Book Reviews by Elizabeth A. White

The formula is simple:

   1. Read a lot of books.

   2. Write one.

   3. Get agent.

   4. Sell book.

Step 1 I began around age five, and kept it up pretty much nonstop. Step 2 I got through primarily because my writing partner, Mac, and my friend Linda were waiting for me to churn out chapters, and because I didn’t stop long enough to realize that I had no idea what I was doing or to talk myself out of it. Steps 3 and 4 were unexpectedly fast for someone who had girded herself for rejection – admittedly, so the opposite was a bit confusing. I’m still not quite sure I’ve adjusted.

Okay, I guess between Steps 2 and 3 I left out “Learn to rewrite” and “Revise like mad” and “Work until your fingers are so sore you have to wear Band-aids to type.” I also left out “Stick novel in a drawer for years because you know the middle is dreadful and don’t know how to fix it.” And “Go to writing conference and then not write for a year because some writers were so dismissive of you – and then stupidly and doggedly return the next year with the exact same material you had the year before, but this time your novel gets a lot of attention, so you decide you’d better rework it.” (more…)

I got my Kindle as a wedding gift.

Being honest, the thing was scary. It was one of those ideas that had been drubbed into my mind for so long, I had to believe. I loved the feel, the smell, the sound of books. I loved having the weight of it in my hands. I loved the anticipation as I turned the page, waiting to find out what happens next.

So, when I stretched out on the beach chair during my honeymoon, sun beating down on me, drink in my free hand, and turned on the Kindle for the first time, I was nervous. What if money was just wasted and I hated the thing? What if I didn’t even feel like I was reading a book, but instead someone’s unfinished manuscript?

Turns out, I was wrong. I loved the thing.

I still got the same sensations, while reading. The tension was there, the desire to know what was on the next page, the constant flipping. But here’s what I didn’t expect. (more…)

This week, I released my latest novel as an e-original direct to Kindle and Nook, bypassing the publishers. I still have major respect for publishers and would take a deal from them in a second (sellout? Yep), but I really wanted to get this book out as quickly as possible rather than let it swirl around for another year or so.

So, this cover. Gorgeous, ain’t it? I was lucky to find this amazing photo from model Erin Zerbe that reminded me of old sixties and seventies paperback covers. Very alluring, yet very “mysterious” in a way. I had to have it. And luckily, Erin was more than happy to let me use it. Kudos. I originally wanted to make the whole thing retro – fonts, colors, maybe even a bent corner or coffee ring stain. But in the end, I liked the very stark final cover you see here. It did the best job.

Some people won’t like it. Maybe because she’s half-naked. Maybe because she’s a proud plus-sized model. All I know is that I think it’s beautiful. Let’s get a couple of things straight: 1) I find plus-sized women very attractive, and 2) the novel revolves around the character of Octavia, who weighs about three-forty. She’s outrageous, mean, bitter, and sexually aggressive. And I think she’s an amazing woman. (more…)

Cats show up in three of the stories found within IRREGULAR CREATURES.

Not inappropriate, I suppose. Cats are definitely irregular around the margins. Quirky, kooky critters. And yet they have that kind of weird feline grace, too – an almost alien sense of the world around them.

We had a cat once. I was a wee tot at the bright young age of five. When I wasn’t solving complex mathematical theorems or creating new heart valves from wombat skin (I was a real Doogie Howser type), I was apparently busy putting our cat in the clothes dryer.

I know, I know, that sounds horrible. No need to go around assuming things. You know what they say about assuming, right? It gives you herpes.

Anyway.

I didn’t put the cat in there to hurt it. And I didn’t turn the dryer on. My motives were all candy canes and lemonade: I just wanted to give the kitty-kitty-boo-boo a warm place to lay down.

Thing is, when my father came and asked me, “Did you put the cat in the dryer?” it wasn’t a friendly question. It was a “jaw muscles locked into place” question.

“No,” I lied.

At that age, I was a terrible liar. My father smelled it on me like some kind of animal musk.

That’s when he dragged me away and beat my butt with a wooden paint stirrer (a stirrer marked with the MAB logo, should you be a stickler for detail). He never had to whup on me like that again: the only move necessary was a sly glance toward the aforementioned paint stirrer.

So, from early on, cats have been emblazoned upon my mind. Or, at least, my asscheek.

(I also apparently tried to make soup from kittens one time, but let’s not talk about that.) (more…)