Here’s an interesting story.

It begins: “A group of ghost hunters is planning a titanic mission in order to see whether the spirits of the folks who drowned on the Titanic are still haunting the site of the wreck. . . . ” They’re off in search of EVP.

Which constitutes my real life—the one where I trundle off to the office each day, or the one where I sit swearing at my computer making up stories?

The romantically correct answer is to say that art is everything and that I am only alive when I am writing. Eh, not so much. There are times when I feel that and, hey, hand me a big enough royalty cheque and I’m out of the day job in a flash. However, until that day comes, I’m very much in favour of salary, benefits, and pension. I like to know that my heat will be on and my fridge full. I’m shallow that way.

In some ways, that makes it easier to handle the unpredictable nature of the writing biz. Because my survival is not dependent on its antics, I can keep a cooler head. On the other hand, the hours that could be devoted to improving my art are spent in meetings. It’s impossible not to resent that when a story is calling my name.

There are only two answers I can think of for managing work and writing both. One, I treat the writing as seriously as I do my paid employment. I go to work, and then I come home and go to work again on job #2. Workaholic? No, just an understanding that no one is going to do the book for me. Therefore, I sacrifice countless hours of prime time television. Oh well.

Two, I am very wary of burnout. Given #1 above, I’m bad about not building in R&R. My answer to everything is to work harder. Unfortunately, harder (at least in this context) isn’t always better. Jokes get flat, sentences plod, and the story sounds as tired as I feel. There is only so much pulling-up-of-socks one can do at that point. More effort won’t help; in fact, it will only hurt. The solution? Just back away from the computer. Go take a nap. The nice thing about writing is that it stays put until you can come back to it with a fresh eye.

The contradictory nature of my two answers speaks for itself. Art versus life is a balancing act. Fun versus labour. Inspiration versus perspiration. Fortunately, women are good at juggling priorities. After all, we hold down jobs, take care of children and parents, keep house, and make sure holidays happen. We know how to work smart.

Okay, for those who don’t know this event (put on by the folks from Fresh Fiction), it’s an intimate readers conference with a ratio of about 10 readers per author. The guest of author this year was Sherrilyn Kenyon, so there were quite a few of her fans in attendance and the event had a distinctly paranormal flavour. However, there were other genres well-represented by the likes of Lauren Willig and Tara Taylor Quinn. See here for a complete list of guests.

Confession time: going to a conference where I know next to nobody is not my comfort zone, especially when I’m supposed to be witty and engaging. Unhappily, I had to face the dreaded microphone twice—and I wasn’t expecting it on either occasion. The first time was Friday night, after two glasses of wine, no dinner, and 15 hours of solid travel (I have no idea what I said) and the second at 9:30 the next morning, with still no food and barely a slurp of coffee (no idea what I said that time, either). I might have been blazingly brilliant or utterly incoherent—my memory is a blank. Folks still talked to me afterward so I guess I didn’t sound totally out of it!

There was a reception on the Friday night. Saturday had panels, a luncheon, a book signing and a costume contest. Sunday folks went out for brunch in groups. There were also some ongoing things, like raffles, silent auctions, a room where authors and readers could hang out, and so on.

The best part of the get-together was the people. I adored the readers. I adored the authors (had a few quiet fan girl moments). I met so many super people, I soon forgot about not knowing anyone and felt like I knew everyone. If you (like me) are a little on the shy side, this is a good event to try out. It’s a very comfortable size.

As I write this, I’m at the Readers and Ritas gathering in Dallas, Texas. This event (put on by Fresh Fiction) is an extraordinary bash for readers of romance fiction, hence the “readers” part of the title. The “ritas” references margaritas. So far I’ve seen plenty of the former and very few of the latter. The drug of choice here appears to be Sherrilyn Kenyon, the guest of honour.

So, on to the “hot hero” part of the blog. As I’m in a perfect position to do field research, being in the middle of a pack of avid readers, I can accurately report the preferences of at least this slice of the reading populace. Heroes get points if they are a Dark Hunter. They get extra points if they’re Acheron. Points are awarded if you’re Taylor Lautner or could possibly be portrayed by Taylor Lautner. Beyond that, vampire porn will suffice, with the odd furball thrown in. The one “must” is that they are an alpha, because these readers are big girls not looking for “safe”—at least not in their reading material. The nice-guy beta hero is more the fare of the YA market.

Reassuring, because the vampire hero I’m working with at the moment is more alpha than any of my previous ones. I like to think of him as Bruce Willis from “Die Hard” crossed with Hellboy. The only thing that saves him from being obnoxious is a sense of humour. I had to give him something redeeming because, good grief, he’s occupying my brain for the next while. Y’know the cliché of the vamp in formal wear with all the fine china and expensive décor? Not this fella. He’s more of a sports bar vampire—and just the ticket if you want to save a town from some very evil forces disguised as a beer.

Now, all that being said, it does lead me to one question. Trade fangs for fur or a corporate suit for a cowboy hat, alphas are all broody, sexy, take-charge guys. Stray too far from that basic DNA, and many readers lose interest. I’ve always wondered how far the envelope can be pushed. A non-traditional occupation? A fondness for goldfish? He rides a bicyle? Owns a bichon frisee (okay, that might not work with a werewolf)?

How far and in what way can the essential alpha vary and still be true to the romance code?

If you ask a kid if they can sing, they say yes. They can dance. They can draw. They can be a fire engine. It’s only when they get a little older that they begin to doubt themselves.

Stage fright and lack of self-confidence are learned behaviours. There’s a great book called A Soprano on Her Head that goes into this with reference to music performance, but what it says applies to pretty much any situation. We’re programmed to be scared. The message of why we can’t do things sneaks into our brains in a million horrible ways. Our job as functional adults is to slam the door on those lies and reclaim our creative expression.

Which of course sounds easier than it really is. Reprogramming instinctual responses takes time.

I recently took a course on public presentations—the type where you have to get up and speak with or without preparation or a topic of your choice. While I hated doing it, I’ve had enough practice to know that I won’t actually die if I get up on stage. Yes, I’m suddenly exposed and vulnerable, but the fight/flight response is entirely unwarranted. The problem is getting my brain to convince my body that I’m NOT about to be eaten by tigers.

That bit has taken years. The only thing that’s helped me get over stage fright is practice. Lots and lots of it. Eventually those butterflies become part of the preparatory process, but if I stop practicing the terror seeps back and those butterflies grow fangs.

You’d think writing would be easier because you’re not on stage. In some ways that’s true, but really the same gut “uh-oh!” reaction happens at critique groups, when you’re talking to your agent or editor, when you have to go do a reading, or when you click “read review” on a web site. There’s that sudden jab of nerves that says you’re prepped for attack. And if that’s not bad enough, there’s that darned blinking cursor every day telling you to be a genius in the next five minutes or your entire career is over, over, overoverover, baby. No pressure.

But the cure is the same: practice. Type that blinking cursor into submission. I’m not brilliant nine times out of ten, but I’m confident that I can cover paper like crazy, and if I write enough I can keep the good bits and throw out the dumb parts.

I think that’s what’s behind the old saw, “Write Every Day.” You get over the shock of what you’re allowing yourself to do. The sense of risk fades into the background. Like any performance, once you can relax into it, you get a whole lot better.

And maybe even have some fun. Now there’s a thought.