffle bag just inside the door and carried his backpack and the remains of the beer up the two landing stairs to the bedroom he’d once shared with his brother. He stopped, then turned, heading to the master bedroom. It was his now.
It didn’t feel right, sleeping in his parent’s bed but Aunt Mary had insisted. He wasn’t a boy anymore, she’d written in her last email.
He sat on the edge of his bed and pulled the forty five out of the holster he’d worn at the small of his back. He dropped the clip and cleared the weapon, checking the chamber automatically and catching the ejecting round before it fell. It was cold and smooth against his palm. Familiar. Comforting.
One by one, he slid the rounds from the clip. One by one he seated them back in the clip, then fed the clip into the weapon.
He reached into the wide front pocket of the assault pack, palming the cool orange plastic bottle. The Ambien felt like a hundred smooth tic tacs on his palm but their appeal was greater and held the lure of untainted sleep. One by one he counted them, dropping them back into the bottle. One hundred and sixteen.
One less than the night before.
He checked the safety on his forty five and set it on the bed next to him. He didn’t want to think about what happened when the pills ran out. But that was one hundred and sixteen days away. He’d worry about it then.
For now, though, he sank into the oblivion offered by Ambien’s waiting arms, he saw her.
And the dirty girl with ratty hair simply stared back at him with those sad brown eyes.

Tweet This Post

Well, in order to stop focusing on all the things in my unit that I have no influence to change, I’m starting a new book. Actually, I’d written the first few pages about a week ago when I had the start of the idea that will eventually form into the new project but I threw most of that out as it wasn’t quite right.

What’s really interesting about this book is the research that’s going into it. I have to learn a ton about how the mind works and the different aspects of PTSD other than nightmares.

And I’ve chosen to make this book a comparison between the Iraq war and Vietnam. I find it amazing that when I talk to Vietnam vets, their stories are remarkably similar regarding the anti war sentiment. I spoke with an active duty major today whose father was in Vietnam and he made an interesting discovery.

He said that soldiers are still regarded with contempt. He was very blunt when he said that people pay lip service to the ‘soldier as hero’ but when it comes right down to it, soldiers will still be condemned for the actions they are expected to in order to come back home.

His thoughts and the thoughts of other Vet’s who’ve already talked with me really got me thinking about our society. About what’s really important. My mom told me that during Nam, the nightly news was about the body count. Every night was the latest news from Nam. A retired Air Force colonel told me that where she was in Vietnam that the protests were surreal and far away from the realities of the war. Different people, different places and different perspectives.

I find it interesting that an active duty officer would say that the people who praise the soldiers aren’t really supportive. I find it interesting that some civilians who support the troops would never support their children entering into the military. And most interesting is the perception that if you can’t find anything else to do, join the military. Its only an option for people who have no other way out. Hell, that’s how I got here and it was the best decision I ever made.

So learning about my parent’s generation and my parent’s war is very interesting so far. The soundtrack to my WIP is all classic rock, despite working on a contemporary novel. We’ll see where it goes.

I just hope that the people who’ve helped me so far and continue to offer guidance will enjoy the final product.

Tweet This Post

Okay so I need help.

I’m starting a new book and I really want to tie in PTSD from Vietnam to my new character home from Iraq, who is seriously screwed up. I’m hoping you’ll take a look and email me with answers, impressions or anything else you think I might be able to use.

I guess the first thing I’m looking to know is who did you know that went over there? What was it like when they came home? How bad was the anti soldier sentiment? What did these guys do when they came home? How were they different? What did they say? Did they talk about it? Where there any significant events that started people changing the way we as a society looked at our soldiers (when was the turn around from baby killer to hero?) I know Dad didn’t go and he was busy protesting and all but what was it like for you and him back here at home? How did you feel when you watched the news? How is the media coverage different today than back then about the war?

Seems like that should be a good starting point. And I know you, you’re going to rally the troops and get me all kinds of information. I want this to be personal observations, not like Wikipedia entries…

Does that makes sense? Any and all help will be greatly appreciated

Tweet This Post

Finished War’s Darkest Loss today. Just shy of 100,000 words. I think it came around to being a pretty hard hit, emotionally. But we’ll see what my CP has to say.

Tweet This Post

You know what they say, right? It’s a cliché simply because it’s one of those truths that you really can’t ever escape from. But what if assumptions are more than that? What if they’re a bigger problem than you realize?

I assume. I assume a lot. As an officer with 14 years in service, 12 of them enlisted, I assume that anyone who’s been in the army for a minute has had similar experiences to mine. At least on the things that should be basic knowledge, such as property accountability and soldier issues. But I find myself more and more frustrated and after talking it over with a mentor of mine, I realize that the problem isn’t necessarily with them, but with my assumptions.

See, I assume that as an SFC, you would have accomplishing the mission and the welfare of your soldiers foremost in your mind. I assume that as an SFC, something should not have to be spelled out. I assume that you understand that there are such things as implied tasks that go along with accomplishing the mission. And I assume that when an officer gives you an order, you absolutely use that as the basis for accomplishing the mission.

I do not assume that as a senior NCO or officer that you have zero knowledge of what right looks like regarding property accountability. I do not assume that I must break every single task down to the minutia and I assume that you know what minutia means. I do not assume that making a simple correction is going to send you on a diatribe about people freaking out over property.

There is a reason that I am frustrated with some of the leadership in my company. I believe now that the problem lies with me. I assume standards of conduct are the norm, when in fact, watching TV and chilling out are. I assume that checking on your subscribers is a norm when instead, the norm is let the system fail and maybe get off your ass to fix it. I assume that when I say do something tonight, that means it happens tonight, not that as long as it happens by morning, it’s okay.

So I think the problem is that I assume.

This actually has relevance in my writing. I write about military life and I make assumptions about what my reader knows. I assume that someone knows that a brigade combat team is made up of battalions. I assume that people know the difference between officers and NCOs and that they know what NCO stands for. I assume that when I talk about the responsibilities of command, that people know that I’m talking about an officer’s responsibilities and not an enlisted.

These assumptions have the potential to derail my writing. If I leave out explanation, I risk pulling the reader out of the story to go look things up. If I put in too much, I risk patronizing or talking down to them. So the importance is to find the right balance and create my world without pages of explanation.

Will I be able to paint my world here in Iraq, as the XO and make my platoon sergeants and platoon leaders understand what I expect without having to waste precious time and resources explaining every detail?

We shall see.

Tweet This Post

I was craving a book that had a real emotional impact. I wanted some characters that I could care about, that I would cheer for and truly be happy when the end came for them. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d find it in an author I hadn’t read since I was a teenager.

You’ll recall a couple of weeks ago, I posted about how Laura Kinsale was cool enough to fire me off a sample chapter of her new book, Lessons in French. I thought it was pretty neat, considering that A) she’s quite possibly the best romance writer out there and B) I’ve been a fan of hers for years. One of the few books I’ve held on to over my many PCS moves has been The Shadow and The Star.

Somehow, I’d never read Seize the Fire and as I’d fallen away from historical romances in general as I moved from adolescence into adulthood, I’d set her books on my shelf. But when my idea sparked for my next book delving into PTSD, I thought that I needed to go back to the true master of tortured heros. I’d originally planned on My Sweet Folly but discovered that Seize the Fire was truly about a tortured war hero.

It takes a lot to make me cry. I haven’t cried at the end of a fiction book in years. But when I finished Seize the Fire, I felt this incredible sigh, this powerful emotion. She wrote it years ago, when VietNam was still a fresh wound on our nation’s veterans. There were still VietNam vets in the army back then and they were still held up among our younger soldiers with the eyes of a generation untested in war’s dark secret.

Ms Kinsale did wrote an absolutely amazing story. I’m grateful that she did not trivialize what her hero had done and that the heroine loved him regardless. I only hope that all of our returning heros somehow find the same love and acceptance from their families and our society when the war is long gone.

Tweet This Post