Thanks to this article, and this one, the New York Times recently tracked me down and talked me into doing this:
I know. Terrible picture.
Thanks to this article, and this one, the New York Times recently tracked me down and talked me into doing this:
I know. Terrible picture.
…and irony is way above their heads too.
I joined Facebook in 2008, right after the mandate that users had to be college students fell to the wayside. For years before that, I had belonged to another large social media site, which, like Facebook, started out loads of laughs (that paid their users, imagine that!) but by 2007 the veneer had weathered through to reveal the true nature of social media – mean-spirited sniping, back stabbing, and all the trappings of antisocial dysfunctional behavior. So despite huge monthly payments, I fled.
Enter Facebook, in 2008 mostly filled with snarky college students. The biting wit was unique and fun. As when I joined Twitter (and everything else), the first year I was observing, not making many comments. Basically, I was trolling my college aged kids. I joined a few groups. When the other “social” site collapsed, most of them fled to Facebook, and we took up where we left off, with a lot of twisted wit.
I bring this up because the current “Community Standards” arm of the Book of Face has twice in one year flagged comments I made. Comments that wouldn’t have turned anyone’s head back in the early 2010s.
Twice? Only twice, you say?
Like many people, I don’t spend much time on Facebook anymore. It’s just no fun. Where I used to comment with wild abandon, when I do hang out for a minute, I don’t delve into commentary, nor do I throw linguistic Molotov cocktails. (Just in case Facebook pajama boys are listening, I don’t throw literal Molotov cocktails either. The best cocktails are served during happy hour, and we wouldn’t toss those.) The tide has turned, as has the worm, and “free” speech is no longer a thing anymore. Simple words can cause so much angst, it’s not worth the (Facebook jail) time to type them. Opinions are best kept to yourself.
The one sentence I typed (to a friend), was “If we don’t get together while you’re here (meaning in my city), I’m going to hunt you down like a dog (meaning I would force her to go to lunch with me. I would pay!).”
I don’t know what was offensive there. Hunting? Hunting her down as though she was a dog? Although she knew I was speaking in jest. I haven’t hunted anything for decades. Or was it ME the dog? Me the bloodhound and I would (literally) dog her to her hotel room?
It didn’t matter. I deleted the comment. There’s no Facebook tribunal. There’s no appeals process. You’re stuck with whatever they deem is the correct verdict.
Then last week, a friend of mine posted that her husband was finally getting his s*** together and was working on a project she’d been after him to start making progress with for weeks. My response was something like “some people need a kick in the derriere to get them going.”
This also was flagged for a violation of “Community Standards.”
(Honest to God, I can’t believe I’m writing about this.)
Did they (FB) really think there was intended violence in my comment? That my friend (who is small) would kick her husband (who is very tall) in the butt to get him motivated to start a project? Or that I would drive twenty miles from my home and do it myself? Do they not know we are all old people?
Does Facebook speak French?
Personally, I enjoy getting kicked in the butt every now and then. I’m basically a lazy person. If there weren’t someone cheering me on, or cattle prodding me into action, or leveraging my motivation with bribes of some sort, I would have never finished my first novel (or my second, or fifth, or ninth). Such phrases are ironic.
Definition: the use of words to express something other than and especially the opposite of the literal meaning
My opinion writing is mostly sarcastic.
Definition: a sharp and often satirical or ironic utterance designed to cut or give pain (psychic, not physical) [my addition]
People who know the difference between language and a real threat of pain have a sense of humor.
Definition: that quality which appeals to a sense of the ludicrous or absurdly incongruous : a funny or amusing quality.
I then remembered that as a Facebook newbie, I joined two groups. I decided to look them up. One was “I am Fluent in Sarcasm”. Back in 2008, it was salty and fun. Now it’s a repository of scam ads and is no fun. The other rather entertaining group I belonged to was “I Hate Rachael Ray with the Fire of a Thousand Suns.” It still exists, although Rachael Ray is off the air, and the participants still hate Rachael Ray. How “hatred” can be tolerated in the post modern, bleeding heart sensitive current Facebook world is beyond me. I would have thought some righteous snowflake would have objected to a bunch of people who hate a celebrity.
My conclusion: Facebook is not fluent in sarcasm. Facebook doesn’t want anyone to have fun.
Another good reason to limit my time there.
Picture of California mussels from about five years ago. No reason, just liked them.
So much for two blog posts a month. I really had every intention of writing at least two a month, but life gets in the way (doesn’t it always?).
I started working on the first WIP last month. In fact, I took a rather impromptu trip to Florida, driving down with my two chihuahuas. I had the print out in my suitcase; I had pens and pencils, notebooks, and my computer. I actually had TIME too, because the first couple of days in Florida were unseasonably chilly (36 degrees for a low, and I couldn’t figure out how to turn on the heat), and I wasn’t going to do any outside activities until the conditions improved.
I forgot to add in my last post about how I edit is that after I’ve got the first draft down, I usually make an outline, usually in a notebook. (I’ve been known to print out a calendar page, or to draw a map too.) This isn’t so much to keep the story on track, it serves another purpose. Since 99% of my manuscripts were written during NaNoWriMo, and about 70% of those correspond to a specific day in November, this sets up a time line. In the one I chose to work on first, for example, the story takes place over seven days in November, with five siblings. I sometimes use note cards too, although doing so seems rather archaic in the modern times. It works for me.
Somehow, I got through the outline stage, and then the weather improved, so I never got beyond that point. I drove home. A few days later, I was poking around in my computer (deleting the deadwood) and found yet another manuscript! So I printed it out, and got ready for yet another edit. For some reason, I decided to edit this one instead of my original choice. Why? I guess I liked the characters better, and they tie into Finding Cadence (by a long shot, but it’s there), plus another manuscript that is now in the hands of a beta reader.
Does any of this make sense? No. Well, that’s to be expected, as I’m a hot mess.
And now,
The True Components of a Story
I’m very old, and very old school. I was taught that there were certain components of a story that were etched in stone.
One, a story must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Seems fairly straightforward. Anything else, like ramblings and stream of consciousness, is just that, rambling and stream of consciousness, or poetry.
Two, there must be some sort of conflict. In my day, there were only three types of conflict. Man against Man, Man against Nature, Man against Himself. A Man against Man example would be 1984. The whole world was against Winston. Man against Nature? The Old Man and the Sea. Damn that fish. Man against Himself? Perhaps any novel where the protagonist has self-doubt could qualify. And perhaps any novel can contain all three conflicts. (In Finding Cadence, for example, Cadie has plenty of human enemies or antagonists. She also nearly drowns in the ocean after nearly dying of pneumonia. And she has plenty of self-doubt and is arguing with herself quite a lot.)
Another component I think is so necessary is the Good vs. Evil component. (I realize these days there’s not much for “good” vs. “evil” as some are trying to portray that nothing is evil. The lines are definitely blurred. I disagree strongly. If nothing is evil, there is nothing to overcome.) The protagonist’s struggle must overcome “evil”. Yes, it’s an arc in the story, but without a sense of ethics and morality, the arc isn’t going to work well.
When watching Disney movies with my kids when they were young, my husband was quick to point out the “bad guys” and the “good guys” and always asked my kids who they thought would prevail and why. This is so necessary in story telling. Even the Native Americans had this in their spoken stories, even my Japanese ancestors’ fables had this. So in writing, making the “bad guy” even worse (without going completely off the rails) is a good idea so that your reader will know who to root for. Of course, you don’t want to make him a monster. A little humanness in your antagonist is a good thing, just as a little off-kilter meanness makes for a good protagonist.
These things are the makings of a good story. Everything else is just icing. Gravy. A cherry on top. My next post will be about the specifics of making your story stand out and shine.
I hope I’ll get to it before next month. 🙂
No, I don’t write many blog posts anymore, and if you read my last two (one from 2022, one from 2021), you’ll know why my blog posts have withered on the vine. This year, I intend to write at least two a month. Why? To get back into the habit of writing (online, I’m still writing mostly in notebooks, by hand). I’ve also resolved to get out my old manuscripts and start working. I’m an old lady. Time is short.
This post is about my editing process.
How I Edit
Upon checking my external hard drive at the end of December 2022, I discovered I have seven manuscripts in various states of disrepair. Since I plan on doing something productive with my writing this year, I’ve decided to finish these novels, or start the editing process.
I’m a person who doesn’t really get technology. Find and replace gets me confused, which adds work, which means time, and time, I don’t have much of. Oh, my God, if it’s more complicated than that, I’m a lost cause. So I’ve decided to tackle the job the old fashioned way. This is how I used to edit, and I’m going back to it.
1. Print out the manuscript. Double spaced, with page numbers and jumbo margins. I print double sided to save paper. Page numbers are important for so many reasons.
2. Punch holes in manuscript, place in notebook. This way you won’t confuse it with the other six novels when a powerful wind (or clumsiness when you trip over a pile of tax documents and things go flying) blows your office to bits.
3. Read manuscript from front to back, DO NOT make notes or edit (yet). You’re only familiarizing yourself with what you wrote (and in my case, forgot) ten years ago.
4. Read the manuscript from back to front (yes, start at the last chapter, work your way to the first chapter). DO NOT make notes, even though by this time you are so dying to make corrections, your fingers are practically bleeding.
5. Start at the beginning. Read each chapter once, then make edits to each page. Have a LOT of sticky notes (big ones) because the double spacing and jumbo margins are not going to do it.
6. Resist the urge to make your corrections in the computer, even though it’s killing you not to. (Insert glass of wine/hit of premium whiskey HERE.)
7. When you have completed your manual edits, THEN start to edit in your computer. You might think of a few things to add as you’re making edits, and that’s just fine.
8. Upon completion of edits, print out the entire manuscript and reread. If you need to make a few more edits, do so now. Hopefully, you can fit those onto your double spaced pages and you won’t have to reprint the entire work. If it’s good enough, give to your friend, the BETA reader and have her look at it. (Your BETA reader will have to learn your way of editing in order to be a help, but really, it’s not that hard.)
9. The MOST IMPORTANT THING. SAVE your corrected work. Delete the original, as you have the printed copy, but only after you’ve completed edits. (I have an old, old computer that I’m not willing to give up just yet. I used to save every version of the manuscript which is silly, plus it takes up space.)
I’m certain that Millennials and Gen XYZs are shaking their heads in disbelief, but I have to have physical, tactile representations of working on my novels. Anything else and I’m totally lost in the weeds. Plus I need to look at my pile of notebooks. It’s like a cattle prod telling me to keep going.
I’m currently on Step 2 with the current work in progress. I like the story, I like the characters, and I’d really like to change things, but….not yet. I’m also currently away from home, in an undisclosed location for a week. It’s been a while since I’ve traveled alone, which I realize is where I do my best writing. This time away should afford me some time to at least get up to Step 6.
Next up, the true components of a story…
The jumping off point, yes/no?
I could blame it on any number of things.
Old age? Yes, I’m old and I’m not getting any younger…
Work issues? When you own your work and the business climate is as tempestuous as it has been for the last year or so, it makes taking the “plunge” seem like a viable solution. For a minute.
Family? To include children, spouse, parent, and dogs? The easiest trouble not to consume me, if you can believe that.
Weather? It changes – I’m good with it.
Health? Still healthy as a horse, knock on wood (Formica, granite, porcelain). Was felled by a bad head cold in early January (no, not CoVid), which managed to keep me down a week, but I bounced back. First malaise since 2019, so I was good.
No… I was discussing this with a few close friends. The current climate both online and in the Real World is so contentious, I don’t opine anywhere. If you’re foolish enough to say something outrageous, questioning, or non-woke, you could find yourself de-platformed and spending a stint in social media jail. This means being cut off from your friends and relatives and followers.
You know me, I’m not about throwing Molotov cocktails and running for cover. But I am salty, I am sassy, and I’m highly opinionated. So with that in mind, I’ve been biting my tongue, again and again and again (and again and again and again). I don’t have the clout of podcast giants. I’ve seen what Wild West Twitter has become (why I’m no longer on that platform, my choice). I can’t weather that kind of abuse, nor do I want to. It’s too easy for online nut jobs to find people in Real Life, especially people who (foolishly) use their own real names because they have nothing to hide. (Like me?) And so self-censorship is a definite thing for me.
*sigh*
So while I’m not completely frozen in Real Life, I kinda-sorta am online. I’ve spent part of the last year or so studying the past, delving into humanity’s past missteps which it looks like from recent events are current missteps. I’ve also been looking way, way, way into the future. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. One of those “rules” you learn in grade school, one that makes more sense than algebra II. History happens in cycles. It’s happening again.
I’ll bet when Suzanne Collins was writing the Hunger Games, she didn’t think civilization would reach the District 13 level of crazy.
These are rough times for artists of all kinds. For the writer, it means you keep writing. Your reach might be truncated, but at this point in my writing career, I’m not looking for worldwide acceptance. I’m looking for self-acceptance.
I’m looking for truth, even if it’s only my own.
I’m looking for beauty, even if I have to shovel through a mountain of shit to get to it.
I’m looking to dance with words, because that’s the best thing ever.
The world is a gorgeous, wondrous thing, and people are amazing, no matter what they think.
I’ll believe this until the day I die.
This is a prairie dog hole, in case you’re wondering. Big enough to swallow a chihuahua.
For anyone who cares (and that might be a number limited to the fingers on one hand), no, I haven’t died. I’m not sick, I’ve been in remarkably good physical shape since late 2019. Not a cold, nary a sniffle, no headaches. No cancer or heart condition or broken bones. And no, I haven’t given up writing, or making jewelry, or fashioning baskets out of pine needles.
I’ve been in semi-hibernation, which coincided with a brutal late winter and a spring that had been delayed for whatever meteorological reasons God has decided. It’s just now spring-like, and fer God’s sake it’s almost June! Living in Colorado, you cannot rely upon the calendar to make decisions, like when to plant potatoes and tomatoes and when to put your winter clothes away. It’s snowed in June. The threat of hail is a daily concern. (Last Saturday, I participated in the run up to the Shrine, and mile 2 and 3 it rained and hailed like crazy.) To be fair, the weather is quite changeable from one extreme to the other. We’ve already had 80 degree days in April.
The inn has been crazy busy the last few months, even with a virus to contend with. I think people are looking to escape, and this isn’t far from the metro areas, so you don’t have to fly. (I’m not sure I will ever fly again, so I get it.) However, finding reliable help hasn’t been easy. In fact, it’s been the most daunting of the challenges we face right now. It’s easy enough to replace broken furniture and faded bedding or to repair a structure, but people…that’s another story. (Maybe I’ll write a book!) Finding people to work is the most difficult task these days, so my husband and I are the ones who are doing most of the menial tasks you’d associate with an inn.
The other reason for hibernating was to get in touch with something other than the Internet. Oh, the online world! So vast, like a black hole, so easy to get swept into! I used to find positive influences online, but now it’s mostly vitriol, lies, and hate. We have also given up commercial TV (especially news) since January, instead watching recorded TV shows or movies. We’ve become fond of Turner Classic Movies, not only because it offers vintage movies which are so much more inventive and entertaining than modern fare, but because the only commercials on it are for their own programming. Now when I see commercial TV, it’s not just the programming that turns my stomach, it’s also the inane commercials. (I do allow myself some news, so I’m not completely under a rock.)
I’ve filled my days with walking (or running), and with reading. I have some strong opinions about life in general and the future of writing in particular, and while I haven’t published any of my thoughts (yet) I guarantee that someday you’ll hear from me.
I might have stayed in my hole forever, except I do find an inescapable urge to write. Yesterday, I happened upon some notes I took in my phone from the last San Francisco Writers Conference I attended (2020 and just before the pandemic – seems like a decade ago). No conference this year, but my notes brought me back. Jolted me back, actually. I need to edit my novels, and maybe write something new. These few sentences had a more positive influence on my enthusiasm than anything. Like seeds warmed by spring sun, my head has finally gotten to the point of germination.
I knew it would. This isn’t the longest sabbatical I’ve taken from writing.
Sometimes a writer needs down time, to think, to observe, to relax, to get close to nature, to think about the right and wrong of people and the evenness of the universe. (Psst… It’s what we all need. Take the time.)
See you next time.
As we round the corner to the end of the year (thankfully, as 2020 has been fraught with all sorts of challenges I’d just as soon shed), I reflect as I usually do on the last twelve months. Only this year I thought back all the way to the beginning. Reflection is easy to do if you spend a lot of time walking or driving. In the last two months, I’ve spent most of my time driving between my home and Cripple Creek. The rest of the time, I’ve been walking. Or hiking. Or running.
On my off time, I spent this holiday season watching Turner Classic Movies. No, not the news, God forbid. TCM not only played the vintage Christmas classics, for a couple of weeks they aired any movie with Christmas featured anywhere during the story line. What a relief it was to see happy endings every couple of hours. Good versus bad, conflict, conflict, resolution. It’s just what the doctor ordered. Although I binge watched Christmas movies, I was unable to view It’s a Wonderful Life this year, but I’ve seen it many times before.
All this good cheer and peace on earth, good will toward men was not lost on me this year. Besides TCM, I overdosed on Sirius XM’s Hallmark Channel. Not before Christmas, but on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, like most sensible people are known to do. (Don’t do Christmas at Halloween or before; it’s just not right.)
Reflection is good. You look at the past and weigh your choices, good or bad. A local radio host implored people to call in and share their favorite Christmas memory, which caused me to think. While I’ve been blessed, but life hasn’t been easy for me. It isn’t easy for most people. Even if you’re born with money and means, there are always pitfalls. Tears. Sadness. Controversy. Lots of bad times.
I don’t remember much of Christmas growing up, except I didn’t like the time off from school. School saved me from my home life, and two weeks away from it was sheer torture. I liked my teachers, and I loved my books – borrowed, of course. We grew up struggling, probably poor by today’s standard. We received sensible gifts like coats and socks and underwear for presents. I never owned a Barbie, much less did I receive one as a gift. No toys at all after I turned five. We had turkey for dinner, but turkey is cheap and you can feed a lot of children on it. There weren’t any Christmas photos I can turn to or traditions I can pass along to my children or memories of my mother saving favorite ornaments. Too many kids.
Yet, I wouldn’t change one thing or one minute of it. No, no regrets. There’s a lot to be said about weathering hard times – you learn to navigate poverty and need. You find other interests to fill your day. You look for calm in the middle of discord.
Later on, I would have plenty of wonderful memories to turn to. Because of the poverty of my childhood holidays, as an adult I went out of my way to make spectacular memories for my own children. Christmas trees that probably should have fell over on the weight of the lights I strung on them (it would take me two days just to do the lights!). My husband lit up the neighborhood with his lights on the trees outside. Of course, it cost a bit in electric bills come January, but it was worth it. Every year, I’d expend rolls and rolls of film just to get the one perfect shot of my kids that I’d put on the Christmas card or newsletter. (Digital photography is so much cheaper!) Each child would receive one new ornament, which I’d save until they became adults with Christmas trees of their own. We had neighborhood Christmas parties with Santa making an appearance. Christmas Eve dinner would be one great production; Christmas Day dinner another. I would have a legacy to leave them, damn it.
I felt lucky to give them such memories. I felt luckier that I had such memories for myself. But I didn’t have to work so hard at it. I know that now.
My children are grown and starting their own lives. My happy memories are simpler now. Now I find myself happy to see a herd of bighorn sheep at the side of the road. Or I’ll drink in the sunshine on a winter’s day and revel in the blue of the sky above. I’ll have a nice dinner with my husband, which is always a treat even if it’s made at home.
And while I haven’t really led a charmed life, looking back, it’s been about as charmed as anyone could imagine. Every rainy day had the sun shining at the end of it. Things could be worse, way worse, but I would rather concentrate on the positive.
After all, it has been a wonderful life.
Sun through morning fog, Ocean Beach 2020.
You’d have to be living under a rock or off the grid to not know about 2020. The year that will live in infamy. The suckiest year of my life. Of everyone’s life. The year everything and every person on the planet was frozen: frozen in fear, in worry, in anxiety, in depression, in a holding pattern of waiting for the other shoe to drop (a big shoe). Virus, politics, intrigue – these are the big picture challenges, the kind that the everyman has no say in. No matter how much we bitch and resist, we can’t change the outer world, we can only mold and whittle what’s within arm’s length.
I’ll admit I was frozen too, much as I tried to live a normal life. But life wasn’t normal this year, and the roadblocks were many and huge.
When I think about the last eleven and a half months, I feel as though I just lived through a decade of bad juju. Yet I struggle through, tread water when I’m too tired to fight, try to find solutions to the myriad of puzzles thrown at us. Thank God this year is nearly over, although I’m holding my breath as to the next year. It could be worse. It might be worse.
I haven’t done much writing this year. I hate to admit this, but I don’t write when I’m this out of kilter. Every once in a while, I do try. I pull out old material and look at it, especially on days after nights where I’ve dreamed of my characters and think of ways to make what I’ve already written more cohesive. I do a lot of thinking about writing. I’ve lived through these “dry” spells before, the last one lingering for nearly two years, and I know I’ll write again.
I should now start planning for the San Francisco Writers Conference, but 2021 has been canceled. Perhaps it’s a good thing, since I have nothing to pitch. This gives me another year to work, and maybe to finish something.
For those who don’t know what’s been going on with the rest of my life, here’s a sampling:
The HOTEL (and BAR)
2020 was not the best year to buy a struggling bed and breakfast, but yes, we sank a lot of our retirement money into this venture – and have been swimming against the current ever since. CoVid nearly killed us in April and May. Oh, we were open as hotels are considered essential infrastructure. FOUR guests in seven weeks. That didn’t pay the utilities. The bar closed down too. Summer was brisk but not full, the bar was partially open, but at least we weren’t struggling…much. After Halloween, more CoVid restrictions and the brakes slammed hard on any reservations.
Then there was the hotel roof, and subsequent flood, and resultant insurance claims, and total remodel of four rooms and partial repair of a couple of others. We’re still dealing with that.
Employee issues.
Local weirdness (I’ll have to write about this. Although too weird for words.)
The Gallery struggles. This year was tough on all creative types, especially artists who no longer had art fairs to depend on. It took three months longer than I’d expected to open (September 1). People all over were frozen, artists, customers. I hope spring will breathe some life into the art world.
HEALTH
Oh, I didn’t get the ‘Rona. Supposedly my husband did. He tested positive after testing negative, and he was sick, but after four days in bed, he recovered. I didn’t get a sniffle. My regimen? Tonic water (sometimes with vodka, but not always), one zinc tab daily, Vitamin D and B12, plenty of fruits and veggies, enough sleep, and daily exercise. Lots of sunlight, which is easy to get in Colorado where the sun shines nearly every day. Knock on wood veneer, I haven’t been sick all year.
MEDIA
Backing away, slowly. Deleted Twitter, too caustic and negative. Nearly out of the Book of Face, as I’m a first amendment loving gal and the shenanigans on that site make me angry. I’d rather not be angry. Gave up on ALL news except the local morning show. I must know the temperature and the forecast (as I’m driving back and forth into the mountains four or five times a week) and the weather guy is crazy nuts and I need laughter. Humor is the best medicine. If I turn on the TV to watch long term, it’s usually TCM. Old movies are the bomb. I’m living in a black and white world and I like it.
THE OTHER ARTS
If I can’t write, I find that doing other things with my hands (mindless pursuits, like wire weaving and basket making) most helpful. At least my anxiety is somewhat assuaged by the task, and I end up with artistic pieces I like (sometimes. for the most part.). Having a hobby like this is helpful when it’s December and the ground is frozen and digging in the dirt isn’t an option. (My garden was spectacular this year, even with a hailstorm!)
And now, for the QUICK THAW:
It’s hard to take your own advice and easy to give it. I plan on making the Quick Thaw part of my New Year Resolution regimen. Take a moment to do each of these things each day.
1. Movement. You don’t need a gym membership. Walk. Doesn’t have to be far or long. I had a neighbor who after a heart attack walked to the end of the driveway and back for a month before he went further. If it’s cold out, jump up and down for two minutes.
2. Read. Again, you’re not running a marathon. Just a page or two will do to start. Use reading to wean yourself from screens.
3. Find beauty and rejoice in it. Yes, things are challenging, things are ugly. But there is beauty in everything. Look for it and enjoy.
4. Create, if just for a moment. Your creation doesn’t have to be a magnificent work of art, just effort. Whether it’s writing or art or a batch of chocolate chip cookies. (In the case of the cookies, make it a small batch.)
5. Give thanks and let people know you care. As I mentioned before, things could be worse. They might get much worse. Don’t waste precious time wallowing in negativity. Love with intensity and make sure your loved ones know.
Each tiny action precipitates the thaw. Don’t let the frosty frozen conditions of 2020 creep in to the new year.
No, I have not fallen off the edge of the earth. No, I haven’t become sick and/or died. No, I haven’t given up creative pursuits.
Yes, I have been busy with Real Life and what I call my own private Money Pit. OH. MY. GOD. I could honestly write a book. Too many odd things have happened, from ghosts to major disasters. Running a bed and breakfast isn’t for the faint of heart. Running a bed and breakfast with your first eight months during a worldwide pandemic is no picnic in the park. The upside is that I now have a million and one ideas floating around. One of these days I will expound, both here and on a much larger scale.
Social media has become so anti-social, I don’t spend a lot of time there. It’s the current political climate, it’s the current unrest, and a deadly virus in the mix is making everyone loopy. That’s why I prefer to shut off the devices at this time.
Just because I haven’t written anything on this blog lately doesn’t mean I haven’t written anything. For one thing, I’m always thinking of writing. I’m anxiously awaiting my edits back from my Editor for Life. He says it’s coming soon. I’m writing in a notebook. This current effort is called Letters Unsent. I write short letters to people in my life and on the world stage, letters I’ll never send because someone will likely lock me up for my thoughts. Or they’ll hate me, unfriend me, or look at me with new eyes. Maybe one day I’ll publish it, probably on my deathbed.
I’m also toying with doing yet another NaNoWriMo, although I could use that time to finish up one of five previous manuscripts that really need to get to the it’s-a-complete-first-draft stage.
Mostly when I’m not working (isn’t it odd that we pick another seasonal business to run, one that settles down into nothing during the winter), I’m walking. My husband has taken to hiking too, quite an achievement since about eight months ago he couldn’t walk in the hills without needing oxygen. So far he’s walked up Pikes Peak twice and another 14’er once. (I mostly hike the lower 12,000 ft. and below elevations. With my chihuahua. Yes, both I and my adventure dog did 8 miles once.)
I use the walking time to embrace the mountains. They are, after all, beautiful. Harsh to a degree. The hills around Cripple Creek are riddled with many small, sharp rocks. You can’t dig an inch without hitting something. They’re quite a tripping hazard too. You really have to watch where you’re going. I don’t know how they dug holes to bury the dead. I know this terrain is the reason they couldn’t grow anything up there. It’s windier than hell, and when the wind blows, it goes right through you, even in the summer. In winter, the wind chill cuts like a knife.
The landscape sweeps before you, wild and mostly untouched. You can see the Continental Divide from the top of Grouse Hill. I spend a lot of time thinking about my main character, Addie. (Yes, she’s an imaginary person, what’s your point? 🙂 ) About how she must have felt seeing the West for the first time after spending all of her life in Ohio. Her tale is not just an adventure of coming of age; she’s a pioneer on the cusp of the start of her life and she doesn’t even know it. If she’s like me, her heart is full of wonderment of what lies before her, both in the land and in her future. The world constantly turns, and with every rotation, there is a new vista, a new opportunity presenting itself.
Modern life is fraught with many perils, most which fall away with a stumbling walk in nature with the wind blowing your hair to bits. Your life might not always be the same. It’ll never be hassle free, if running an inn has shown me. There’s no destination where you’ll find Nirvana. There’s only the journey, the courage to take the next step and keep going, that is all that matters.
Oh yes. I’ll be back.
I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a long, long time.
(Yeah, you’re thinking, where has she been? Dropped off the face of the earth? Contracted the virus? Suffered a heart attack? No, I’ve been here. Mostly thinking. Part of the time running an inn – you know, that post retirement job I thought might be fun? It is, sometimes… It’s work most of the time. But I have a new idea for a novel which I’ll probably write in November. Emerging Inn Sync. Yeah, I like the sound of it too.)
I’ve been suffering from a case of fatigue. Mostly from looking at the internet and specifically from following people on social media, which is becoming less and less sociable and more and more like the wild, wild West. Yes, there’s a virus, yes, there’s injustice, yes, there’s unrest, yes, the world sucks. I follow people because I like them, because they’re authors or agents, because when they speak it’s interesting. Or it used to be interesting. I don’t follow them to get their world view – I’m sure they have passionate world views (as do I) but the constant harping, name calling (on all sides), and vitriol had me clearing out my list once and then again. Which is sad. If you post one hateful thing, you’re gone, and that’s not because I’m better than you. Hate consumes the vessel carrying it and I don’t want any part of that. I’ve seen good friends descend into a vortex of bile so strong it makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it. I’m almost ready to give up Twitter, it’s such a cesspool. And Facebook is right up there too as a major disappointment.
I don’t know how to put this other than just saying it: P L E A S E D O N ‘ T.
If you write, please write. If you paint, please do. If you play music, play the hell out of it. If you make pine needle baskets or jewelry like I do, put your passion into that. But please don’t contribute to the noise, unless you are actively doing something to make things better, and I don’t mean just donating money to a cause. At that point, I’d want to know. Before that, it’s just complaints with no action.
I’m not a Pollyanna or an ostrich with my head below the surface. I have eyes. I have a mind with which to think. I need more than an echo chamber to live a full life.
I try not to engage in fights, honestly. I follow a great variety of groups and people. Mostly writers, but there are others. In the last month I have been dragged into a bullying mob just for asking a simple question. In a group that was supposed to be a community helping one another. Then derided and called names. When I sought to clarify a point, no one read that part. Oh no. That would have made sense.
Manners are dead. Common courtesy is on life support.
I’m too old to stir pots anymore, but I do like to point out there are two sides to every story. (I did take classes in journalism, before the news biz became the editorial/propaganda biz.) That’s what makes writing an interesting proposition. It’s not just telling a story, it’s delving deep into background, of why people do the things they do. You don’t have to agree, or even like the person, but there are valid reasons people do and say the things they do.
If we were all the same, life would be pretty bland. I don’t want to be the same as everyone else. I’ve never wanted to be the same as everyone else. Individuality is the sparkle in the facet. Different is good.
In the meantime, I’m trying to stay away from the devices. Enjoy the warmth of the sun and the fresh air of the mountains. I’m coaxing tomatoes to fruition and feeding my angry swarm of hummingbirds. I’ll start working on my edits, because every time I go up to Cripple Creek, I see where I need to change something. And I did most of the research before writing!
I wish you peace and as much happiness you can grab in this crazy world. Grab it, because there’s not much left.
Remember this fun novel? I wrote it over ten years ago. It’s the story of six women from all over the country, who met in a Beanie Baby AOL chat room way back in the mid 1990s. All mothers, they bonded over small plush toys and shared their trials and tribulations. They watched their children grow from toddlers to teenagers. Some have met in Real Life, while others have not. One of them invites a single parent who has lost their spouse in the Iraq war, one who appears to have secrets…and then the intrigue begins.
It was a wacky story line, but I loved the characters and I especially loved the premise. This would be considered a tame story now, but back then no one had a cell phone. Facebook was just for college students, and Twitter was nothing. There was no zoom or Face Time, as the internet was just a baby. It was relatively easy to shield yourself from prying eyes online. I remember trying to pitch this novel at the San Francisco Writers Conference and getting the skeptical expressions of nearly every agent I spoke to. Something about “oh, too weird for us” or “it doesn’t have a genre” – I called it “mom-lit” or chick-lit for aging women. Eventually I self-published as an ebook. (There’s a sequel but it’s now so dated I’m not sure I’m ever going to publish it.)
I based my “virtual moms” on a real life internet group which I belonged to, the Beanie Moms. I’ve met all but two of the ladies in my group. Don’t ask who’s who in the book, I took a little personality from each of the women I know. (It’s 25 years later and we still refer to ourselves as Beanie Moms, even though our kids are in their 30s now, and me? I gave all my Beanie Babies away when I moved to Colorado two years ago.) We’re still close. Unbelievably.
Just as unbelievably, one of us (of the Real Beanie Moms) passed away recently.
It was rather jarring, as you can imagine. We had just had a group chat on Mothers Day. She was still young! Younger than I am. She died the Friday after Mothers Day. It was an accident, a freakish one where she fell, hit her head the right (or wrong) way, and that was it.
It took a while for me to recover. I was rendered speechless for quite a while. And then I thought, “wow,” and of course, I went through a period of thinking holy shit, life is short, what am I dinking around for.
I couldn’t write. I could barely function.
Even now, six weeks later, it’s still unbelievable.
I never met Cyn in Real Life, although we got close a few times. My son had an audition for school in Philadelphia at the Curtis Institute back in 2004. She lived not far away in New Jersey. But we had another audition to make, and my car was acting weird so we headed to Boston right away. Then last year, she was in Denver visiting another Beanie Mom. I was going to come up to meet her, but unfortunately I was running in the Race to the Shrine that morning and that afternoon she had plans. We were only separated by an hour and a half of geography.
What I remember most about her was that she was always positive and energetic. She would post these hand made memes on her Instagram (she had a board!) that were catchy and smart. She loved her husband, her daughter, and her dog. She had so many friends! Which was no wonder, since her personality was so uplifting.
But she had fears too. She was afraid of the CoVid19 virus and didn’t go to many places. She masked up when she did. She was super careful. She told me she had things she still wanted to do; she wanted to travel, she wanted to see her daughter married, she wanted to play with her grandkids. I’m afraid I’m a bit more rambunctious. (I’ve been a government disbeliever since Nixon, and hey, I live in Colorado where the fresh air and sunshine has definitely been a positive influence on my health.) So we had a bit of a disagreement over our opinions, but nothing that would break a bond.
I’m going to miss Cyn. You need a super positive influence in such a negative world. I’m sorry she won’t make it to her daughter’s wedding, but she’ll be looking on from heaven.
Rest in peace, Cyn, you deserve heaven.
You’d have to be living under a rock not to know what has been going on in the last two and a half months. (Two and a half months?!? Seems like a couple of decades.) Here’s a little rundown on the state of my tiny world.
It was early March. I had returned from the San Francisco Writers Conference, completely fired up and full of ambitious goals and new ideas. I even opened up one of my old files containing a novel I really wanted to finish. I had high hopes and a ton of adrenaline to propel them with. In addition, I was looking forward to returning to my part-time job at the zoo. After a couple of months off from dealing with the public, it was time to go back and deal with the public.
I’d started implementing the changes that I thought were necessary for the inn we had purchased. You know, getting bids, trying new technologies, tearing my web site apart (mentally) to put back together. I was armpit deep thinking of the events I would host. The room I was going to fix up as my gallery/gift shop. The kitchen I was going to clean and reorganize.
Then BOOM! In comes a virus and the cozy world I had devised had come to a crashing halt. Not an end, just a halt. Stopped on a dime. I, like many others, got whiplash.
The first couple of weeks (March 16 to the end of the month), I was glued to the TV, absorbing all the bad news I could soak up. Having done this right after 9-11, I knew this was bad, not only for my psyche, but for my health. I had to back away from that, and then from social media. I’m informed, but I don’t need to marinate in all manner of (dis)information. And of course, I was worried about my health. After all, I’d spent a week and a half in California, where I had shaken hands and exchanged breaths with a lot of people in a very large city. (I amazingly did NOT contract the conference crud – first time since 2009.) My husband became sick with a lingering (five week) cold. I worried that I had infected him with THE deadly virus by passing on my West Coast germs. (He survived. It was just a bad cold.) I help care for my elderly father and the last thing I wanted to do was share my cooties to him (he’s fine too).
Of course, then you imagine YOU’RE going to die. (Well, the media tells you you’re going to die, by doing this or neglecting to do that. Listen to that enough and you’ll believe it.) Those first couple of weeks I had been seized with a panic with every cough, sneeze, and shortness of breath I experienced (most of that is due to living at a high altitude and owning an inn at a higher altitude).
The zoo was closed, so there went my part-time job. Ditto the husband’s part-time job at the casino, which he relied on mostly for the health insurance. The bed and breakfast was open (essential infrastructure), but people were laid off or if still working, not going anywhere, and so we had many thousands of dollars worth of cancellations and an 11,000 square foot monstrosity of a building to maintain and heat in the winter. Cable. Phone bill. Garbage. Taxes. The new web page and the advertising I’d spent just a week before the you-know-what hit the fan. Linen service. Monthly charges for the credit card processing, the utilities. More taxes. The larger capital improvements we had to put a hold on. Soon the fear wasn’t only of a virus, but of impending bankruptcy and the death of a business we took over before it could even take a first breath.
It’s a lot.
And the writing: The first thing I realized was I couldn’t sit down and write. Or edit. This is the kind of writer I am. If I’m paralyzed by a psychic fear, I can’t write. Likewise, if I’m happier than a pig in a poke, I also can’t write. Writing for me ebbs and flows in the in-between.
How do I know this? Dry spells have happened before, usually when I’m totally stressed and depressed. (The last one stretched for a year and a half.) I attempted to journal my way into writing this time. These are momentous if not historic times. I would leave something for future generations to ponder, right? Wrong. The first day I wrote about five pages. The second day, a half page. The third I fell off the wagon.
This is what happens when you’re frozen.
What I felt helped me the most during those initial trying times was to use my hands. One week, I made 11 pine needle baskets. I worked on them while watching mindless drivel like The Peoples Court and Judge Mathis. I wove baskets to old films on Turner Classic Movies.
The next week, I finished some wire weaving projects. Wire weaving is much like making pine needle baskets – you don’t have to think too hard about it. Your hands have to be strong and your stitches nice and even and tight. It’s also a portable hobby and perfect for those afternoon court shows.
I then went back to pine needle baskets.
I cleaned out every room in my house. Then we cleaned every room at the inn. I next started on the closets in both buildings.
The next thing that was oh-so-helpful was to use my feet. Thank goodness this winter/spring wasn’t as severe as last year’s, what with bomb cyclones and hail and late snow. I was able to walk, and walk some more. I took my chihuahua, Chuy, who has turned out to be quite the adventurer. My husband actually started walking too. Then we took to hiking in the mountains. Now he wants to climb Pike’s Peak. (I’ll pass.) Meanwhile I’ll just walk and think.
I also forced myself to take small writing workshops. I’m supposed to start one this week. It’s not my best work, but it’s cattle prod in the right direction.
I’m also now returning to this blog. Hopefully later to writing and editing. I feel like a seed that’s been trapped in my cocoon, sheltering in my place, warding off the virus by inactivity, but now it’s time for the seed to germinate and shed the shell.
Summer’s coming, the ideas are there, waiting to blossom.
And if you’ve never been to Cripple Creek and want to visit, I’ll be here.
There’s nothing like a medical national emergency to put a damper on your life.
Damper? I mean totally rearrange the moon and stars.
I personally think some aspects of this “epidemic” (actually it’s an ENdemic where I live) is blown out of proportion. For one thing, I like to maintain a level of calm in a sea of uncertainty. Even in the midst of 9-11, I didn’t get rattled, although by the end of September I was seriously depressed. I’m always looking for the positive. I’m well; my family is well. What’s going to happen is going to happen, including dying. There’s no escaping death, whether it be by virus, cancer, a bus running you over, or that Bambi that leapt from the side of the road right into your windshield. I’m not offended by the term “boomer remover” – I am a boomer, after all, and at my age I’m closer to the end than to the beginning. Besides, just try to remove me, I double dare you. I question motives of media, both news and social, and try to look at the hysteria in an objective manner. Whipping the masses into a frenzied panic is a dangerous sport, and I’m wondering who will be benefiting from the wild toilet paper and cleaning product runs.
If I try to maintain a level of positivity, I’m accused of not having feelings for those with compromised immune systems. If I sneeze because of seasonal allergies, I’m looked at like I’m Typhoid Mary. You can’t win.
Most of us are never going to get this virus, and if we do, most of us will survive. This is according to the CDC. Sheesh. We’re a resilient bunch, aren’t we? I believe, anyway.
I think I watch too much TV news. My husband is a news junkie. He’s watching TV news while he scrolls for news on his phone. I just can’t take it. I’m at this moment typing this while “How The West Was Won” is playing on TCM. (Thank the Lord for TCM. It’s keeping me sane. I need a dose of 1930s Bette Davis RIGHT NOW.)
I know I’m on Facebook way, way too much. The political misinformation was bad enough, but now with the medical madness mixed in with conspiracy theories of the tin foil hat variety, I find myself getting the same sickness (not CoVid19) in the pit of my stomach that I got after 9-11. A chipping away at what I like to think of is a sunny exterior. An erosion of my heart and soul. A darkness like Voldemort settling in from the clouds. FEAR. It’s a real thing that can cause more pain than the actual illness.
The grocery stores are depressing, as is Sam’s Club, where I usually go to buy supplies for the bed and breakfast. You have to get there by SEVEN AM to get toilet paper, and even then it’s a crap shoot if you’ll walk out with your two packages (current limit). People, I run a bed and breakfast. I need toilet paper.
Taking the chihuahua on a walk is good, which I did the other day before it snowed. I walked around the Colorado College campus, where students where playing field hockey. (I think it was field hockey; I’m not much for sports.) It was nice to see kids cheering from the sidelines and the announcer over the loudspeaker in broadcasting mode, especially since now there’s no sports to watch (I’m still not much for sports, but it seems to calm some).
To change the downward direction of my psyche, I thought I might do something creative. Every time I walk into my office/craft room, there’s this painting I started about 15 years ago staring me in the face. A painting of orchids. Nope. Can’t finish that, not feeling it. I’ve been collecting pine needles in my yard (from my neighbor’s trees, it’s been windy here). I look at them and tell myself I should wash them and make a basket, even a small one, but no, not feeling that either. I need to go through my beads and wire and finish a couple of projects but just can’t compel myself to move toward it.
That’s it. Tonight, I’m going to write. Or re-write. Or read what I wrote. I have to do that or succumb to negativity and I’m not going there. Maybe I’ll drink and write. It worked for the masters.
It’s difficult, yes, even for me, to shrug off perceived impending doom, but it must be done. And whether it’s writing or some other creative pursuit, go there. Grow your brain, don’t rot it.
Yes, people, I’m in San Francisco yet again for another San Francisco Writers Conference. And yes, I’m STILL stoked!
You’d think that after so many years of attendance (going strong yearly since 2009), I might weary of traveling halfway across the country for this conference – after all, I haven’t hit the Big Agent from a Big Publishing House jackpot, yet – but as I’ve said in other posts on the subject, I’m not here for a lottery. I’m here to learn, and as a writer, you should be learning every day.
The Hyatt Embarcadero is of course lovely. This year I’m on the 14th floor overlooking Market Street. Market Street used to be all flavors of chaos, but now car traffic is verboten and all that’s left is buses and taxis, and of course, humans on foot. It’s a nice change of pace from the road motels, and the LaQuinta Inn in South San Francisco where I stayed before this. I’ve been taking copious notes for our own bed and breakfast venture; it’s amazing that what used to be largely ignored sticks out like a neon sign – towels, sheets, amenities. Since our place is proving to be a money pit of epic proportions, I’ve been told I should write about it. Maybe I will. If you follow me on Instagram or Facebook, you’ll know I brought my pup with me. He’s currently with a dog sitter, as I want to focus my attention to the task at hand. He’s an excellent travel companion. Doesn’t like big ocean waves or big dogs but he’s a trooper.
My recently finished work-in-progress An Education for Addie is still in the editing phase, and not yet ready to pitch. However, I’m most interested in those who are versed in historical fiction, to include writers as well as agents. That’s the true gem at this conference: finding other writers like me. And there may be a story brewing as a follow-up to the novel, perhaps set in a later date. I’m always thinking. 🙂
In a few moments, I’ll head downstairs and see what’s up, and I’ll be sure to report if I’ve learned anything new.
Much has happened since my last post:
1. My Editor for Life is hard at work editing An Education for Addie. So far I think I’m in for a title change and a rearranging of the first few chapters. This is what happens when you send your work out for viewing by another set of eyes. Not that I’m not appreciative. Sometimes a writer’s attachment to this thing or that is self-serving and not in the best interest of the work. I’m good with critique. I just want my work to be the best it can be. I’m working very slowly these days, so I think our pace is in sync. 🙂
2. Happy New Year! And New Decade! Welcome to the Roaring 20’s (although I’m fairly certain 99% of the public has no idea what that refers to)! My husband had to work at his retirement job for New Year’s Eve (dealing blackjack, some people might not call that a job), so I ended up making dinner for my dad (lamb chops, roasted veggies) and calling it a night before 9 p.m. (And that was LATE for me.) So I slept through champagne, parties, fireworks, and anything else that can happen in the dead of night.
3. And here’s for the big news: My husband and I purchased a bed and breakfast in Cripple Creek, Colorado! Yes, we closed on the property on New Year’s Eve, meaning we have really set ourselves up for a challenging adventure this new decade.
Here’s where it felt like it had to be. I’d been coming up to this once boom town-then ghost town-now gambling town since I was little. My dad loved to drive up here on weekends, where we’d fish in streams or poke around in old gold mines or find interesting rocks like turquoise right at the side of the road. (No lie, the gold miners used to throw turquoise away, after all, they were looking for the good stuff.) After my husband decided on his part time retirement job in Cripple Creek (it’s a gaming town, and he’s a blackjack dealer), we started looking for a second home, a crash pad if you will, because he kept getting speeding tickets and there was that one crash with a deer. (He should not drive after 3 a.m.)
Last year, when I started my class with Michelle Richmond (Novel in Nine), I somehow came up with the story line for my 1898 heroine who comes to Colorado because her brother has died and left an estate. He was a miner in Cripple Creek – amazing, isn’t it? – which led me to a ton of research and a greater appreciation for the area. Never in my wildest dreams would I imagine that I would write a historical, and never ever would I imagine owning a piece of history such as the Hotel St. Nicholas.
The property used to be the St. Nicholas Hospital, run by nuns and with a full operating room (and also a morgue) and so with the quaintness and the cuteness, we have also inherited other things: like the ghosts that are said to roam the hallways. I personally haven’t seen any of them, but I do believe.
Obviously, it’s some work to run a place like this, especially with no previous experience in the hospitality business. The last two weeks have been full, with transferring accounts, getting a feel for the place, and prioritizing all the things we’d like to get done in order to make this place shine. But we ran a much larger business in Michigan, one that consumed a lot of energy. Still, I had enough time to write, which is what I hope to continue full bore once the dust has settled.
And where a year ago I would have pooh-poohed the idea of writing historical fiction, I now have ideas in my head for the next story, and the next.
No matter what the rest of the world is involved in, it’s possible to find something new – whether it’s in endeavors, love, life, stories – things don’t stop just because the decade or the year has ended. There’s always a fresh horizon.
Apologies: I had meant to include photographic evidence of our new venture but this web site keeps kicking them back, even though I made the pictures teeny-weenie.
The upside to never throwing any writing away? You will always have something to edit.
I didn’t participate in NaNoWriMo this year, but I didn’t have to. I have at least four (FOUR!) novels on my external drive in various states of disrepair. Each is about 85% complete, because if you NaNo, you don’t really end up with a full first draft, although 50K words + is a good start. Each year I give myself a month break from writing before putting on my editing hat, I may start again, but then something (anything) will get in the way.
As a result, I feel like the hoarder queen of incomplete works.
My task until the next NaNoWriMo: Get some of these from the partial manuscript to at least a workable first draft. I have an Editor for Life that has barely seen two words come out of me in the last five years. (Update: I sent him An Education for Addie, so he’s working on that one as I type. My goal is to get something else to him as soon as I get my first edit of Addie back.)
For my editing project, I’ve decided on my NaNoWriMo project of 2017. I’m good at constructing story lines but horrible at writing a catchy title. It was tentatively titled The Loud Sisters, until I decided to throw a brother in. Oopsy. The now working title is Waking Art Loud. It’s about five siblings (adults) who return to Detroit after their father dies, for the funeral. There are secrets all around, and the sibs are not as close as they would like to believe they are. Blood is definitely not thicker with this bunch. Death usually brings out the worst in people, or at least in the people I know.
Drama, drama, drama, and it all takes place in the space of a week.
I enjoyed writing this tale, but now that I’m editing, I find that I’m enjoying this part even more. Shocker! Editing is NOT usually my favorite task in the whole wide world, right next to writing an outline and a summary. I’m finding this edit a vacation from my historical, which is still fraught with a few historically incorrect items within the pages that I’ll get to in the second draft. It’s so much easier to write about the present day! The Loud children were rather wooden the first time around, and now I’m adding texture to their personalities. As with a lot of my stories, I have in my head which famous actor/actress will play each character. (I should give them a Pinterest board.) In addition, I have a vague idea as to how this will end; rest assured, someone will be unhappy at the end.
My ultimate goal for this edit is to finish by the first of this year, but I’m a heavy procrastinator so who knows. There’s a lot going on in this house, and it’s not just Christmas. I’ve curtailed any other art projects until I’m finished, and I’m nearly halfway through at this point.
I’m trying to limit my social media, although that’s hard. Facebook, you are crack. Twitter I gave up on a while ago, because I don’t enjoy wading in the cesspool. TV, that’s easy. I only have Hulu and Amazon Prime, so it’s a major moment to find something to watch, much less sit there for a couple of hours twiddling my thumbs.
And so I will leave you now, because I have dinner to make and words to get back to. See you on the other side.
The writer’s life is full of ups and downs.
After coming off my highly successful Novel in Nine class with Michelle Richmond, I had intended on hitting NaNoWriMo with another vengeance. (I’m getting really adept at starting stories – not so good at editing them, but that’s another story.)
Unfortunately, last week life dealt me another hand.
My cat of six years, Purrby, has been struggling with kidney disease since August. Back then, we admitted him to the vet hospital where he spent a couple of days on an IV. After his release, they gave us drugs to try and new food. Due to having previous cats with kidney issues, I’m really picky about food and read labels for the pets more than I do for myself, so I’m not exactly sure what happened.
Purrby perked up a bit after that, but he was never really the same. When we moved to Colorado, he was fat but not obese. (I kept him on a strict diet.) He spent some time outside, because my husband’s not so strict about keeping him in the house. I’m not sure if this has anything to do with his illness, just throwing it out there. Purrbs lost about 4 pounds during his illness, which is not necessarily a bad thing.
Last week, Purrbs took a turn for the worse. Where he didn’t eat much since August, he stopped eating altogether. I think he was still drinking. He took to tipping over my watering cans and sat in the water. Or he’d sit in the kitchen sink. Or in the shower after I’d gotten out of it. I made an appointment to get him in, but then my car tires (yes two) went from slow leak to fast leak, so that day I spent too much time getting replacement tires. The next day (Saturday) I dropped Purrby off early in the morning, figuring an IV would get him almost as good as new.
The vet called about two hours later. Purrby was in the final stages of his kidney disease! I had two options: take him home and watch him suffer, or put an end to it.
I chose to end his suffering. And I was sad.
Oh, I know how I have spoken about and written about Purrby as being a “very bad kitty” – it’s in my brief bio. He was a handsome orange tabby with a personality and then some. When I adopted him, he was six months old – plus. He had the run of the shelter, and let everyone know he was the boss. I liked him; he came right up to me and meowed loudly. Followed me around. He also purred loudly. I spent a bit of time there, looking him and the other kitties over. (An aside: I’d lost the other cat to kidney disease about six months before and wasn’t in a big hurry to get another cat, but I visited shelters. I still visit shelters. You never know.) When I left, he was meowing at me like he was mad. I waited the weekend and came back. He was there on the counter, meowing at me, like he recognized me and was pissed. “Where the hell have you been, human?” And he was purring.
For the first couple of years, Purrby was crazy. N-U-T-S. He could jump six feet or more and knocked over everything in his path. He ate the bread on my counter, so I bought a breadbox. (Purrby was especially partial to croissants.) Do you know how hard it is to find a breadbox? He ate butter, so I started putting butter in the upper cabinet. (I like room temperature butter. Bite me.) Purrby figured out how to open the upper cabinet. I returned home from work one day and he was INSIDE the cabinet eating butter.
He leapt to the clothes rods in our closet and slept on top of them. You’d think that would be uncomfortable, but he liked balancing on the rod. If you left a drawer open, he’d get comfortable inside and you’d never know he was there, until you closed the drawer. THEN he would meow.
Purrby liked to climb inside the Christmas tree and hang out. When I stopped putting the Christmas tree up, he did the same with the evergreen trees outside. He also climbed the houseplants we had in the house. This was fine when he was a kitten, but when he weighed 14 lbs, it was a bit much.
Purrby thought it was great sport to run away from us. I’ve chased him through snow drifts. After a while, I gave up. I’m too old for this. When we first moved here, he went missing for an extended period of time. We went to the Humane Society in a panic and filled out a report. Turns out Purrbs was under a roll-away dumpster we had parked in the yard for our construction waste. He showed up later that night covered in dirt and pine needles.
He was still the same mischievous kitty even at the end. Still running away from us. Still batting Chuy around. Still jumping six feet or more over the neighbor’s wall. Still purring like his motor would never quit.
*sigh*
I took Chuy to the vet to say goodbye to Purrby. Purrbs was weak but still purring and meowing. I like to think he was happy to see us. I couldn’t stay to watch him cross the Rainbow Bridge. Some things are just too hard to do.
You know, you rescue pets, you love them, they get sick, you lose them. You think you’d get used to it but you never do.
So you can see why I’ve been a little deflated since November 1st.
After a week of regret and tears, I’m ready to start writing again, but I won’t be participating in the breakneck speed of NaNoWriMo.
No. I’m going to take it slow. And I’m going to think about things along the way.
I’d thought my road trip across two countries, ten states, and five Canadian provinces would spark my writing on the current work in progress and send the doldrums out the window (I seem to write far better and far more often when I’m on the road), but alas, that was not the case this trip. Oh, I tried – I guess I get an “A” for effort. If you want to catch a glimpse of my travels, feel free to click HERE.
I like driving, but it does have a downside. It takes up a lot of precious time. But as a writer, I look at the experience like this: I’m mining for new story lines and new inspiration. I’m meeting new personalities and reconnecting with old friends. I’m immersing myself in new settings.
Ah, but it would be really nice to travel in style. A self contained motor home like this one. Some of my hotel rooms were nice, but others were downright scary. They were all dog-friendly, but some charged extra for my pooch. In a couple of hotels, my pup ‘found’ things in our room – wrappers, candy, food, a condom. Dude, you should pay my dog for unearthing what housekeeping missed.
In the end, I came home after two and a half weeks, loaded up the classes I’d missed, and started to write with a vengeance. And I FINISHED! Yup, on September 30 with just hours to spare on my Novel in Nine class, when I finally typed The End at the end of 98K+ words.
There was the nearly teary goodbye to my Novel in Nine teacher, Michelle Richmond, and the rest of the class during the last video conference and subsequent group chats.
Now comes the harder part, and that’s editing. I’ve got a notebook full of the things I thought I’d missed, the things I wanted to include (I realized I had left out a key realization and now I’m wondering where the heck I should put it), and then the other things that popped up because some of my research sources steered me away from my wrong assumptions regarding late 19th Century Colorado. I’ll need to run the document in Smart Edit and fix all my overuses before I send it off for the next phase in my novel’s life.
I’d like to finish the first round edits before November, because…NaNoWriMo. I’m debating if I should start a new project or perhaps actually finish the last four or five of my November stories. I’m tired of leaving things half finished. They all need work, they all need those defining words The End. Still, even my hot messes of NaNoWriMo feels right somehow, even though the thought of tackling that chore feels daunting.
It’s all good.
It’s not just writing or the road trip or the unconditional love of my puppy. Life feels complete and even. There is a rhythm, in writing and in life (and even with the pup, who’s amazingly housebroken!) that is gentle. It all makes sense.
That’s where the success comes in. You don’t have to be a best selling author or rich or famous (although if the MegaMillions complies, I may get that motor home!) to feel contentment. Sure, you want all those things – everyone does.
The success doesn’t lie in the journey’s end – as much as I celebrated the completion of my novel with champagne and woohoos – no, the real success is in the journey.
Something to think about.
Safe travels.
Image: Creative Commons
Well, it had to happen.
After a whirlwind of a July, where I wrote more than 20K words – they flowed like never-ending wine, the good stuff, mind you – August ground to a horrible crawl. It was the hangover of the summer. I’d wanted to crank out another 10K words, but barely managed half that much.
What happened? Real life, for one thing. After my epic month of writing, I decided to take a few days off, which inevitably ended up much longer. We went white water rafting. It was fun, made more fun in that I didn’t fall out of the boat. It was scenic, as we traveled through parts of Colorado you don’t see from the car window. Then there was also a lot more work than I’d anticipated (which isn’t much anyway, but a few more hours each day leaves me exhausted and unable to think creatively). I have since semi-retired from my retirement job, getting the house back into some semblance of normalcy. When you have pets, you really should vacuum more than once every two weeks. Plus the Pooch and I are taking a long mother-chihuahua road trip, and I have to make sure the Big Guy doesn’t starve to death while I’m gone.
It doesn’t end there. My puppy went to training class, then got sick, then got neutered. He’s nearing adolescent puppyhood, so he’s not sleeping as much and barking more and not listening at all. (He’s pulling on my sweater as I type this, like the Coppertone pup.) Then my cat became gravely ill. (That vet made bank off us, yes indeedy.) He’s okay for now, but he must have lost five pounds and still doesn’t eat as much as he used to. We looked for houses in the mountains (many houses – thanks Realtor Jeanne), put an offer on one, and it was declined. THEN I went to the doctor and found out I have sciatica. Hello, physical therapy and crappy health insurance. Oh, and I bought a couple of therapeutic pillows to sit on and those babies aren’t cheap.
I could go on, but I’d bore you.
The big thing is that I’m at the point of my novel where I’m filling in. “Doing the plumbing,” as Michelle Richmond says. The garden has been planted, but now comes the weeding. (YUCK.) The bones are there, the fun stuff is written, now it’s a matter of sitting down and finishing the darned thing. Where in July I thought I needed a couple of chapters and a few scenes, in August I realized I need at least three chapters and a couple dozen scenes. I started writing, and writing, and then not writing, because at 88K words I thought I should be closer to “The End” than I am. Feelings of frustration and inadequacy swelled up.
*sigh*
It’s a matter of getting butt in chair and opening the file (which is always open just in case I am hit by the lightning of inspiration, which happens, but not often enough for me).
The point is, writing is not a straight line up, or a straight line across. It’s ups and downs. It’s zig-zagging all over the map. It’s taking two steps forward and five steps back. It’s a quiet lull and a frenzy of activity. It’s a marathon and a leisurely stroll. It happens, and it doesn’t.
I keep telling myself to give myself a break, just as I unearth the cattle prod called internal nagging to goad myself into forward movement.
Small goals, then action.
Forgive your Real Life, and then carry on.
Well, I am coming into the final stretch of my current work in progress, An Education for Addie, which is why I’m not blogging or writing anything else lately. I’m on a tear, and I’m not going to abandon my tear until the well runs dry! Thanks to Michelle Richmond for offering the class, Novel in Nine – I’ve gotten so many good ideas from not only the lessons, but from the feedback and comments of the other participants. This is a prime example of a class that makes sense to take. I’m not only pleased at my progress, I’m full of passion to seeing this to completion. This is when writing in exciting! Not sure it’s anything of note; we’ll wait for my Editor for Life to give his yea or nay.
I took this photo last year while on a walk, before I’d even thought I’d be writing a novel set in 1898 Colorado Springs practically in this very spot.
I did decide to take some time to read, one of my favorite novels, In a Perfect World by Laura Kasischke. It’s short, it’s haunting, it’s poetic. Imagine my dismay when I went to retrieve it from my terribly pared-down library (due to retirement and moving across the country) that my copy wasn’t there! I was so excited about this book for many reasons, that I’d lent it out to several people, most of whom returned it – obviously not the last person, who I can’t remember because it was probably years ago.
Thank goodness for Amazon. (Yes I know, AMAZON, but the local bookstores didn’t have it. The author is from Michigan which is the only place I’ve seen this novel on the shelves.) I received my replacement copy the next day. (And from now on, I won’t be lending my books out, not unless I know you and know where you live.)
Reading, especially good books, it not just entertainment for me, it’s education. I take the book apart; I see what works and what doesn’t, what hits it out of the park and what’s a little weak. Yes, even my favs aren’t perfect – and neither am I. Sometimes I look at sentence structure in what I’m reading and try to break it down.
My current work in progress is not in the same vein as In a Perfect World. There’s little poetry in my words, as it’s historical fiction – it’s what I call a basic story with a basic plot and running linearly. There’s good, there’s bad, there are challenges, challenges met and conquered, The End. I might change that in a future draft, though.
However, my last NaNoWriMo takes place in the same place(s) but 85 years later, and that story has some twists and turns and is dark. In a Perfect World is dark. It ends, but leaves you wondering just how it ends and what the characters’ future will be like, beyond the last page. This is why the novel struck me so, and after my recent reading, strikes me still.
‘They’ say you should read if you’re a writer, and I agree. Since what I’m working on is considered ‘sweet’ – no real sex – I read sweet romances. Since it’s historical, I not only read recently written novels set in a similar time frame, I also read novels written during that time frame, as well as letters written by people who lived then. (My novel isn’t full of the stilted vernacular of the time, but I wanted to include a flavor of it.) None of these genres is my preferred reading material, but sometimes you must step outside your comfort area and read something new and different.
My takeaway is that reading other work is just as important as the effort you put into your own.
This morning, I did a little clean up on my mother’s grave.
See that little juniper tree to the right? We planted it about twenty years ago, the intention was to keep it to bonsai size as a tribute to our mother. But… a lot of us lived out of town. The ones who lived in town didn’t want to tackle the task of a yearly trim, which entails digging it up and shaving off the roots, among other things. The one who lived away but was reasonably close and was interested in keeping the bonsai shape maintained the tree for a few years, until she got pissed at all of us and dropped off the face of the earth. Before today, when I hacked off some sucker limbs and trimmed the rest of the greenery, our little “bonsai” had become so monstrously huge and thick that it obstructed the right side of the headstone. This monster bush also obstructed the left side of the next plot (thank goodness family friend). Plus, weeds. Thigh high weeds. What a mess.
(Oh, yes, I know. I’ve been in town now for almost a year. When I visited the site last fall, shovel and garden snips in hand, the mosquitoes beat me back to the car before I could get out of it.)
I wanted to remove the thing, but the ground there was like a clay cement. I’d need a backhoe. Instead I made it as pretty and as compact as I could, given the fact that the mosquitoes hadn’t gone anywhere in the last eleven months and I didn’t want to be completely covered in bug bites (only 85% covered now).
So I’m futilely swatting and whacking and clipping and chopping at weeds, thinking that cremation is definitely the way to go (drop half of me off Ocean Beach, please, the rest beneath a redwood), when a few truths come to me.
One, I’m at the point in my current work in progress where all I have to do is fill in a few holes (I’m thinking four or five chapters, totally doable), but I’m balking a bit because holes are like mosquitoes at the cemetery. It’s unpleasant and you don’t want to battle bloodsuckers.
The upside is that once you’ve completed the task, you’re left feeling satisfied and with something aesthetically pleasing.
Two, there’s never enough time. My mother was 58 when she died. That’s young. I wake up every day wondering when my time will be up. In fact, the question of time and lack thereof is being written into my novel even as I type this blog post (not at the same time, of course, I only wish I had four hands!). The clock ticking is the only thing that motivates me to plunge on and complete the writing I want to.
This month the time constraints have been brutal. My daughter visited. My husband needed surgery (he’s okay, but still healing and kinda cranky). Yet, I’ve managed to squeeze in 40 minutes here and and hour there and twenty minutes here. Yes! I even took my laptop to the waiting room at the surgery center and managed to write there!
The thing is, there is never enough time. You think when you retire your entire world will open up and vast prairies of time will be available for you to pick and choose – um, NO. I know when we owned businesses and rental properties and I was working seven days a week, I still managed to eke out a few minutes to write. Enough to complete two novels and a book of poetry I self-published, and more.
Writing is a commitment, to choose time for your craft, to force yourself to sit down and do it, because if you don’t make the conscious effort, you’ll be sitting in front of the TV watching Dr. Phil or playing annoying games on your iPhone or something else which might entertain you for the moment, but ask yourself the important question. What will you have at the end of it?
And now, I will be delegating some time for my current work-in-progress’s completion.
Happy Monday! Happy July!
A few weeks ago on a Saturday (May 18), I completed one more thing on my ‘bucket list’ – which isn’t really a list because it’s not even big enough to fit into a bucket. I signed up for and completed the Run to the Shrine.
(For those who don’t know, the shrine is the Will Rogers Shrine of the Sun, located halfway up Cheyenne Mountain. It’s quite an impressive five-story monument. Of course, most people will need to Google Will Rogers to understand who the man was and why he has a Shrine.)
It’s not a long race, about four miles, but it is nearly straight up. I’ve walked many neighborhoods near the Shrine, since I live in the area. Most roads situated on the side of the mountains are fairly steep, even steeper than some of the trails around here – one reason I ruled out buying a house on a hill. The race starts out at the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo, where I’ve taken a part time job in guest services. Every day I work, the Shrine is there looming 1000′ above me, teasing me to tackle it. (Believe me, walking up to the employee parking lot is no small feat.)
After walking some of the roads around here, I was convinced I was going to die on the way up, or at least require medical attention, but that was not to be. I placed 19th out of 66 runners in my age group (1:07). I made it across the finish line well before some younger people I know. It felt good. It also reminded me that to run a race from beginning to end is much like writing a novel from beginning to end.
1. Like a race, a novel needs a plan. I thought about this race for a while. My pre-race walking paths included inclines. (As on race day, the downhills were easy; it was the extreme elevation that was trying.) I tried to take a walk at least four or five days a week, at least three miles each day, which was a good goal that was easily dashed by late spring snow storms and bomb cyclones.
Likewise, you can’t just sit down and write a novel without a plan, without foresight, and without exercises along the way. This spoken by an avowed pantser, but having started writing both with and without a clue, I’ll admit having some sort of roadmap before you begin is helpful.
2. Like a race, a novel requires a writer’s stamina. This is what happens when you start out strong, especially without preparation – eventually you’ll run out of steam and give up. Everyone else will pass you by and you’ll feel like a failure. (Been there, done that.) I started the race out slowly, then realized I could actually go faster, although running uphill was out of the question. I gave myself small goals (I’ll take a drink at that tree, I’ll rest for a moment at this switchback). I found that once I completed the small goals, I could push myself a little farther.
If you think you can write a good novel in a month (exception made in November, of course, when you can complete a novel, albeit it won’t be “good”), you are wrong. You might not write a *good* novel in six months, in a year, in five years. No matter how long it takes (and it WILL take longer than you think it will), you have to commit to the project over a long term. You have to give yourself small goals (write 500 words a day, edit for X amount of hours this day) in order to keep from getting overwhelmed.
3. You could quit, but why? I thought about turning around halfway up the first challenging incline and switchback. (They put a serious one at the beginning, let you think you’re doing great in the middle since the elevation doesn’t increase much and it’s a rather long stretch this way, and then the last quarter mile or so is a Herculean test to your body.) But I was being passed up by ladies pushing double strollers full of toddlers and people way older than I am. And that guy in a wheelchair.
It’s so, so, so easy to quit writing. Avoid hard work, avoid falling into pits, avoid the struggle. Might as well stop writing and start watching TV. Instead of saying “you could quit” how about using the mantra “you can do it.”
4. Number 3 leads me to, it’s not so much about the competition, it’s about the people cheering you on. Wow, was there ever a cheering section, all the way up the mountain. People with water (of course), people with noisemakers yelling their encouragement. A band of drummers. Then another band at the top. Then of course the finish line, with a local TV weather personality, lots of swag, more water, and snacks.
In writing, there are ALWAYS people around to cheer you on. My good writer friend who I lost to cancer a few years back was one, but you can find them if you look hard enough. You must be willing to reveal your vulnerable side, be open to critique and comment. I want to be that person to others, to cheer you on when you feel like you’re failing.
5. Don’t worry, the downhill is way easier. The one good thing about the Race to the Shrine, once you’ve made it to the summit, it’s all downhill from there, and let me tell you, the downhill is easier.
Likewise, I might struggle with a novel (I usually do about halfway through), but there is a point you’ll get to where the puzzle pieces all click together perfectly. It’s usually right at the point of climax. I find writing endings far easier than building up to that climax. It’s my form of the downhill run.
6. As with a race, finishing a novel gives you an adrenaline high. I didn’t think it would happen, but crossing the finish line gives you more than a sense of satisfaction. You feel good, but you also feel high. I ran with two of my younger sisters (one who IS a runner, made it in 44 minutes, the other about an hour and a half), and after the race we were talking like crazy people about doing another race.
As a writer, when I finish a novel, I’m happy-dancing all over the house. I glow. I celebrate. There is nothing more satisfying than writing “The End” at the conclusion of the story. I might let my head and fingers rest a bit, but I’m usually on to the next story percolating in my head.
As with running, if you’re going to write, you’re going to have to commit to the task, start to finish.
(Just a small aside and gripe: I wrote this entire blog post and it was just eaten by the Internet! I will try again.)
My April efforts for my class, Novel in Nine, fell a bit short. There was out of town company, there was sickness, there were other challenges, but I used the last few hassle-free days to catch up, so my final word count for the month was 38K+, a good showing but no cigar (40K).
My topic today is the use of calendars when writing your story. Not the use of calendars to keep YOU, the writer, on track, but using them to keep your story on track. I’m such a sucker for using devices when I write, like personality questions, color coding, lists, etc., that I don’t know why calendars aren’t a common ‘thing’ with writers. (Or maybe they are and I just don’t know it!) It’s another device I find useful.
I first started using a calendar for writing NaNoWriMo stories, and this is how I wrote Virtually Yours. I assigned each of the characters a day and wrote from their point of view on that day, with the last few days of the month ending up a melange of POVs to wrap the story up. It’s a no-brainer to use a calendar during NaNo, the yearly story telling blitz. You are tasked with writing a first draft (albeit, as we know, a messy first draft) in thirty days – a total of 50K words. As a result of my using a calendar for NaNo, most of my “November” stories are thirty days in duration. They typically start on or about November 1 and end November 30. I will take a monthly calendar page to plot out the action, or use my Hobonichi or other notebook to make one myself.
For Finding Cadence, I didn’t employ the use of a calendar until maybe the third draft. (I wrote this story before Virtually Yours but didn’t start editing until after…way after.) I needed the calendar because the story was very long and confusing to my beta readers. It was so long I ended up breaking it into three distinct parts while I sought to edit out many thousands of words. It was about the same time I plotted the story on a calendar that I found the story was following three distinct movements of a Rachmaninoff piano concerto that I listened to every time I sat down to write. Finding Cadence takes place from early February to October of the same year, and I printed up monthly calendar pages and stuck them together. Using the calendar helped me balance each of the parts so that they were about equal in actual word count size and story.
Since I’m currently writing a historical novel set in 1898 Colorado Springs, there was much research to be done. Once I began researching, I found that I had to keep the story somewhat ‘real.’ While it’s fiction I’m writing, I’m mentioning actual people and places and events, such as the Antlers Hotel fire (which occurred on a Saturday afternoon, who knew?). I didn’t want a bunch of history buffs nitpicking my story over days of the week! So I printed out a calendar for the year 1898 so I could visualize the story’s movement. The story starts Monday, July 4, when Silas dies, and ends Monday, October 3. My calendar is on a peg board right in front of me.
I’m making some strides this month. Now that I have much of the novel completed (about 55%) and I know at least in my head where the plot is going, it was time to take down my calendar and update it, along with the random business cards where I’ve written notes. After updating the calendar, I went back into my draft and put notes (chapters) along the way that correspond to the events that I have laid out or have already written.
I’m not writing this story in a linear fashion (although I started out writing it that way!); I have a solid beginning, a fairly good ending, and much in between. What I’m doing now is going back to fill in the holes in the story. The calendar is a constant reminder of the holes I need to plug up with scenes or chapters that I know have to be included before I can be reasonably satisfied with the first draft. The note cards are reminding me of specific things I need to include or work on.
Okay, so I’m a dinosaur but I made the transition from a manual typewriter to a computer. Someday I might graduate from Word to Scrivener. Like on a week where I have time. 🙂
Until then, I use calendars as a visual time line. It keeps me from wandering, which as we know, I tend to do.
My current work in progress is coming about through an online class I’m taking with Michelle Richmond (The Year of Fog), the class titled ambitiously enough Novel in Nine. We students are tasked with completing a novel in nine months.
For some, a nine-month deadline is nearly impossible. I know the feeling. It took me a four long years to finish my first novel. There were times when I felt like giving up, because to be frank, time was NOT on my side. Of course, I was greener then, basically stumbling/typing in the dark, not knowing what the hell I was doing. Practice might not make perfect, but it definitely increases your chances of completion.
Classes are a good way to keep to a schedule, to set small, reasonable goals and attain them. It’s all about the baby steps. Our class happens to include discussion, always helpful in that you realize you’re not toiling alone, nor are you the only one guilty of making mistakes. I was thinking about that today because our “assignments” happen to be reasonable with the possibility of completion within the week. Plus, they’re geared toward being included in the Novel.
Likewise, NaNoWriMo is a writing-cattle prod device that works well for me. 50K words? It’s nothing in November. I just tell myself it’s got to be done and it gets done. (Probably not agent-ready, but what first draft is?)
Michelle has given us a goal that can be managed easily, 10K words a month.
Here’s the difference between the class and NaNo: It’s about the word count, but it isn’t about the word count.
I don’t know why or how, but in November I can sit down and pump out a couple thousand words in an hour and a half. In the class, I’ve got my eye on the word count at the bottom of the document, but instead of writing as fast as I can, I find myself trying to write as well as I can. Plus, if I know something is coming up in my personal life, I can forge ahead and finish my assignments early, which is what I did in March.
I’m at the point now (about halfway through) where I have a solid story going, including a beginning, the start of a middle, and a pretty defining ending. I know what scenes and plot lines I have to weave in (six more things…totally doable). Many of the scenes I have to fold in coincidentally have something to do with the lesson of the week. This type of writing is more carefully thought out and not so haphazard.
Oh, I’m still a pantser. I’ve got the requisite index cards all over my desk scribbled with information that may or may not end up in the final draft. I’ve filled up my journal with drawings of houses and maps of the area and handwritten spreadsheets of characters and where they intersect and how much time I’ve given them. I’ve got a stack of reference books I’ve purchased from eBay stacked up under my desk.
And yes, I’m still a procrastinator. Just because I know what I need to insert doesn’t mean I just jump into my chair first thing in the morning and start writing. I’ve got a house, bad weather, a web site relaunch, a new puppy, and a part time job, as well as wanting to dabble in the other artistic pursuits that have caught my fancy.
There are upsides and downsides to each method of getting the writing done. The journey is the same; it’s the modes of transportation that are different. The thing is to find the one that works for you at the time and to enjoy the ride to The End.
The title of this post may sound harsh and unfeeling. I’m not beating up my fellow writers, I’m just stating the facts.
Just like living, writing (or creating any sort of art or endeavor) is a monumental struggle, to begin a project, to maintain enthusiasm, to power through depression and self-doubt, to complete. Completion is the end goal. Believe me, I know. It took four years of struggle to complete the first draft of my first novel, and I’ve heard from others it could take much longer. For me, the first goal was The End. I’d passionately started plenty of projects only to have them fall to the wayside. (Example: somewhere in my house is a crazy quilt I started in 1984, the intent was to give the finished product to my in-laws for Christmas. I got to the point where it is 4′ by 4′, but not big enough to cover a bed. I think my first child derailed this project, but someday I will locate it and finish it.)
My work on my first novel ebbed and flowed over four years. Sometimes I’d be hit with surfer-wave intensity and would ride that wave for days, writing like a crazy person on meth. Other times, the desire to write would dry up to nothing, the edge of the ocean way, way, way out there, practically to China and unreachable, and I’d go weeks without thinking about writing, or I’d think about it and panic because I had basically become unproductive.
Dry spells are made of dread. During one particularly onerous dry spell, a good friend of mine (now gone, RIP) admonished me to at least sit down for 15 minutes and write something, anything. I even tried Write or Die, which did work in my case, eventually. (Why my tag line for the longest time was “I’m writing as fast as I can!”) I went from a hundred words in 15 minutes to sometimes over 500.
I’ll have to admit the obvious: the finished first-draft product was horrible! It was full of broken rules and too many words, bad grammar and head hopping and every wrong turn imaginable. I put it away for two years, because I couldn’t believe I had created a literary disaster. I went on to other novels in other genres (which I finished! it gets easier the more you write), tried flash fiction in an effort to tighten up my stories, and began to put my typewritten poems into digital form. I later came back to the story because it was a good one – just terribly executed. After I got over the stinging in my eyes from reading the draft a few times (I’m not kidding, it was ammonia awful), I set out to edit, and edit again, and again, and yes, a couple of more agains. When it felt right to me, I entered it into contests where I received positive feedback (YAY ME!) so I knew I was on the right track.
Every so often, I’ll pull a copy of the book out, open it to a random page, and read a page or two. While I’ve improved my skills since I published it, I can honestly say it’s actually not horrible! I still feel good about it.
What I have learned along the way is that writing is much like life. It’s not easy. There are days when you don’t want to get out of bed. (Writers seem to be depressed – a lot!) There are obstacles along the way: day jobs, downers in the personal life, struggles with health issues, things that are thrown at you that you can’t predict and sometimes are out of your control to alleviate. You’re tired, your head is full of negative thoughts and fears, your days are too full to sit down for a minute, much less 15 of them strung together, with enough corresponding peace and quiet in order to type.
What I’ve also learned is I need heartache and struggle in order to write. If things were a lollypop and gumdrop heaven all the time, I’d have nothing to write about.
I know what it feels like to have a total loss of words. In those cases, I resign myself to baby steps and give myself a break, because I know this will pass. So writers, give yourself room to stumble. Remember this: your writing life, like your real life, will not always be full of obstacles. It won’t be all rain, or God forbid, a bomb cyclone (like the one we experienced in Colorado last week – I might have to use that in a story). Eventually the clouds will clear and the sun will come out and life will be good and words will flow.
Trust me.
It was warm enough to take off my shoes
It was an interesting two weeks away from home. First, a long weekend with the San Francisco Writers Conference, this year being held at the Hyatt Regency near the Embarcadero and Ferry Building. I wasn’t sure at first if I was going to like the new digs, as it’s splashy! So very Vegas! Right in the middle of the action! but…I got used to the immense size. The accommodations were top notch, the banquet food yummy, the workshop space HUGE. There was no reason to go outside (plus it was raining the proverbial cats and dogs and colder than usual for February so why venture? except for the brief and nippy Eyespiration walk), so I stayed in and took advantage of all the workshops I could. Of course, I left there feeling totally bereft, like I have done everything wrong since last year, but that’s what the conference is for – to rein me in and keep me on a path. Mission accomplished.
I then spent the next few days at the beach. Thankfully, the skies parted on those days, the sun came out, and I was able to enjoy myself. I spent an entire day with my web designer (for the jewelry site – stay tuned) and felt like I accomplished much there too. I visited with the son which is always nice, even though he is now busy with two jobs. The last two days in California were spent in Fort Bragg, which is known for Glass Beach. (Score! A lot of sea glass! Also blessed with nice days.) I made my escape through the Sierra just before more torrential rain and snowfall. (Can you believe they’ve gotten over 400″ of snow? So far?) The drive home was marked by the appearance of the crud (you KNOW I have to get it sometime during the trip) and of course, treacherous driving in western Wyoming, where the speed limit says 80 mph but with patches of black ice and jack-knifed semis every few miles, driving was belabored and careful. I’m too old to be a statistic. I’ve also too many things left to do.
So now I have returned, to my own comfy bed and my wonderful shower and the husband and dog and cat. I hadn’t written much since leaving the conference, but I made up for it beforehand by writing like a fool on fire. This week’s assignment in my writing class has sparked my interest once again, and I’ve already made quite a dent in my word count.
My assignment… to write the climax of my novel!
I like the idea of writing not in a linear fashion. I took a similar class with Michelle Richmond a couple of years ago and she had us write the last chapter as an exercise. My head rarely works on the linear; in fact, today I printed a calendar for the year in question just so I can see the time line in the way my story will occur. Otherwise I’ll jump back and forth like a crazy person. (This is why it takes me so long to complete a second edit. Sometimes my writing truly makes my head hurt.)
Honestly, this may sound like me patting myself on the back, but things are truly coming together this time! For one thing, I picked a good year (1898) to write about, although I didn’t know it at first, because I picked it out of the ether. My research has revealed so many interesting occurrences that year. My climax is scheduled for October 1, 1898, which also happens to be the day the first Antlers Hotel burned to the ground in Colorado Springs. My main character and her mother are having tea there when the explosion occurs. This corresponds with my character taking a stand and finally asking for (and getting) what she wants.
Now I just have to fill in the holes for the six weeks before the fire.
There are no easy fixes or sure-fire “hacks” (God, I hate that word) for writing. The very first basic thing a writer must do is sit down and begin to write. Nothing happens without the sitting down part (unless you have one of those ergonomic standing desks – then STAND and start writing). It doesn’t matter what you write, it doesn’t matter if they are perfect, wonderful sentences, just start. Write a blog post, or a poem, or a Facebook rant. Prompts help, both word prompts and visual prompts. Taking a class and being confronted with homework also works. If you’re stuck in a scene, move on to another scene – you’ll probably use it. Take a walk without devices and let your mind wander. Read, either craft books or novels.
Most of all, if you find something that works for you, if you’re blessed with divine intervention and the words flow freely, go with it. Don’t let a moment of creativity slip through your fingers, because take it from me, it can pass just as quickly as it came.
And now, I must finish my chapter.
Write on.
Don’t sit here unless you have a super absorbent towel.
It’s the Monday morning after the San Francisco Writers Conference, and I’m sitting in a motel a couple of blocks from Ocean Beach. Because while downtown San Francisco is Disneyland and Las Vegas wrapped up in New York with a side of Tokyo and Hong Kong and a teaspoon of Peru (don’t ask), the core of the city is too much stimulation for this simple girl to experience for more than a few days at a time. I need the decompression of a cold, windy beach, minimal traffic, and good coffee right next door.
The same goes for conferencing. I attended well-rested, open-minded, free from work life worries and personal life drama, in the best mental shape of my writing life ever, yet still after three and a half days, one must step away and allow the absorption to take place. I’m concentrating on my “other” love and web site today, and try not to think about what I’ve learned at the conference until at least tomorrow morning. A certain amount of distance is necessary to obtain perspective.
The conference is a good thing, a necessary thing for me. It’s an inoculation, a gentle reminder that in the year that’s transpired since the last conference, I’ve fallen into bad habits. Or lazy, bad habits. I learn about what’s new, I see old friendly faces and meet new, mostly old, friendly faces. I choose a couple of small, easy fixes for my writing, or my web site, or my marketing, and will work on those items. I revel in the enthusiasm of the young writers, and commiserate with fellow compatriots who have pledged to toil on for the long haul.
Writing anything, be it a novel, memoir, poem, or blog post, is work, hard work. It’s not a lottery ticket. Writing is an art you will not instantly be fabulous at. (I think I’ve said that elsewhere.) It doesn’t come easily (although now it’s coming much easier, but that’s the practice factor at play), especially with external forces constantly tugging at you, trying to derail your progress.
Information is a wonderful thing, as is camaraderie and validation. But it means nothing unless you put the information to work, you forge the friendly banter from the initial hello to a lasting friendship, and you take your talent to higher levels to live up to the praise.
I’m here, still walking in the wet. Still thinking of plot twists and character development. Still fighting the good fight.
Still writing.
I’m timing this post to be released when I’ll be on the road driving toward San Francisco. Depending on what time I leave the house (hopefully early enough to avoid Denver rush hour, slow time appears to be between 3-4 a.m., the rest of the time it’s a zoo), I want to say it will be released to the Internets when I’m on the road somewhere west of Cheyenne, Wyoming.
Now that I’m living in Colorado and equidistant from both of my children (one in Michigan, the other in San Francisco), I’ve decided that driving to either destination is the best option. Airline travel takes a lot of time: you drive to the airport, you hassle through the TSA lines depending on whether or not your ticket says “pre-check” (which it sometimes does – how I don’t know) or not, you draw the lottery over an upgrade, a draw you normally lose; there are connecting flights to catch (or miss), maintenance issues which may delay you, deplaning at your final destination (when you’re in row 42, you might as well take a nap), waiting at the baggage claim and hoping your psychedelically colored bag hasn’t been mistakenly routed to Kenya, traveling AirTrain to the rental car building (a short trip also fraught with pitfalls – I nearly took out a Japanese tourist once, by accident, when my bag and I tripped on the escalator and fell on him), waiting at the rental car counter for hours, etc., etc.
No wonder I’m exhausted by the time I arrive at the conference! It normally takes me three days to acclimate to the jet lag, and by that time, the conference is over and I have a terrible case of conference crud (one year I had the crud DURING the conference, which was no fun at all) which takes all of a week to eradicate, or at least get under control.
No. Driving is the best option. I’m in control. It might take a little longer, but my nerves (and my gray hair) will be better for it. I won’t have jet lag. I’ll have hours to sing along with Tom Petty radio, or to imagine the Old West as it was 150 years ago. I’ll have carefully packed snacks: fruit, granola, nuts, hard boiled eggs, my own bottled water that won’t cost me $8 at the terminal bookstore. I’ll have my own car, which I won’t have to clean out a rental at the end of ten days and hope I didn’t leave my glasses or my Lipitor prescription in it. It will be a two day trip, or a day and a half, or, if I’m feeling particularly spry and alert, I might go for it in one very long day and save myself a stop in Elko, Nevada. (One extra day with my son.) My son says to bring chains for the pass between Reno and the western slope of the Sierras, but I have an extra day built in just for such an emergency. I-80 is a major artery; they’re not going to let 30 feet of snow stop a major vein of commerce between the Left and Right Coasts.
I can take my time if I want. Or not. I haven’t decided.
This year will be my tenth San Francisco Writers Conference. Ten years. If you read the very second blog post on this very blog, you’ll see where I started: writing about my first San Francisco Writers Conference. I had a lot of dreams back then, not to say I don’t have them now. My dreams now aren’t the dreamy dreams of a fresh writer who had just finished her first (massively huge) manuscript. Dreams are good, as long as a guiding hand of reality steers in the background. I have no illusions of a client hungry agent tapping me on the shoulder to offer me a six-figure deal. That might happen for some people, but if it happens to me, I might have a heart attack and die.
Money is nice, but that’s not why I write (or draw, or create jewelry, or weave baskets). I subscribe to some writer blogs that say you MUST be in it to make money. I’m sorry, but after fourteen years of writing (again) and ten years of conferencing, I still have to disagree.
I write to tell a story.
Some of them are surprising stories, totally different from my favorite reading material. The one I’m working on now? A girl in 1898 Colorado Springs? If you would have told me a year ago I’d be writing about this girl and her struggles, I would have laughed at you and said what-kind-of-stuff-are-you-smoking-can-I-have-some. I didn’t even think about this girl until after the first of January 2019. And the one right before that, political shenanigans ripped from the headlines? Again, mad laughter.
The truth of the matter is that there are stories all around us, and most of them are multi-layered, and many of them compelling. Good writers can pluck a story from anything or anyone. The trick (or skill) is to write the best book you can and portray the characters so that they’re relatable and real. Once you achieve that, the entertainment value is apparent.
You can still learn a lot from ten years of conferences. Learning never ends. Every year, I learn something new and am grateful for the venue and the knowledge it affords me. Every year, I go in thinking “I am a sponge; give me something to soak up.”
If you go in thinking you have a chance at winning the lottery and leave disappointed that the conference failed you because you got a couple of eye-rolls from agents during your speed dating hour, you’re missing the point. Attending a conference of this magnitude is winning the lottery.
And now I must pack.
See you on the other side.
When it comes to creative pursuits (of which I have a few, and the list is growing), the old adage is true: Practice, practice, practice.
No matter what you choose to do, you’ll find you won’t produce perfection on the first try. I learned this with my jewelry. I started out playing with beads, which was a no-brainer. But when I moved to metal, it was trial and error BIG TIME. I would come back from my Tuesday class and practice like a crazed woman. For example, I would make 100 wire rings (or 50 coiled bracelets, or whatever) between Wednesday and Monday, and most of those were crap. I have in my office what I call my “laundry basket of shame” – all of my failed projects that are too ugly for words. (Also too ugly for the light of day.) And yes, it’s a laundry basket. I’m keeping them to possibly re-do at some time in the future (metal can be melted and I’ve got nice stones in those failures), but mostly I keep them as a reminder of where I started and where I am now.
What I’ve noticed in the last few years is that with more practice comes more skill, and I’m not contributing to the junk pile as frequently as I did when I first started out.
I would imagine it would be the same with any endeavor. I’m fairly certain Tiger Woods didn’t come out of the womb with golf club in hand. I occasionally golf, and I can tell you there is no such thing as innate talent, only that to come out of the day with a decent score takes a lot of consistent practice.
The same is true with writing. From experience, I know you can’t just sit down and take off with your pen or computer and expect the result to be anything but…well, flawed. Telling a story is an art form, and with any art, there must be practice. Lots and lots of practice.
It does get easier. Just as now I can wire wrap almost in my sleep, when I write, I make less and less of the stupid mistakes I made after finishing the first draft of my first novel. I don’t linger over passages anymore like I did with Book #1 – if I find myself getting bogged down, I’ll move on and come back later. The second novel was a little easier. The third even more so. I’m not much of a plotter, but now I’m aware of my foibles (like writing rambling back story and writing like I speak), and I know when to stop and when to kick it into gear. I’ve learned that if I write as fast as I can, even the worst of my writing has a value and can be used (with much editing). And I’ve learned to take small snippets of time and fill them with writing. (Right now, I’m filling my Hobonichi with short poems. They’re rough draft poems, but I’ll get to them someday.)
The lesson is, once you plant butt into chair: The more you write, the more you will write – and the better you’ll get at it.
…or not.
I’m busy with my writing class and am a few hundred words away from my word count goal for the month, so instead of a blog post about writing, I am treating you to a first chapter I might throw away. (There’s another chapter that could do for the first. I haven’t decided.) It’s better to have too many words than not enough. Comments and critique welcome.
Sylvania, Ohio 1898
Adelaide Monroe slumped on the top step of her back porch completely spent and sweat soaked in the morning sun. Not yet mid-morning and already the heat of a warmer than normal July had made the usual farm chores torture, with humidity thick and oppressive. If she could slice the air into blankets to save for later, she would never suffer another cold winter. After an hour spent chasing and capturing two dozen errant chickens, she was spent. Damned the hen that discovered a small tear in the wire; the miscreant had led the rest of the flock to giddy freedom. Addie cursed herself for forgetting how crafty (albeit stupid) chickens could be. She mended the breach with twine and with the help of her collie, Skippy, finally marshaled the truants back to their coop. She would catch a brief respite before collecting the day’s eggs.
Addie wiped the sweat from her brow with the hem of her apron and surveyed the small farm landscape. After spending a year at the Cleveland Normal Teachers’ Preparatory, life in rural Sylvania seemed dull indeed. It was also extremely primitive. Cleveland was no New York City, but at least it hummed with commerce and culture and the promise of progress. Six weeks back in her childhood home, and Addie yearned for the modern conveniences of indoor plumbing and electricity. During her spare time at the Preparatory, she had enjoyed many strolls along Millionaire’s Row, imagining herself as a lady serving high tea in one of the magnificent mansions on Euclid Avenue. She’d attended a high tea at one of Cleveland’s finest hotels as a guest of the school, and thought the experience to be the pinnacle of her experience. She’d attended concerts and plays both indoors and out. She even found wonder in watching the busy factories churning out smoke as well as tobacco and woolens, and would sometimes spend her Saturday afternoons at the docks, observing ships as they entered and left the port, all the while dreaming of where they’d been and where they were going next.
With each passing day in her hometown, Addie saw the promise of her bright future flicker away, a slow expiration into darkness. While she loved children and had wanted to teach, doubts had begun to spring up where the light had once been.
“Addie! Addie!” The screen door opened wide, hitting Addie in the back. She sprang up to face her mother. “Dear God, girl, I didn’t see you sitting there. Did I hurt you?”
Addie swept straw and dirt from her clothes. “No, Mama. Chickens got out again. We might need new wire. This coop is older than I am.”
“Don’t have the money, girl. We’ll make do until we really need it. Get yourself cleaned up. I want you to make a delivery to Dr. Randall.”
Addie groaned. The town doctor had an eye for Addie. Addie’s eyes fixed on a different horizon. “You can’t go?”
Martha Monroe crossed her arms and frowned. She was an imposing woman, raven haired and stout like Addie, although a foot shorter, with the same moon-round face and blue eyes. “Dr. Randall doesn’t want to see an old woman like me. He needs a dozen eggs and I talked him into buying one of the strawberry rhubarb pies I just baked and you’re going to take it to him before lunch time. I’ve got wash to hang and a long row of green beans to hoe and tomatoes to stake.”
“I’ll trade.” Addie offered.
Martha shot Addie a stern, no-nonsense glare. “Adelaide Monroe, you could do much worse than to have a doctor for a suitor. Why Doctor Randall is a fine man! He’s taken a shine to you, a real shine. None of the other girls in town have a chance, I tell you. Don’t be a fool. I wouldn’t let that one get away.”
“Yes, Mama,” Addie said sadly.
Martha had turned to enter the house when she noticed the egg basket empty. “What? No eggs today?”
Addie picked up the basket and headed for the chicken coop. “I’ll get them.”
Addie could have walked the two miles to Sylvania, but she chose to take the horse cart, telling her mother she did not want to ruin the delicate pie by walking it to Dr. Randall under the fierce sunshine. The truth was it was too hot for walking, even had she changed into short sleeves and a shorter cotton skirt. Her wide-brimmed straw hat kept the sun out of her eyes, but at the expense of a river of sweat pooling at the band.
Addie liked taking the wagon into town, if only to stealthily travel beyond the village. She’d started urging the horse on the road south a half-mile beyond the town limit, which later became a mile, then farther. One day she hoped to make it to Toledo; maybe then she’d sprout courage and keep going until she reached the Gulf of Mexico or until the horse gave out.
Dr. Randall’s imposing three story home on the town square was the finest in Sylvania, although it now seemed a paltry shack compared to the mansions lining Cleveland’s Millionaire’s Row. He’d inherited it and the practice from his father, the late Dr. Joseph Randall. The first floor held a reception area and patient rooms, with living quarters above. Addie loved the old Dr. Randall, with his steady bedside manner and jar full of hard candy he used to reward good children. He could tame the most difficult patients with a sweet smile and a wry joke.
Dr. Jacob Randall, Princeton educated, tall, dark, and sophisticated, was a few years older than Addie. As much as the elder Dr. Randall seemed the jolly, grandfatherly type, the younger Dr. Randall fell short – at least in Addie’s eyes. He was pretty, yes, but his shiny exterior lacked sincerity. She’d spent the last month and a half avoiding him, pushing past him quickly when leaving church services or the dry goods store, and hiding upstairs in her bedroom when he came to call – which he hadn’t done once the entire time she was at school in Cleveland. His dogged pursuit was obvious, but at twenty-two, Addie was not yet ready to settle into domestic life.
Addie entered the square noting much of Sylvania had folded up in the heat. The streets were quiet and empty. Smitty from the Western Union office sat on a battered oak dining chair on the sidewalk outside the door, hatless, baking in the sun, the only human in sight. He squinted at her and gave a wave which she returned. Addie turned the wagon in front of the doctor’s house, dismounted, and tied the horse to the hitching post, before she returned for the pie and eggs.
She steeled herself for the task at hand, wondering how she could appear disinterested without seeming rude. Her pointed avoidance hadn’t sunk in with the good doctor. Addie made it halfway up the sidewalk when the front door opened. “Addie Monroe! It’s so nice to see you.” Dr. Randall greeted her. He bounded across the porch and down the steps, his long legs like a gazelle taking the plain. Not only was he pleasing to look at, with thick dark hair and handlebar mustache, he had a charisma that drew women to him – or so Addie’s mother claimed. Addie had never fallen under the spell, if one existed. He was smartly dressed in light trousers, his Oxford shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, a jaunty bow tie at his neck, not a hair out of place, and completely cool.
Addie stepped back as he approached, holding her items as a shield in front of her. “Hello, Doctor Randall.”
“Please, Addie, call me Joshua. We’re friends, aren’t we?” Dr. Randall winked at her. He winks too much. Excessive winking would be considered a lecherous move if he weren’t a professional man.
“You should get the pie in the ice box right away, Dr. Randall,” Addie said. She offered it to the doctor, who made no move to take it. She was forced to fill the space between them with small talk. “I take it you’re not busy today?”
“It appears not. Winter is my bread and butter, what with colds and consumption and falls from icy conditions. I guess it’s too hot to get sick.” He laughed.
“I see.” A moment of uncomfortable silence passed between them. “I really must go, Dr. Randall. Thank you.” Addie urged the pie and basket of eggs on the doctor, before she quickly turned to retreat.
Dr. Randall circled around her to cut her off. “I thought you might want a glass of iced tea before you head back. It’s dangerously hot today. There’s also the question of payment. Your mother’s expecting it, I’m sure.”
Iced tea would have been wonderful but she declined. “Thank you for the offer, but I have chores. As for Mama, you can settle up with her.”
“But…”
Addie took two steps toward her horse cart, leaving Dr. Randall on the sidewalk behind her. Smitty came tearing toward them from the telegraph office across the street, his hands clutching a white piece of paper. She’d never witnessed the old man run. “Miss Addie! Miss Addie!” was all he could say until he stopped in front of her. Addie raised her eyes to the heavens and thanked the Lord for this distraction, but the look on Smitty’s face was a combination of sadness and horror. Her mother bore the same expression right after her father had died.
“What’s the matter, Smitty?” Addie grabbed Smitty’s arm. “What is it?”
Panting, he handed Addie the paper. She struggled to decipher Smitty’s hurried scrawl.
10 July 1898
Mrs. T.J. Monroe, Sylvania, Ohio
URGENT. Regret to inform you death of S. Monroe, Colorado Springs, 4 July. Request guidance RE: disposition of property. Awaiting response.
Yours
N. Hastings
“Miss Addie? Miss Addie?”
Smitty’s voice called, a thousand miles away, throwing a lifeline to her heart, a tether to the present. Behind her, Dr. Randall’s hand reached for her shoulder, but she shrugged it off, not needing his support and sympathy, not caring of his intentions. This was not a time for weakness; her next task called for fearless mettle, and she couldn’t waste a second of time. Without a word, she folded the telegram into thirds and marched back to the horse cart.
There would be no furtive outings on the road to Toledo, no dreams of somewhere else, not today. She had news to break to her mother.
The best books not only have relatable characters you can fall in love with (or hate), they also must convey a sense of place. I think about The Hunger Games, a dystopian setting that is removed from today’s time, or Harry Potter, which happens in an exaggerated British landscape (a bit of past, present, and future), or even sci-fi (which admittedly I haven’t read much of since junior high school), where the author must not only create the characters and the plot, they have to make outer space believable. I know that I have to BE there in the setting, even if there is imaginary. It’s easier to enjoy a book or movie if I’ve actually visited the place. For years, because I loved the place, I read books and watched movies about San Francisco. It didn’t matter the time frame or the genre, I loved the connection to the place.
When I wrote my first novel, Finding Cadence, I incorporated a lot of my personal life into the book, and consciously wrote it in three parts. Place, as well, occurred in three parts: first Michigan, then Colorado, and finally California. For me, place was an intrinsic part of the story. Cadie became a different person in all three places, and while I didn’t realize it when I wrote the book, her journey between the three places marked her growth as a person.
I have very little problem in settings in my books. If anything, because I used to write travel reviews, I tend to go overboard with description. I want whomever reads my work to know exactly where I was and how it affected me.
I’m working on a new novel specifically for my online class with Michelle Richmond. It’s a story about a woman who moves to 1898 Colorado Springs from northwestern Ohio after her brother dies. (Good thing I live here now! And I’m well aware of northwestern Ohio.) She and her mother don’t know it, but he had taken his gold mining money and invested it into real estate in Colorado Springs. It’s not a lot – not like a mining or railroad millionaire might achieve back in the day, but it’s enough for him to buy a large tract of land where he has just completed an enormous mansion in the middle of nowhere. I’m not going to give away what is going to happen, mainly because I’ll probably change my mind regarding the plot, plus I’d like to generate interest for book sales! (Duh.)
So for the last week, besides dutifully finishing my online homework and writing the first chapter, I’ve taken long walks in some of the open space around here. It’s amazing to me that within a few miles of my house (walking distance), I can go to where the land is largely unchanged from the last 120 years. I can stand in a field or canyon and imagine myself back then.
I’ve also visited a couple of local landmarks, places I’d never seen and I grew up here. Miramonte Castle in Manitou Springs was built in 1894. Built by a French priest/architect, it’s a mishmash of nine architectural styles and is a bit much.
I also toured Glen Eyrie, General Palmer’s castle north of Garden of the Gods. (General Palmer founded Colorado Springs.) Built in the 1890s, it’s a beautiful English style mansion constructed on stunning grounds surrounded by rock formations.
In my research, I realized that Colorado Springs wasn’t all backward and pioneer in the late 1800s. The time might have been before the widespread use cars and the telephones, but Glen Eyrie had indoor plumbing and a call system and central vacuums among other conveniences. I’m glad I toured these two places because otherwise my story might have contained some glaring errors.
It’s also good to get a feel for the homes of the era, the clothing and artifacts help with the description of setting.
I can’t write a story without becoming the character, seeing where she has gone and experiencing her struggles. Good books go beyond the story alone; they make you think about them long after you’ve reached the words “The End.”
It takes a little extra time and a lot of extra effort, but the payoff is deep.
More later…
I am happy to report that I have not fallen off the New Year resolution wagon – just yet.
I’ve started a new online class, under the direction of Michelle Richmond. There are lots of very talented writers in the class, but instead of wallowing in envy, I’m keeping my head down and working hard. In addition to the class, I’m using the same exercises for the novel I just completed for NaNoWriMo. Win! Win! Win!
This new novel is about a woman in 1898 Colorado Springs, and the tentative title is “An Education for Addie.” While not a true historical novel (I’m concentrating on Addie, who must struggle through many challenges), there will be some research involved. I can’t just plop a character back in time 121 years without paying some attention to detail! Unfortunately, El Paso County doesn’t have a historical society (!) and I’m hitting wall after wall on the internet. *sigh* Whoever said writing a novel was easy probably sold a bridge to a sucker in Brooklyn.
I have to blame my current writing interest in my surroundings. And the last novel too. There is something alluring about the crisp air, the clear blue skies, and the wind whipping through the arroyo that gets my head thinking.
In addition to the writing class, I’ve kept up with the Hobonichi and am (slowly) making the edits on the last manuscript. I have committed to reading, too, and finished my second reading of Ramona by Helen Hunt Jackson. I read it the first time in 7th Grade, when I decided to pick the biggest, hardest book to read in the school library. It was difficult to become accustomed to late 19th Century prose, but after the first thirty pages I was hooked. Not unlike the first time I read the book. I’m also still walking, about 4-5 miles a day when the temperatures are over 40 degrees, which is nearly always.
All of this success through my bout with sickness, my husband’s bout with the crud (like mine only infinitely worse), and the holidays. YAY ME!
It’s also Dry January, so I cannot drown my sorrow in a gin martini when things get tough. No, I must suffer through, just as my character, Addie must. Her life was a thousand times harder than mine.
Next week, I plan on discussing character development. No, really.
Let’s face it: December is always a ‘phew’ month for me.
Nine times out of ten, I’m taking a breather from NaNoWriMo. This year I finished with days to spare, and started working on the first pass-through before November ended.
Then, with the first of December…crushing stagnation…
With the holidays, I’m used to rushing around like a crazy woman, buying presents for family, friends, and co-workers, preparing for meals and days off, etc. This year, in our new house, with hardly any socializing on the schedule and no employees to worry about, I fell into a laziness I haven’t seen in many years.
I’m usually too busy to be lazy, and even if I procrastinate, I manage to cram in as much as I can in a day.
December was mostly laid-back (perhaps a little too much so).
December was also mostly sunny and warm. That’s because we live in Colorado now, where winters are mild. I spent a great deal of time outdoors, walking in the sun! I’m tan all the time now!
With the walking comes the thinking, and I’ve been thinking about how to approach the rest of my life, now that I’m jobless, i.e. retired. I have so many partially finished projects laying about, as my unpacking has proven, with lots of half-finished jewelry and cross stitch and needlepoint and a crazy quilt I started in 1985. I love starting things, especially stories, flushed with the excitement of new places to go and worlds to create. Beginning a new story is easy for me.
Unfortunately, kicking myself in the rear to complete second and third drafts is something else. I don’t particularly like to edit. It’s very hard work. I can see the stories in my head, even the un-fleshed parts are finished in the brain, but getting them out there and onto the page – that’s another thing.
This year’s resolutions are simple:
The media folks say that New Year’s resolutions are usually broken and fall to the wayside by the middle of January. This year, I’m out to prove them wrong.
Today is the official last day of NaNoWriMo, and I hope everyone who participated this year either completed the challenge or made a valiant effort. After all, it’s the effort that counts.
I was on friggin’ fire this year! I was able to get over 50K words by the 26th.
I’ve spent the last few days getting caught up on other things. As soon as I post this, I’ll start to go over what I’ve written, which likely is a mess. I do this completely old school – with a notebook by my side. I wish I could figure out Scrivener, but I’m hopeless.
This year, I worked without notes. I only had a vague idea of the characters and an even vaguer idea of the story line, so I’m amazed I finished at all.
A few things I’ve learned this year:
1. It helps to have time – lots of time. Now that I’m retired from the working world, I not only had tons of time, I had absolutely no headaches from the Day Job to worry about. Talk about having a sack of boulders lifted…what a change!
2. It helps to have a passion about what you’re writing about. I took a story “ripped from the headlines” and turned it on its ear. I had a feeling the other side (of the real life story) was lost to the world. It helped to open up a case of righteous indignation and play from that angle.
3. It helps to let your characters go. I wrote a couple of chapters that completely floored me. I had no idea where these people were going (certainly not where I would have gone!), but I let them take the lead. I found those two chapters to be the most interesting in the work.
So now I have basked in my limited glory. It’s time to get the red pen out.
For those who are still working, keep at it. It’s not over until midnight!
We are up to Day 12 of the 2018 NaNoWriMo, and my total word count is just over 23,000 words.
YAY! Applause! Confetti!
This even after taking three and a half days off from writing. (I visited the great north – Duluth, Minnesota. It was cold, very cold. I would have rather been writing, but what can you do?) We returned yesterday where I cranked out a few words in between laundry and unpacking and checking out the damage my cat did (minimal, he’ll live).
One thing I noticed now that I’m nearly a third of the way through is that I’m still bogged down in the beginning. This is because I love me some back story! I just can’t get out of the back story!
During today’s session, I decided to plant my characters in the middle of the middle. (Which I approximately know since I know what occurs during the beginning, the middle, and the end. If you have a faint idea, you can actually start anywhere and write. Writing the ending first is really an interesting exercise.) It was a slow start, but I think I can push on from here.
The main point I’m trying to get across in my story is that women (girls) can be just as evil and conniving as men, and when any human of any gender is like that, they should get punished in the end.
Eventually (thirty years later), my antagonist is going to get punished, but at this time I’m trying to make her as mean and unlikable as possible. This is hard to do when you want people to live in peace and have a kumbaya moment every time there’s a wrinkle.
But…you need those wrinkles.
Thanksgiving is coming up, and I hope to have most of this novel finished by then. At least, I want a little more than a rough sketch, something I can really sink my teeth into once November is over.
How’s your NaNoWriMo coming along? Remember, it’s the consistent writing that makes it happen. I’ve spent NaNoWriMo in abject failure by Day 14, so I know the feeling of non-accomplishment. Push yourself. It doesn’t have to be good, it just has to BE.
I would have to say that my first week of NaNoWriMo 2018 (heck! my first four days!) has been so productive!
My word count as of end of yesterday (Day 4) is well over 12,000 words!
Yay, me!
(I don’t want to celebrate too much, as a lot of things can happen between now and November 30 and too much happy dancing can jinx any good thing. Sickness, travel, things come up that will get between you and your story. Life doesn’t stop just because it’s November!)
I’ll make this brief as I need to get back to the story while I’m still on fire. (Zzzzzzzssshhhhh…hear that? It’s bacon sizzling. Or my fingers.) I’ll just impart a few observations since starting this tale:
Well, back to the salt mines! I can’t wait to see where we’re going today.
Now that I have my pristine new notebooks ready, my pile of colored gel pens (I love using these, a color for each character), and half an idea in my head for this year’s NaNoWriMo, it’s time to dig out what I call the road maps to successful writing. You wouldn’t take a trip without a road map, would you?
Yes, the books were the first boxes unpacked after our cross-country move, but they were not organized! It’s hard to stay organized when you are constantly moving one pile of stuff to another room and back again. The books I’m speaking of are books on the craft of writing.
So this weekend was spent getting things in order. I’m blessed with a built in bookshelf in my master bedroom which covers a complete wall, so I had plenty of space to work with.
Usually I arrange books by author or genre and then by size.
Sometimes I’ll go back and take out the writing related-but I’m not there yet (like How to Find a Literary Agent, Making the Perfect Pitch) and put them to the side, for future reference. (Like in a couple of years when I’ve sweated through a couple of edits.)
Other times I’ll take the constant go-to reference books (they’re the ones with the bent spines – The Woman in the Story and The Emotional Craft of Fiction comes to mind) and stack them up and browse through them as I pass by on the way to something else.
Or I might just take a few moments to read Stephen King’s On Writing, just to get a master’s anecdotal opinion on the process. (And yes, that’s a Furrby. He’s not quite as annoying as he used to be. Twenty years have worn him down. Now when I wake him up, he says he’s “sleepy” and starts snoring.)
Good thing the weather’s been unusually cold for this time of year. (As in teen-digit weather, brr…) There’s plenty of time to cuddle up with a book and hot cup of tea while I load my brain full of things I should be doing when I write.
🙂
Now that inspiration struck me like a lightning bolt on top of my head with regard to 2018 NaNoWriMo, it’s time to start pre-working aspects of the story. Because once November hits, it’s a mad rush to spew forth as many words as one can before the magical thirty days are over.
My story takes place in two time frames – one, during the summer of 1984, and two, present day. I’ve decided on a high school girl gang of four, some privileged, one not, and one in-between. There will also be at least two high school boys, the objects of the girls’ attention.
I love doing this kind of story, where the characters are not the same as they were as children. (Who is? It’s a great place for a writer to go.) Right now, I’m concentrating on the younger cast of characters, trying to assign them traits and physical descriptions, all the while sketching out the in-between years to explain later behavior.
There are many tools in books and online regarding character development. (I’m pretty sure the final product will not even resemble what I’ve come up in my head these next few weeks. After all, these are sketches, not masterpieces!) One I like to use is the twenty-questions method. I’m not sure where I found the original – probably at the San Francisco Writers Conference. Each character answers the same twenty questions. This really aids in developing very different characters.
Then I like to grid off all my characters (usually in a notebook situation, so I can see everyone at one time). One set of grids might answer the questions “What do I want?” and “How will I get there?” or “What am I afraid of?” and “How can I get over this fear?”
I can be visual, so I might actually sketch a map of where the characters live, or draw a prominent house. This helps get a sense of where the characters are in daily life. I’ve used Pinterest to post photos of characters or neighborhoods or anything else I find I might need.
All of this preliminary sketching crystallizes the characters in my mind. They become more real, making it so much easier to write about them (quickly) when November rolls around.
At this point I’m super excited! I’ve yet to finish a novel during November, but I do get enough information down, making the next edit easier to do.
Believe me, you don’t have to have a plan (I’m definitely NOT an outliner) but having the characters in concrete certainly helps in getting the story to gel.
It’s never too early to begin plotting for NaNoWriMo. (I know. This priceless gem from me, the pantser.)
It all starts with a blank piece of paper, or in my case, a page from my Hobonichi. (See above.)
Now that I’ve relocated and am semi-settled (just have the tail ends of remodeling to weather through), I’m beginning to sort out where my creative pursuits will fit in to my new retired life. I haven’t completely figured out my bead room (the hardwood floors need to be refinished before I can make final plans) but I have located my notebooks. (YAY! Me!)
While on my morning walk/run yesterday, an idea came to me out of the blue. I figured out what to write for the yearly NaNo project! I know, I can barely believe it myself. My novel will be based on the short story, Runners, which was published in Medium a couple of years ago, and is featured in my Shorts chap book. (Check either one out. Or email me and I’ll sign a copy and send it to you.)
I even have a title. (I’m trying to refrain from the overuse of exclamation marks, but I’m so excited.) It will be called Running To, as opposed to running away. Like the short story, it will take place here, in the foothills of the Front Range.
That’s about all I got to yesterday on my walk, because about halfway up the mountain, I ran into this:
Yes, that’s exactly what it looks like. It’s a bear. I was momentarily knocked off balance, which is why this picture looks so crummy. It took a few seconds to regain my composure and whip my phone out. By that time, Yogi Bear had high-tailed it (amazingly quickly too) across the road and onto a driveway and I wasn’t going to follow him for a better shot. Dude. I’m not that crazy.
So today I will take that blank page and fill it with ideas regarding a beginning, a middle, and an end. I’ll try to figure out why my protagonist ran away, and what and why she is running to.
I speak from experience when I say NaNoWriMo is so much easier if you have a plan. It doesn’t have to be a full outline. You don’t even need an entire cast of characters. You just need a beginning, a middle, and an end, and one person’s struggle.
Here we go!
I recently moved to Colorado, which is a homecoming of sorts. No, I wasn’t born here. I’m an Army brat, meaning we bounced around from state to state, wherever my dad was stationed. But when we landed here in Colorado Springs, that was it for my dad. He loved it. It was so much better than where he grew up in northern Minnesota. It was better than California or Arkansas. He retired here. I spent most of my formative years growing up here (thus the back story line in Finding Cadence), and I’m the oldest, so Colorado is all my sibs know.
I gave up my NordicTrack incline trainer when we moved. No room for it in our downsized little house, plus I figured with all the sunny days here (243+ per year, compared with Detroit’s 180), I’d enjoy my walking/running outside. That’s where I’ve been, enjoying a morning walk in this beautiful Broadmoor neighborhood, trying to keep from getting any bigger as we eat out most nights because my kitchen remodel isn’t yet complete.
I think a lot when I’m walking. It’s funny when you come “home.” So many old feelings rush back, even decades later. When I write about such things (as I did for Cadence), it’s a surface scratch revealing just a part of the emotion. When you live it, the emotions are overwhelming.
I think how I couldn’t wait to leave this one-horse town when I turned 18; now I’m back where I started.
It was a few days before I could walk by this school in my neighborhood. For this is where it all began. And by “all” I mean where I learned to love to write.
My mother sent us to this small, private Catholic school for a few years. If there is one belief I shared with my mother, it’s that we both thought education is extremely important. We both wanted our kids to have the best. I attended grades five, six, and seven in this school. (Truth be told, I’d have rather gone to public school but what can you do? I didn’t have a say.)
It was a tough school back then, run by a stereotypical nun, a la Sister Mary Stigmata aka The Penguin of The Blues Brothers fame. The nuns used rulers as disciplinary devices and I’ve seen many a student being dragged around by the ear. The bus driver was mean too. (Are you kidding? We didn’t live in this highbrow neighborhood, we only went to school here. We had to take the bus.) He rarely let us off where he was supposed to, instead “forgetting” and stopping the bus a half mile away. There was a really mean red-headed girl in my class who hated my guts and wanted me to fight her, goading me every so often. I’m wasn’t one who was a glutton for punishment (I had younger sisters who could kick my ass) and somehow avoided getting punched at school. Despite all these challenges, I liked the place, but I liked going to school. Didn’t matter where it was or what it was, I liked to learn.
There were some lay teachers too, and in seventh grade I got one who liked me. (A lot of teachers liked me. I’d always been ‘teacher’s pet’ material.) I liked her too. She saw past the shy, the awkward, and the athletically unappealing. She encouraged my love of words, and for that I was grateful. I somehow made it to the Colorado state spelling bee that year; although I didn’t win, it was thrilling to go to Denver to compete.
I’m fairly certain a lot of the kids (besides the mean read-headed girl) hated my guts for being the pet. I’m only human. I wanted the cool kids to like me. So when a bunch of them approached me to write a story – about the teacher – I agreed. They wanted something titillating, something way, way out there. They wanted me to write the worst things I could think of, and I did. It was a horrible story, terribly executed, one full of lies and vulgar words, but one that the cool kids really liked.
(I have to insert here that no one twisted my arm. I did something awful, to someone I really admired and who seemed to take an interest in me.)
Well, I’m the type of person who can’t do something awful without getting caught, and that’s exactly what happened. Not long after the “story” was written and released to the general seventh grade public, I contracted the chicken pox and spent two weeks at home. During that time, my desk was raided and Sister Mary-whatshername got a hold of my epic tome about the seventh grade teacher.
She was not amused.
As soon as the contagion had passed, I was ordered into school with my mother (where was my dad? Viet Nam? I can’t remember), where I was confronted by my poisoned words. Then I was expelled. Then my siblings were told not to return.
I don’t know what happened to the story. I can’t remember any of it except for the swear words I’m sure I didn’t know the true meanings of until much, much later. (I was developmentally delayed in that department.)
It was the end of the school year, so no big deal. They passed me into eighth grade, but I didn’t have a school for the fall. I hoped against hope that I’d have to attend the local junior high a few blocks away. (That’s exactly where I went in August.)
My mother didn’t speak to me for three months. She was that pissed. She took away my pens and paper. Yes. She was that pissed.
Eventually I started writing again. (It’s kind of hard to keep paper and pen from a kid in school.) In fact, I wrote for the school newspaper in my new junior high, where the advisor/teacher liked me just as much as the seventh grade teacher had. (Mr. Elliott. What a dreamboat!)
I learned a lot from this experience. I learned you can push the envelope in your writing, but you have to do it with tact. With style is even better. You don’t need a sledgehammer with most readers. You don’t need crass.
Yes, this is where it all began. And this is where it continues.
I am still in the process of unpacking and getting my new house set up (no kitchen yet, but we’re making progress!), so writing – as in actual chapters of a novel – is on the back burner. I’ve yet to find my notebooks! I’m anticipating a mid-September time frame for return to normalcy.
I’m not much of an athlete (don’t my high school chums know it!), but I have committed to at least ten miles a week of walking/half-assed running.
This is monumental for me. I’ve just moved back to Colorado, where the air is thin and nearly everything is uphill. I’ve just now, after three weeks, started running (if you can call it that) about 25% of my four mile walk. That’s downhill, of course. Are you kidding? It’ll be a few months before I graduate to uphill running.
When I walk, I only carry the cell phone so it can track my statistics. I don’t take calls, I don’t text, I don’t listen to music, or the witty repartee of podcasts. (I might take a photo or two, that’s it.) That’s because in addition to being nearly uphill to everywhere, the roads are twisty, the sidewalks are sparse, and the lawns are full of wildlife. I have to keep my wits about me just to stay alive.
Plus, I’d rather just walk/run in silence, or only with the noise of the natural world in the background.
So in the quiet, I can hear the chimes of the Shrine of the Sun. I can watch the magpies fighting each other for road kill. I can smell the piney aftermath of the hail storm of the century. I can peek at my neighbors’ houses, which are all mega-gorgeous. (We have the smallest, plainest house in the best neighborhood, what a coup!) Most of all, I can think!
So here are my random thoughts, along with random photos:
If you are reading this, know that I am on the road between here and there (or there and where I will be), and I will be disconnected for a few days. That’s because my husband, son, and I will be caravan-ning our way across the country to what I hope will be my forever home.
This is the new chapter of a new story (or maybe a new chapter of a continuing story, who knows?), in a place and time where life will be somewhat carefree and full of time for editing.
Or it may be more of the same, of scraping the edges for bits of time for my art, or waking up in the middle of the night (as I did last night) and fretting about what was left unaccomplished. Let’s face it folks, I’m not getting any younger, and time is limited.
So I’m sitting here in my nearly empty, almost echoing house waiting for the last donation place to come by and scoop up the remains of my leftover life. Try as I may, it was difficult to shed my possessions, and I’m not sure I was all that successful. Earlier this week, we said goodbye to a 16′ container crammed with stuff we haven’t used in months (hint: maybe that stuff we could have lived without).
I bought so many UHaul boxes, I was featured on the UHaul Instagram account. I feel personally connected to the nice young man who collected my money for what I’m sure is hundreds of pounds of cardboard and bubble wrap. He must be laughing all the way to the bank.
Wednesday morning, the piano movers came and took the Steinway baby grand. (I highly recommend Modern Piano Movers. They moved my son’s upright from Michigan to San Francisco – professional all the way. It’s all they do, move pianos.) It will be a few weeks before I hear my husband stumbling over Chopin.
I packed up the rest of my wire and jewels the next day and put the (massive) stack of bins near the back door. Next came the paints and canvases and brushes. I pulled out a few markers and pencils for my backpack and put the rest away. My hands feel weirdly empty and uneasy.
We get another rental truck Saturday and will load up what remains, and will close on the sale of the house Monday. Then it’s off to the open road right after. We’re heading west.
I haven’t gotten much editing done in these last few months. I’ve been busy not only packing, but selling stuff, throwing away stuff, donating stuff, and giving away stuff. But my mind is always plotting away. I have notebooks and my Hobonichi to keep track of new ideas. As soon as we get the office set up in the new house, I can begin the process of putting it all together.
Yay! Just in time for NaNoWriMo! 🙂
There’s something bittersweet about closing the old chapter. There were ups and downs back there, mostly ups. I’ll miss the friends I’ve made here, my daughter (as problematic as she is), and my granddog babies. I’ve spent 14 years loving this house – after all, this house was the catalyst for writing Finding Cadence. It features prominently in the story. (I recently picked up a copy and read a few pages. Even though I believe this to be my best work so far, I can see how far I’ve come in story telling.)
But there’s something exciting about beginning a new chapter too. I’m a pantser writer, and I start each chapter without very little plan, allowing my characters to take me away. Sometimes the landscapes are mundane and boring, but sometimes I find myself coming to places I’d never thought I’d wander into.
Here’s hoping my new chapter in life leads me to the unexpected and the exciting.
I used to be highly enamored of the Internet.
What a great place, right? Finding old friends, making new friends, staying current with the world. Learning so many new things. The Internet of twenty years ago was full of bright, shiny stuff. I know I felt like a kid at the carnival with a hundred dollar bill (which, back when I was a kid would have been too much money to spend in one day).
At one point in my life, the Internet and my friends on it dominated my entire day. If I got up at a certain time and logged on to a certain site, I could be assured of finding certain people with whom I could commiserate and share. This was clockwork, people. And if I had insomnia and went back to those sites, a different set of people would be on. We would tease each other and ask questions both deep (what is the meaning of life?) and mundane (so you think your snowstorm will hit here tonight?). We would share the secrets in our heads. Those people would set off something in my brain which compelled me to create. It was intoxicating. It was positive. It was as close to Nirvana as anyone is going to get on earth. It was a love affair of epic proportions, that cut into the time I needed for the rest of my life.
Ah, but nothing stays the same.
Lately, and by this I mean the past few years, I’ve seen the ugly side of the Internet. I might be the only one with this opinion, but I can’t stand it anymore. I love words; I love ideas. I love talking and sharing. I especially love seeing the other side. I love to puzzle things out to a solution (much as I despise math and the word “calculation” causes palpitations).
Now, though, the civility has flown the coop. Miss Manners must be spinning in her grave. Red hot emotions cause people to act, say, and type the kind of sentences one wouldn’t yell in a crowded movie theater. It’s not just the potty mouth language that upsets me, it’s the artful twisting of the vocabulary that is not meant to inform, but to inflame. (Shame on you, news media, which we should not now regard as “news” but as commentary and editorial.) If you don’t agree, you get screamed at. People will gang up on you in a tidal wave of indignation. You’ll get boycotted and lose your job. (Not just celebrities, either. I have a story that will curl your hair, but for later…) You can threaten harm and puncture hearts by mere keystrokes. It’s insanity.
I’m all for the freedom of speech, but I’m also for respect. I’m not a Pollyanna, but I crave positive vibes. I will listen to your side, to any side, but don’t refer to me or my friends as stupid, and especially don’t deride me or them behind my back – and on the pettiest of reasons, because we don’t agree. Because while the Internet is vast and you might be good at hiding your words, and I’m no computer bad ass, I can still stumble upon your opinions and if I look just a little harder, can find the rest of you.
And so I’ve been turning off the negativity. So I’ve been weeding the patch, so to speak, on my social media platforms, even though I really don’t want to. Because some of the chief offenders happened to be some of my biggest pals from 15-20 years ago. Finally this spring, after the sale of the business and getting the house ready to sell, I just turned off nearly completely. I started working with my hands (most satisfying), painting and drawing, and writing in a journal and in my many notebooks (because I can’t trust myself near my laptop with WiFi, not yet). I can’t change the world, but I can make my little piece of it relatively happy and without a trace of random hatefulness.
This is a short term measure. Just when I start feeling good about myself and humankind, I’ll hit up Twitter or Facebook for a hot minute, which causes me to retreat in haste and chastise myself for being so naive. Nothing OUT THERE has changed for the better. After my short term disgust, I’ll sit back and wonder about my friends who wrap themselves in half-truths and hate. How did they get this way?
Ugh. This is the part of the Internet I truly despise.
People. Don’t do this unless you want to stay sane. Step away from the screen. Go outside. It’s sunny where I am, but even if it’s not, there’s always something to see. Keep your righteousness, but go out there and find something. Find love. Find fulfillment. Find something real.
And so I will be out there, in the Real Life world, looking at Real Life things, like the roses blooming at the driveway gate, or the smile on that adorable baby’s face, or the amazing color of the sky this afternoon. I guess I’ll peek in every once and again, because for all of its pitfalls, you can’t find better information than online. Plus, you know. I’m an addict.
🙂
I might change my mind at some point. We are all entitled to change our minds.
And I’ll keep writing, because right now it’s one of the few things that’s keeping me positive.
I’m currently editing/revising my first draft of last year’s NaNoWriMo. As any writer who has participated in this WordFest can tell you, spewing the words is one thing, making a meal out of word salad is another altogether.
Personally, my one bad habit is making everyone sound the same – like ME. This is a terrible habit, one you want to shed or change or eviscerate before your story reaches anyone else’s eyes. But, it’s a habit that makes sense. We write from our own experiences, viewing the world from our own lenses. It can’t be helped. My voice is opinionated, yet even, smart and sassy, but not necessarily mean. Unfortunately, human nature dictates that someone’s got to be the bad guy. Someone has to bear the burden of tragedy. Someone has to hide despicable secrets.
Three chapters in and I’ve noticed all of my characters are sounding alike. (They ARE sibs, but still… There’s a giant age gap between oldest and youngest, meaning these are different people by virtue of being in different generations.) I’ve decided it’s time to shake that baby up but good.
The second run-through in a NaNo project is for adding a bit more color, purpose, or to throw shade here and there. AND to get the first draft to the point to where it’s interesting and makes sense. I’m not there yet, because in the first pre-draft writing, I didn’t want to make the angry sib a complete asshole. (Because I’m writing as if looking in a mirror – I’m not a perfect person, I’m often harsh, but at the end of the day, I AM NOT a complete asshole.) After careful consideration, I’ve decided she’s the one who has too much baggage to unload. She’s the one with the unbreakable mean streak. She can’t be reasoned with – at least, not in this particular story. She’ll end up swimming in her bile while the other sibs find redemption or answers or closure.
It’s difficult for me to take on the persona of an unreachable, unchangeable person, one who is mean. Fortunately I have many models from Real Life to study and use as adaptations to my angry sib.
Plain Jane writing is like driving along the Redwood Forest (pictured above) at 60 mph without once getting out of the car. Yeah, they’re trees, yeah, they’re beautiful, yeah, they’re tall. Better writing is parking the car, taking a walk, and realizing that every tree, every path, every sky is different.
So now I’m off to take a walk in my head.
Happy writing~
🙂
This will be an ever so brief blog post. I had planned on a meatier offering, until yesterday’s ice storm, which left us without electricity, thereby throwing a major monkey wrench into my planned activity. (Cleaning, decluttering, painting, and creating.) Say what you will, electricity is not just a modern convenience, it’s a modern necessity. After taking several long trips to charge my iPhone in the car, I thought, “Wait a minute! I have a house for sale!” Which has electricity! So I am sitting in this nearly vacant, “for sale” house charging up my devices. (This also makes for a great warming hut!)
Lately I’ve been playing with the idea of bad writing, good writing, and GREAT writing as a writing exercise. I know, I know. I always (usually) try to do my best at my writing. Sometimes the muse is unwilling, or likely on a trip to Cancun, which is where I wish I were today. (Spring? What’s that?)
Bad Writing
This week I thought I would mix it up a little and PURPOSEFULLY engage in bad writing. No story line, terrible grammar, very little arc, and throw in every broken rule I could think of. I limited myself to one handwritten page. (I didn’t want to make this a habit.)
I don’t know if it was successful (I’m not showing any of this to anyone), but it felt oddly freeing. Like I would imagine it would feel to shoplift a lipstick from Walgreen’s. (Believe me, I have no previous experience. These lips and lipstick are not a combination.) I immediately went from my intentionally bad writing to editing a few pages of my manuscript. Wow. What a feeling.
Good Writing
My next exercise was to take awful writing and turn it into good writing.
To do this, take a known quantity, like a New York Times bestselling author (with questionable skills but a massive following). Take a random paragraph or page and rework the words from terrible (or even mediocre) and turn it into something better. Tighten up the sentences. Remove the adverbs. Take out the dangly participles. Think of better adjectives.
I won’t reveal here which writer and which paragraph I chose, but you may be able to squeeze it out of me at a cocktail party. 🙂
Great Writing
If you cannot produce great writing, at least concentrate on someone else’s great writing.
This weekend (before power outage), I decided to deep clean my kitchen. Don’t laugh, I’ve been chipping away at this for weeks. There’s mystery food, and then there’s MY mystery food, some of which are school age now, but let’s not get into that.
As I clean, I turn on YouTube and listen to the hits of the 1970’s. GREAT music, and the lyrics are poetic. I’d almost forgotten how poetic until I loaded up early Emmylou Harris.
“Pancho and Lefty” (written by Townes Van Zandt) was not one of my favorite tunes on this album, but damned if this guy couldn’t turn a phrase.
Take the first four lines:
How evocative are those words? Listen to the rest of the song. He takes very few words and paints a picture so vivid, you are there.
Of course, then I fell into the black hole of great lyrics. Think early Neil Young (Like a Hurricane), Gram Parsons (Grievous Angel), and anything Bob Dylan. And that’s just a fingernail scrape across the surface. Listening to great oldies is motivational for me.
And then the neighborhood transformer blew up – or a tree fell on it…oh well.
OK, time’s up. Back to the frozen house. Stay warm, peeps, and keep writing.
Here I am again, minimally writing and editing because I am majorly cleaning and decluttering. It’s still winter in the tundra (as far as I can tell, BRR…) but as soon as the temps warm up enough, the plants are going outside and we are once again listing this house. Hopefully it will sell this spring, because as of late summer, I’m on my way to my retirement home in Colorado.
The longer I live, the more I realize I don’t need half the stuff I have. That also pertains to my accumulation of books. There are some books that are near and dear to my heart: ALL the Khalil Gibran, my T. Greenwood, Michelle Richmond, and Laura Kasischke collections, my art books, the Bible, and of course, the writing books. I’ve so far lugged six boxes of books to the Goodwill. Some are books from my To-Read mountain (I’ve got one of those on Kindle too). If I haven’t read it in two or three years, I’ll probably never read it. Others I’ve read but will probably never read again. Someone else should enjoy beachy romances, political discourse, and textbooks. I even gave away my entire collection of cookbooks, which was a massive one for sure. Now with the Internet, people pull up recipes online. You don’t need pretty books to take up space, and perhaps become covered in oil and flour dusting as you make something crazy like a duck in cherry sauce. Besides, I’m a competent cook these days and can’t remember the last time I cracked open a cookbook.
My latest modus operandi is to leave books in my wake after I’ve read them, especially when traveling. I leave them in motel rooms, airplanes, restaurants, and in my father’s house. One: books are heavy and I’m old. My suitcases start out heavy and end up infinitely lighter. (Except after the San Francisco Writers Conference, where I usually bulk up.) Two: read it, don’t need to read it again (unless you are one of my favs listed above). Let someone else enjoy the power and entertainment of words.
Decluttering a house means you’ll always find something you thought didn’t exist anymore, like the handmade cards my kids gave me for my birthday or the letter my grandma Della wrote to me in 1975. (Amazing. Her handwriting and my dad’s are almost identical.) I’ve also found many printed edits from my own work. Interesting to read what the editor(s) had to say, what words of encouragement they offered, or the oft wielded cattle prod to poke me out of my mistakes. I wrote so badly back then, it’s embarrassing! (I’m keeping Grandma’s letter, but the edits have been shredded and recycled.)
I opened a Donald Maass workbook and was immediately taken back to the first self-edit of my first book. I was sitting in his workshop at the San Francisco Writers Conference, where we did an exercise making our main character suffer, and suffer some more. And more. I was so enraptured with the process that I made her suffer to the point of intolerability. (Is that a word? Spell check says no.) The second draft was so painful to read my editors hated it, even my beta readers couldn’t stomach it. Even now as a finished product with many of the hardships removed, some people find the first part of the book trying, depending on what the reader’s own psyche can handle.
These days I understand what the intent of this exercise was. I’m still keeping the book. 🙂
When we moved into this house fourteen years ago, I probably had twelve boxes of books. Each of my kids probably had a half dozen boxes of their own. (We also had massive bookshelves, long since garage saled-away.) When I leave here, I’ll probably have four or five boxes of books, just enough to fit into to built-ins in my new house.
I love books, I really do, but what you’ll find in my library after the purge will be the true gems, the jewels I will never give away.
So, I’ve officially retired from my Day Job as of the end of January. You would think that this would leave me with scads of opportunities and hu-mongo blocks of time with which to edit my ever growing files of first drafts I have floating in my external hard drive, right?
Wrong.
The longer I live, the more I see that things are still difficult. Time still gets sucked out of the days (and weeks and years). Life doesn’t ease up once the kids are grown (in many ways, dealing with adult children is so much more difficult than managing the Terrible Twos or Threes). It takes a thousand times more effort to disengage from the working life than it does beginning the working life. Add to that the fact you are now in your 60s (gasp!) and your brain and body doesn’t want to cooperate the way it used to forty years ago, and well…you see where I’m going.
Oh, to be a teenager again…
I know what the problem is, and that is D-I-S-T-R-A-C-T-I-O-N. Not that I think distraction is age related (as in my age in years – after all, children are VERY distract-able) but is AGE related, as in the times we are living in. Here are a few things that cause me to be distracted, and how I deal with it.
1. The Internet is a HUGE distraction. It always is, it always will be. It’s difficult to limit when you’re a writer, because most writers use electronic devices to create (as opposed to manual typewriters, pen and paper, and Fred Flintstone’s chisel and hammer) and those devices are more often than not connected to the Internet. I’m weaning away from Facebook and Twitter, but I must admit that I’ve got a world-class addiction to Words with Friends and my play list is at maximum peeps.
My solution? Obviously. Cut. It. Out. Buy a timer or use the one on your phone. Set a limit, and when the alarm sounds, close out the browser and step away for a moment before resuming your place in the scene.
A second solution would be to use a computer not tied to the Internet for writing only. (I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.) I have an old laptop that I’m not using specifically for that purpose. It’s so old, it’s not wireless! My wifi is so new, it doesn’t have cables! Can we say perfect match?
2. Your life is a distraction. Carve out writing time and stick to it. I don’t care if it’s a page a day. (In my case, I have pledged to at least write one page in my Hobonichi, which sometimes proves to be 250 words depending on how large my handwriting is that day. Anything more is gravy.) It can be as little as 100 words. I’m not the task master, YOU are. Set a reasonable goal. Lofty goals are for angels.
My solution for external noise (dogs, cats, loud children, the rest of your family, TV noises, etc.) is to MOVE. Move away from the distraction, to somewhere you know there won’t be any. I’m lucky/unlucky in that I’m living in a large 4-bedroom house, of which we use one bedroom and the kitchen/family room. I sometimes don’t walk into a spare bedroom for months. No one has sat on my formal living room furniture in like…forever. (Christmas 2007?) I’ve got a nice futon in my son’s old room which is comfortable and with south-facing windows – just perfect. Plus it’s at the far end of wherever the action is in the house.
If your house is small or the family is large, go somewhere else. I’m not a fan of coffee houses though many writers are – it’s too easy for me to get distracted by people watching. I’ve grabbed my laptop/notebook and headed to a parking lot, at the beach, a park, etc. (Upside is that there will likely be NO WIFI at the beach.)
3. Your health may be a distraction. This is why it is so important to take care of your physical self. Case in point: I spent six weeks in January/February sick as a dog. Truly incapacitated by some sort of germ that eventually caused me to have an ear infection. (I know, right? How old am I? Four?) I normally carry on despite illness and will drag my sorry butt around to do whatever needs to be done, but in this case I spent two full days in bed, unable to move. No writing, no jewelry making (missed jewelry classes!), no housework, nothing, nada, nyet. I made myself five pots of chicken soup in six weeks.
Do yourself a favor. Eat right. Take care of yourself. Exercise. Repeat.
4. People are a distraction. Don’t let them be. Give yourself permission to say no. (You ask them to do you a favor, they’ll probably say no to you.) Don’t let yourself be sucked down a vortex of drama and angst. Save that for your pages. You have committed yourself to writing, a real job, a real artistic effort. Complete your minimum allowance (perhaps more) and then turn your attention to that person who seems to be draining you of energy. Be friendly but firm.
Distractions are daunting, and even if you give in to them, keep telling yourself, “Writing coming up next” or “I could sure use this in my backstory” or “YOU ARE A WRITER! This distraction is only temporary!”
Believe it, do it, make it so.
So excuse me now, I must practice what I preach.
🙂
Ah,I’ve been reveling in my week in San Francisco spent on the beach (mostly) before the San Francisco Writers Conference which starts later today (Thursday). Oh, and I’ve been editing, but as we know editing is not my favorite activity so it’s been a long sloggy slog. Still, I find inspiration from the beach and the ocean, so I’ve been jotting things down furiously. (Thank you, iPhone, for your note app.) Hopefully, I will have lost a few Midwestern pounds by the end of my trip.
As a beach walker and someone who dabbles in other arts such as drawing and jewelry and metal work, I’m always on the lookout for found objects that I can use in my work. Interesting shells, very small sand dollars, unusual and small pieces of driftwood, and now sea glass – I pick all this up for a later installation. Or maybe I’ll get it home and decide it wasn’t worth the five calories to bend over and pick it up, I don’t know. I won’t know until I begin to build whatever it is in my head.
It’s always a wonder: where did this piece of glass come from? Where did this limb originate? How far did it travel? Across the Bay, or somewhere thousands of miles from here?
It’s not always a successful day of scavenging at the beach. Sometimes you can walk for miles and not find a thing of interest. Just sand, just waves, just seagulls. Wild wind, sunshine, maybe dense fog. (Although some of those things are interesting, you just can’t take them home with you.) Sometimes the debris looks toxic or dangerous and um, no… I won’t touch that.
Other times you arrive and start walking and all of a sudden things twinkle, and you bend down to find THE MOTHER LODE of sea glass. Or you may happen upon an area that is littered with sand dollars, all perfectly formed from the size of a quarter to bigger than your hand. Or you’ll be the only one on the beach to find a starfish curled up and dying.
Walking the beach is like writing a novel. First, you clear your head. Then you look around you. You pick up what you think might be compelling and start your story. There may be days when you go back to the beach for inspiration and you might not find any you can take home, but you just might find something intangible that will fit the story somehow. Some beach days are miserable, cold, wet, windy. Others are glorious, warm, sunny, not a cloud in the sky. Yet all points are needed. Some finds might be garbage, but you remove the unwanted once it’s apparent.
I don’t really believe in “muses” but I need the beach, just as I need the mountains. Both seem to stir the creative deep inside.
The first step is to get there; the second is to submit.
One thing I learned in the last few months: Starting something new is infinitely easier than taking something apart.
Why did I think it would be different with a business? One we’ve spent three decades and more working in. There’s a bubble above you thinking “This will be a cakewalk. This will be so easy.” Add, subtract, multiply, divide – it’s all numbers, right?
No. Unraveling anything takes more work. Look at marriage. Anyone with a pulse can get married with very little hassle. But once you start talking divorce, you’re thinking about alimony, child support, visitation, the house, dividing the possessions, who’ll get the dog, etc. You don’t think these things walking down the aisle; if you had, you might not have made the trip all the way to the minister in the first place.
I realized that I love beginnings. I love writing new stories; I love spinning the tales and seeing where my words will take me. Once the story is out, however, it sits in my hard drive (now my external hard drive, my stories had clogged up my laptop) where I might think about editing. Then again, I might not. The pressures of everyday life take over and I might not open a manuscript for months. A year once.
This is not acceptable! I should finish a few things I’ve started. (I should finish them all, but let’s start in baby steps.)
Well, the hassle and strain of the last few months are behind us now. I am officially retired from my Day Job (YAY!), and will only return sporadically in the next week to tie up loose ends. My next step is to unravel some of those stories that have been taking up space in my hard drive.
It’ll be tough, tougher than writing a first draft, but I think now I can can give writing ALL of my attention.
the page after the last day 2017
The calendar rolled over to another year while I was sleeping soundly and peacefully. (I don’t like to say “Happy New Year” in advance. What if I die before midnight? The person I said it to might have a happy one, but if I’m dead I’m likely not a happy camper.) I’m too old to stay up all night. If I make it past nine, that’s a late night. The last time I saw the ball drop was in 2000 – Y2K. I had to stay up to see if the world was going to end or not. (It didn’t.)
I spent the entire month of December doing nothing but scribbling furious notes on my NaNoWriMo effort of November. I thought I might want to open the file and start working, but I know from experience that most writing has to marinate in silence for a time. You can’t hurry it, you have to let the words age like a fine wine. A couple of weeks doesn’t do it. A month is long, but sometimes not long enough. A year is probably a good number. 🙂 Actually, twenty or thirty or forty years is a fairly good expanse of time. When a writer looks at aged work, it’s with a more objective eye that when the writing is fresh and new. Kind of like the difference between looking at your brand new baby and looking at the same person as a teenager.
So! I survived!
Resolutions: I don’t like to call them that, because to resolve to do something doesn’t seem quite strong enough. Self-cattle-prodding is more like it. Or cross my heart and hope to not die. I only want to accomplish one thing (clearly I will not lose weight or eat sensibly – life is too short!), and that is to make an entry EVERYDAY in my Hobonichi. (I thought about daily blogging, but that’s a huge commitment. I did it for my experience, My Life in Instagram 2013, but that was all Instagram photos.) I nearly filled my Hobonichi Techo last year, missing only a handful of days. This year the journal WILL BE completely covered from the first to the last page.
I will try to do more on this blog and others I maintain, but I can’t promise. Who knew that life would be more complex after the kids are gone? With any luck, the current hurricane of events will settle down by the end of the month and then I can resume the rest of my life.
The other big project I’ll be working on is the Great Purge (continued). Got to get ready to move out of the massive house into something more sensible for two people, a dog, a cat, and a Steinway. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel!
And I promise to release Virtually Yours Forever. Because that one has marinated way too long.
Other than that, I’ll be living clean and light. The best way to go.
Happy New Year, y’all. (Now that we are firmly into 2018.)
November 20, and I’m so happy to announce that I have hit over 38K words in NaNoWriMo thus far. (That’s not counting what I’ve written in notebooks. If push comes to shove, I’ll type directly from my written notes. That will account for a few thousand words I’m sure.) It’s a good thing I’m ahead, because Thanksgiving is in 2.5 days and I’m going to be busy. Not only that, but I’m doing an artist market Sunday. My hope is to get so far ahead of the game where a couple of days off won’t be devastating.
While not revealing the story, I’ve been writing like a fool because I’m really enjoying myself! Sometimes, when I sit down to write, I’m so overcome with nothingness that it’s painful to write anything including a grocery list. I’m here to say that with interesting characters, plot twists I’m surprised I thought of, and secrets galore, the writing job-gig can actually be fun! Without pre-planning too! Woo-eee!
It’s not a finished product, but I’m happy of where I’m letting the words take me. It will be enough to work on to perhaps make it a worthy novel – you never know.
I’ve not been this inspired since Virtually Yours.
As for the rest of my life, smashed my hand, put out my back, and have a terrible abscess in my tooth. The weather went from summer in early October to winter by the end of the month. It snowed yesterday! Not looking forward to winter, for sure.
And now…I will continue to write. Might as well while I’m hot.
Last Sunday, I was at Leon and Lulu’s Books and Authors event, which is always, always a fun time, even if you aren’t selling a lot of books. (I sold a few.) This store is a great place to people-watch (any day, any time), it’s funky and comfortable, and everyone is super friendly. They feed you, they give you coffee, and my couch was to die for. I even made a new friend, a fellow artist from across the Detroit River!
I even survived my 15 minutes of reading time! I chose “The Campbell’s Tomato Soup Tragedy” – my San Francisco Writers Conference First Place Contest winner of 2016 *pats back with own hand*, “Just Before Turning on the Furnace,” and “A Love Story in 50-word Chapters” to read. I was nervous, as it was only the second time I’ve read my work aloud to P-E-O-P-L-E. The first time, last February at the conference, I was sufficiently juiced up; this time, I’d only had coffee and popcorn under my belt.
It wasn’t nearly as scary as I thought it would be. There were less than a handful of listeners, and even without a mike, I did okay. (My voice is very low – unless I’m screaming, and that’s just not attractive!) Maybe I spoke too quickly. I know I didn’t emote like Dr. Andy. Later on, I wondered why the stage fright. I regularly karaoke, and do my best at it without alcohol. I’ve learned to belt out tunes from my diaphragm instead of my throat.
Hmm… perhaps this works with reading? I should give it a try.
Still working on the final draft of Virtually Yours Forever. I was waylaid by smashing my right hand into my granite counter top, which resulted in a bruised and purple mess. (Don’t ask how, just know Purrby was involved.) It was entirely too painful to type for nearly a week.
We are days away from November, which means NaNoWriMo! Yes, I will give it the old college try again. I have a story in my head, about sisters who return home when their father dies and old dysfunction and past grievances come to light, ya-da ya-da, and (perhaps) in the end, they kiss and make up. (I say “perhaps” because as you might know, I like my characters to suffer.) I will attempt to make a NaNo post if my word-count will allow.
And finally, fall has finally fallen, after most of September and October feeling absolutely tropical. The leaves are beginning to turn, riots of color. It’s not my favorite time of the year; it’s pretty, but what follows is cold and snow and wind and unpleasantness. But winter is a good time to hibernate and write.
If you want to buy Shorts, it’s available on Amazon HERE. Or, if you want a signed copy, email me at jlhuspek [at] msn [dot] com and I’d be happy to get one out to you. (No, I have not figured out the buy button thing yet.)
Warning: Shameless self-promotion
It only took three weeks of monkeying around with the layout of Shorts (the worst part of self-publishing, if you ask me!). Word of advice to poets: it’s likely your layout will not survive the digital age. Unless you are some sort of computer guru. Me? I’m stumbling around in the dark. If I find an answer to my prayers, it’s probably by accident. Formatting a novel is so much easier. Compiling the material for Shorts was the easiest task, once I found the material.
The hard copy will be printed by CreateSpace (using my imprint), and BookBaby is working on the eBook. Just as I sent my thirtieth edit in to CreateSpace, I received my eBook file. What a mess! Not their fault; again, it’s the poetry that whacks up the way it appears.
The problems weren’t limited to the interior. While my cover was done by someone on fiverr, it wasn’t complete. Tweaking had to be done there too, which is soooooo frustrating. Here again, I am familiar with Adobe products as I use them in my Real Life job, but Fireworks? NO. Trial, error, trial, error. Oh well, it’s how I learn. Just hope I don’t forget when I attempt this again in the near future.
Now I’m waiting for the final proof and then voila! My chap book will be ready to go.
What did I learn?
It’s far easier to write than to complete the after-writing tasks, like editing, formatting, etc. Ugh, and the marketing. As you might know, I’m a rather lackadaisical promoter. NOT looking forward to this part of the book equation.
I also learned that I need some technical skills. Perhaps when I’ve retired from the Day Job, I can take a few advanced classes on Adobe InDesign. Or at least watch some YouTube videos.
I also learned everything takes time. Writing a cohesive book takes time. Editing and re-writes take even more. The rest of it is a time suck for sure. Which is why we shouldn’t waste time (but I do anyway). I’ve learned my lesson, and am going back to the grind, with nary a break.
Signed copies will be available through this web site (once I figure out how to add a “buy” button). I’ll also be at the next Leon and Lulu Books and Authors event, Sunday, October 22 from 11-5. If you are in southeastern Michigan, hope to see you there! (I volunteered to read. 🙂 )
I have returned after ten mostly restful days in San Francisco and northern California.
(I know. HOW? How is it that I’ve returned? It’s a major effort to drive back to the airport each time. I’d just as soon stay there.)
My son and I decided to hit up way NorCal and spent a few days in Eureka. We ate too much good food. We explored the redwood forest and spent one day driving up the coast, missing the record breaking 102 degree heat wave in San Francisco, but suffering under the smokiness of forest fires – not from California, but from Oregon.
One thing: I’m especially taken with the tall trees. They are thousands of years old and so enormous, it’s hard to compare them to a regular pine tree. Using a car or my son for scale doesn’t fully reveal the enormity of them. Three hundred feet tall! Imagine, they were there before…anything! This country, other countries, wars, Jesus… And they go for miles and miles in Humboldt county, so majestic and peaceful, just as they were back then. It was a great way to spend a few days.
But…
Eventually, one must return to the *ahem* grind, which is what I’ve been grinding at since I arrived Tuesday. As much as the previous ten days have been relaxing, the last four have been an absolute whirlwind.
One thing I did take away from my mini-vacay is that it is necessary to step away from your work in order to make it better. This applies to Real Life work and creative pursuits. Call it breathing room, call it contemplation or meditation. Call it seeing the trees and the forest. Call it doing nothing and thinking about doing nothing and not feeling the least bit guilty. (I don’t know how to describe it. I’m not the expert.)
All I know is at this moment I appear to be at peak performance, not only at the grind work, but in my writing. Poetry! Scenes! Journal entries! Drawing! The flow has resumed. Hallelujah and pass the margaritas!
Try it. You might not be able to physically go somewhere cool (I rarely take time off), but take ten minutes a day to go somewhere in your mind. Slow your breathing, clear your head. Make it a habit. You’d be surprised at what pops out from under the clutter.
My feet spending a week in San Francisco
Isn’t it amazing what work a writer can complete just by getting the hell out of Dodge and camping out in a cheap motel halfway across the country?
I’ve only been in San Francisco a few days and have edited (to some satisfaction) my next book, including linking the chapters to the table of contents.
I’ve written in my Hobonichi every day. Even filled up pages I missed when I was at home and too busy or too tired to write.
I’ve sorted through my early writings, which spent the last thirty years or so in the basements of various houses we’ve owned. The amazing thing (besides finding them at all, or that they’ve survived multiple minor basement floodings) is that some of this stuff is pretty good! Not fabulous, because my style was still in its infancy, but I’ll still be able to use some of the dialogue.
This is why I never delete (or in this case, discard type- or hand-written) old writing. There’s always the possibility of a gem in the coal.
I take daily walks on Ocean Beach, early in the morning, before the beach is overtaken with humanity. I love walking it at dawn, when it’s foggy and cold, quiet and still. A lot of thoughts come to mind as I walk, about my life, about the characters I’m writing about, about poetry and the world. The Real World is chaotic; there’s so much noise that it’s hard to calm your mind enough to catch the beautiful. Walking is a regulator, it measures the breathing and clears the head.
Granted, I walk/run at home, on my NordicTrack, but it’s not the same. I’ve got TV or headphones on, and I’m paying attention to the Google map screen. When I’m at the beach, I mute my phone and won’t answer unless it’s an emergency.
For me, Ocean Beach is therapeutic. It’s (dare I say it?) my muse, my source for inspiration. It calms me enough so that creative thoughts bob to the surface. (So many, I’m afraid I won’t catch them all, but I write them down as soon as I return to my room.) It’s no wonder that I’ve used Ocean Beach as a setting in my writing. As you might know, the photo I took of the Richmond District on my header looking east from the beach is framed over my bed. Sometimes when I wake up at home, I might think I’m back in San Francisco.
So while I’m here, I’ll make use of the time I have to get caught up, refreshed and motivated.
If you think I’ve been strangely silent online, you would be right. I could blame it on Real Life (that’s a good scapegoat), or health problems, or logistical stress, but it’s more. Whether Twitter, Facebook, or even this blog, I’ve been slowly backing away from the screen, mainly because of the turmoil associated with the so-called “social” networks. It’s not that I’m not engaged or thinking or even investigating, because I’m all that and more. I see all sides, good, bad, in between. I’ve got a brain; I can process the world around me.
I love my online friends, which is why my heart hurts when I see the rancor being spewed or maybe quietly implied. But words are as weighty as they are diaphanous. As a writer, I see their value, and changing a sentence by replacing words or inserting punctuation changes the tone and meaning of the words. It changes the intent.
Ah, but the Internet. We are but tiny human blobs connected by a network we don’t quite understand. (I know I don’t!) We can’t see the facial expressions of our online friends. We can only imagine. Likewise, words are displayed and splayed and launched with abandon. If you don’t agree, you’re called names or disconnected from “friends.” We all fall in step or we’re discarded. (So much for the social experiment.)
Things I’ve Learned in the Last Few Weeks
My son has an expression he uses. “Too strong.” He’s feeling better in his life, and has a new-found awareness that if he thinks (and writes) the things off the top of his head, he can derive a little (or a lot) of shock value from the general public. And if I make a disapproving comment, he automatically comes back with “Too strong?”
A lot of words are “too strong.” Take “hate” for example. I used to use that term a lot, until my sister-in-law pointed out that I was using the word for everything. “I hate the school district.” “I hate that color.” “I hate when he/she/it does that.” “I hate that I can’t fit into a bikini anymore.”
My kids were little then. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t very successful, but I tried hard to limit my use of that term. Now the only thing I truly hate are liars and cheats, but they deserve to be hated in my world.
The Internet is chock full of words that are too strong. (The F word comes to mind. Why not find an equally strong word(s) that is thoughtful?) You might choose words you don’t really mean, but you use them to elicit emotion. You might even embellish on the words you’ve chosen in order to draw sympathy to your cause. (Believe me, I have done this myself when laying out my own arguments.)
You might even be like an anonymous someone who took a sentence a person (who I do know) said in the public forum and blew a simple opinion harming no one and turned it into an atomic mushroom cloud of despicable innuendo. I know the opposing views were passionate, but the tirade headed toward spite, the kind that threatened safety of family and employment. Had this person gone a bit farther, I might have had to resort to legal action. Just because you imagine something and say it’s so (especially regarding a person you don’t even know) does not make it so.
These are trying times.
One thing my daughter learned this past week: You can’t have an opinion. She’s young, she’s passionate, but last week she took all of her political stickers off her car for fear of “liability.” She did not want the harassment of people calling her loathsome names. (Why a 27 year old would think that, I don’t know. I was definitely not that advanced at that age.) I don’t agree with a lot of what she does and says. Really, now. She’s my daughter. But part of me, the heart of me, felt sick to my stomach when she told me this.
We are still (I hope) a free country. If you can’t have strong opinions, if you don’t feel safe expressing them, then damn it, we’ve lost a freedom. You get to have your opinions, as I get to have mine. As an artist, I need the freedom to think what I want, to put my thoughts into writing or art. Unfortunately, the trend has been heading toward intolerance for a long time – another reason why my stomach hurt. I used to write opinion. I purposely gave it up because some of my opinions weren’t being taken in the humorous light I had intended. I use my real name. I didn’t want to be hunted down and accused of things that aren’t true – or worse.
One happy spot in the last few weeks: Someone left me a Facebook message after reading Virtually Yours. (Talk about an Internet story that sounds so old and dated!) She loved it! If I can make one person happy with my words, it makes up for current buzz of negativity we are living through today.
The takeaway: Choose your words carefully. They’re not casual; they can hurt, even though there may be no intent to do so. And of course, watch what you post on the Internet, because unlike ice cream and good times and puppy love, the Internet is forever.
Choose to be positive.
This is the Duchess of Hayes. She cannot read, but she sleeps under my right armpit when I do.
This weekend I took a brief rest from my endeavors of slapping together my chap book (poetry, flash, and tiny essays). I’m not a whiz when it comes to book design, and choosing the perfect 24 or so pieces (and editing them) has turned into a colossal time suck. Not that I don’t mind, it’s exciting to uncover the long hidden and shine them up to make them fancy. It’s just this part of the creative process has less to do with art and more to do with mechanics. After weeks of struggle, I was soooo ready for a diversion.
My copy of Michelle Richmond’s The Marriage Pact arrived in the mail Friday. Yippee! Just in time for granddogsitting for the weekend! (If you’re ever asked to dog sit for two chihuahuas when you have your hands full with your own dog and cat – and life, which includes keeping the house clean for potential home buyers, think twice. Love my daughter, love the dogs, but I’m sure I’m a cartoon coming out of the house in the morning with two leashed dogs and one in a carrier.)
I know you’ve heard me ad nauseum, I love Michelle Richmond! I love her writing style, I love the plots, I love the subplots! I have all of her books! I’ve MET her! I’ve taken a couple of online classes with her! The Marriage Pact is perhaps different from her previous style, but yet delivers as a great read.
Why? Because I couldn’t stop turning the pages, that’s why! I had to find out what was going to happen next! I dragged this book (don’t usually buy hardcovers of anything, but there I go) all over town, along with the two chihuahuas and my nervous and unruly Boston terrier. I read it in snippets at the office and waiting at my daughter’s house for the home buyers to go away! I read it so intently, my husband kept asking me was I going to get dinner ready. (He was starving; I needed to finish a chapter.) Today I went home IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY and finished the last 50 pages.
What can I say? Very satisfying. 🙂 (I won’t spoil it for you. If you really want to know what happened, go buy your own copy!)
Now I’m ready to go back to the edits. I’ve got a cover designer on the job, and I will plug away like a good writer. I might even finish before my self-imposed deadline.
Sometimes, writers must read. I read all the time, but it’s truly exciting when you get to read something spectacular. Reading sparks the fire. Maybe it will result in a conflagration.
I’ve always been a writer, starting before kindergarten when my mother gave me a pencil and a scrap of paper. Sometimes writing comes easily, when I can sit and spew forever and a day. Other times it would be the ultimate struggle: I knew I should be writing something, anything – but I just couldn’t, for whatever reason. Real life, stress, too many things to do, self doubt, laziness, sickness – you name it, I’ve used it for an excuse.
For the last month or so, I’ve been going through a MASSIVE housecleaning. (This is my current excuse for not writing.) It would have started out a huge undertaking anyway. We have three bedrooms that we never use and 2000 square feet of house that we don’t live in. Add to that 14 years of stuff accumulated by four humans and we are talking major decluttering. Thank goodness I’m not a hoarder like you see on TV. I’d just have to run away from home instead of clean.
The basement was one of my last jobs to tackle because it was the grossest. The attic wasn’t bad – it’s a walk up and dry, and my spare bedrooms aren’t bad because I clean them once a year (or before company comes to call). But the basement…yuck. Kind of damp, very spidery, and home to ancient centipedes. Plus it’s a HUGE mess, bigger than the rest of the house combined. And it’s dusty.
As I’m chucking out toys and enough Christmas accoutrements to open my own store, I found a box of my writing. Two novels that I knew I’d started but never made it past the first hundred typewritten pages. More than a few poems. Some other writing I didn’t recognize as my own, but I’m sure it was mine.
My mother had given me an antique (yes, in 1974 it as an antique) Remington manual typewriter for my high school graduation. She must have thought I was going to make a living with my words (ha ha…). I lugged it around from place to place for ten years, until I got carpal tunnel syndrome and I had no finger strength to press the keys down. When I moved from St. Paul to Detroit, I gave it to my best friend at the time. I retired from typing, but still wrote poetry by hand, mostly to my husband. After the kids came twenty years of writing not much more than notes to teachers.
I’d also unearthed an enormous box of cards and letters from that period. Ah, pre-Internet, when the cheapest form of communication was via US Postal Service. Long distance phone calls were expensive! Trips out of town were too. There were tons of newsy missives from friends and relatives, years and years of back and forth. Many were mundane musings of daily life, sometimes the talk was deep. I found a letter from a truly nasty woman giving me 15 handwritten pages of what a terrible person I was. (I tossed that one, but I did keep some of the others. AND all of my fiction.)
Why did I keep that awful letter? or any of it?
Rereading my past was eye opening. These words brought back memories of myself as a young woman. My novels were mostly narrative (it took me 30 years to write dialogue!) but the voice was sassy and fresh. I’d never thought of myself as sassy and fresh at the time. My friends were interesting and led compelling lives, even though now none of us is where we thought we would be all of those long years ago.
As for me, I’m nearly finished with the Massive Purge of 2017. There might be one last garage sale in the future; I’ve given or thrown away everything else. Also in my future: old characters resurrected and given new life. Story lines I’d forgotten getting another chance. I’m starting right now.
Revive your past. It may pave the way to the future.
We live in times where choices are made in black and white.
If you’re not a Democrat, you’re a Republican. If you question global warming, you must be a gas guzzling denier. If you love God and believe in him, you must be a bigot toward everyone who doesn’t believe. If you can’t see peace, love and understanding in everything, you must be shallow and stupid. Such contests of black and white make for interesting fireworks, but they also draw red lines of demarcation. Cross it, and you are dead to me.
Believe me, this has happened to me more lately than I’d care to think about. Make the wrong choice, and you lose friends, online and off.
The thing is, people are complex and flawed beings. We are more than black or white. A lot more.
I was thinking about this very thing this week as I completed the final modules of the short story course I’m taking online. (Have I mentioned before how much I love taking courses online? 🙂 Gets my brain in gear and thinking.) I learn so much from these courses. Thank you, Michelle Richmond.
Stories are much more than beginning, middle, and end. Once you get that concept into your head and begin branching away from stream of consciousness writing and into something that makes logical sense, you can begin to incorporate the other necessities of a good story, like dialogue, plots, themes – you know, the parts of a really good story.
I wrote a short story during this class, hardly original since I’d started something like it seven years ago and never finished it. (Maybe now I will.) But with a novel half-finished, some of the things I learned in the class I’ll now use in that work.
I thought about how I used to write my characters – the long-suffering female protagonist who at first comes off as too needy and without backbone. Or maybe she’s shallow and materialistic and not the brightest bulb. Or the antagonist who is a textbook slimy attorney, ruthless and mean. Bad guys without a vein of gold, or good girls who live the straight and narrow and never think beyond the box.
They were all black or all white.
They were also all boring. Re-writes change that, and add depth and interest. Characters are far more likeable if their layers are revealed slowly.
This is where I thought about black and white.
In my current WIP, I see where my main characters are coming out of worlds that are all black or all white, in their own way, of course. When we first meet, they are frozen, locked into course, as if they don’t choose black, they automatically choose white. They can’t see anything else. Real life isn’t like that, and as the story progresses, they each begin to see their lives as more than two choices, as black smears into white resulting in shades of gray. In my head I see them coming out of that monochromatic world and bursting into color, something with hope and promise at the end, like a rainbow.
Isn’t it great that humans are more than one thing or the other!
Remember this as we traverse the great wild Internet (especially) and the world at large. People are so much more than the public persona, of what shows on the surface.
I know. This is not very interesting and kinda preachy. But in developing characters, it might be something to think about.
🙂
If you believe I do that (easily), I’ve got a huge piece of commercial property on the east side of Detroit I would love to gift you. But, it’s not enough to tell yourself that every day (I do), you have to follow through with actual words. On a piece of paper (or computer, but I find the paper and pen/pencil more compelling). The words have to make some sort of sense, so that you can string them together later to make a much bigger sort of sense.
I’m a world class procrastinator. We all know that. There are stories in my head bursting to get out. In addition to the art form, I have tons of Things to Do with regard to the business end of writing. Getting my publishing company started. (Look, Mom, I finally have a logo – after a year! Now on to the purchase of ISBN numbers. Wonder how long that will take?) Writing blog posts (which used to come so easily, now feeling like a molar extraction). Writing my newsletter (I have failed – temporarily – miserably!). Social media. (For the unsociable, a true hurdle.) Getting the web site(s) fixed up. Editing the two novels and one proposed book of poetry/shorts. (I know. I should have been finished so long ago!)
Of course, there are Real Life distractions. Many Real Life distractions, some of which hold promise, and others I should discard. Big, life-changing ones, like planning for retirement. (Promise.) Teeny-tiny ones, like Words With Friends. (Discard!) Snow. (It’s snowing today.) People calling in sick when it’s snowing. (What can you do? In my case, you tell the sick one to stay home and YOU take over.)
Writing every day takes a great amount of will power, the kind to say NO to distractions. (Example: I’m trying to work on this while the phone is ringing. A challenge.) This is very difficult to do, especially if you’re like me and your eyes follow every shiny object that comes into view. You must tell yourself “NO” and commit to filling a page, even though some days you’re at a loss for words.
This year, I bought a Hobonichi Techo Cousin, which is a fancy Japanese planner/calendar. The pages are graphed, which I prefer better than lined. I use a graphed Moleskine too. The Hobonichi is a bit smaller, but the grid boxes are smaller too. I find myself adjusting my writing to fit into the boxes. These are shiny facts that have no value in this paragraph, but the point is that I try to fill out a page every day. If I miss a day, I use the next to fill the pages and catch up.
Another way to stay on the writing track is to commit to classes. I’m a great proponent of online classes. I’m so busy, I can barely fit in my jewelry class on Tuesday mornings. Online classes are nice, not just because you don’t have to get out of your PJs and brave the snow and cold, but also because you can work around your schedule. You’ll want to choose an online class with some interaction, and homework. I’m currently taking Michelle Richmond’s short story class. I think I’m not so good at short stories, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve also taken classes with authors who mostly write fantasy, or prescriptive non-fiction, or romance.
Classes are all about honing what you know, or learning something new. If you think you know it all and have no need, you’re wrong. You can always learn something. Classes mean deadlines too; if you have homework niggling at the back of your head, you’re more likely to take writing seriously. I’ve gotten so many good, fresh ideas from taking classes
The last year and a half were so difficult for me in the write-life. It was hard to find my motivation, and even if I managed to whip some mojo up, the results were half-hearted and half-assed. It is now the middle of March and I can say truthfully that this year’s efforts are far stronger than last year’s. (I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m making a valiant effort to write one blog post a week.)
And now, for a non-writing moment, I will leave you my heart.
Good luck my writer friends, and keep writing!
This is not a slam. Dude, I love San Francisco!
I spent a third of the month of February in San Francisco. First, to visit my son (it’s always reassuring to know that 50% of the offspring is still in reasonably good health), then to attend the San Francisco Writers Conference.
Unfortunately, I was met by rain on my arrival. It had been raining there for nearly six weeks straight. The clouds parted on the second day and stayed that way for a few more days, which was nice. Thank you, God. The rain reappeared in time for my last four days indoors.
Rain is nice for California. They haven’t seen a lot of it in many years. Because of this, many Californians cannot drive in wet. On previous trips, I’ve seen the people of San Francisco freak out over momentary wet. Heavy rain is another thing altogether. I’ve seen this type of terrible driving here in Michigan. Every year. The first real snowfall, and the place goes berserk.
California has another problem with too much rain. There’s literally no place for it to go. After seeing photos of 25′ high and higher of the snow in the Sierras, there’s going to be huge problems once spring comes and that melts on top of the record rain.
So…we were driving back from Santa Cruz one day, and the main drag out of town and onto the South Bay was closed because of mud slides. The long, circuitous detour up and down mountains wasn’t much better. Parts of the road had washed away, leading me to wonder why I’d decided to drive down there in the first place. But it was an adventure, all good.
Another hazard is that of overindulgence. Wine, food, you want the best, most decadent and creative things to put into your mouth, California is the place to go. Except for no wine this time, I kept my eye on good food. Everything from Hog Island oysters for breakfast to Mexican to Chinese to seafood, to the room service at the Mark – believe me, it was all good. I tended to overdo, meaning when I got back to Michigan, it was time to diet.
Except because I was gone for eleven days, I had a mountainous pile of Things to Do at the house and office. You know…laundry, payroll, the refrigerator full of mystery food, taxes. Two days at the artist market. Catching up with my short story homework. The daily filling out the Hobonichi was about all I could handle.
Yesterday, I ran for the first time in three weeks.
Remember, before you take a trip to San Francisco, the aftermath can be hazardous.
🙂
It’s been a week since I’ve returned from San Francisco, partly to visit one of the offspring, and partly because the middle of February is time for the San Francisco Writers Conference, held at the incredibly luxurious Intercontinental Mark Hopkins. I’ve now completed my ninth (!) year (and signed up and paid for the tenth next year), and I have to say it again – this conference never grows old or tired. I learn something new every year!
This year, since I had no completed manuscripts to pitch, I skipped the speed dating with agents. By next year, I hope to have at least two manuscripts finished from the every burgeoning files on my laptop. Can one suck up the storage with Word files? You betcha! I’ve had this particular computer for five years, and it’s bursting at the digital seams. Anyway, with no impending nervousness building, I decided to concentrate on the conference.
I like to absorb all the information I can; after all, this is a once-a-year event. I’m either too busy or too broke the rest of the year to attend anything else.
This year, I decided to hang out with the poetry contingent, lead by Dr. Andy Jones. I have pages and pages of poetry, but never considered publishing them until last year’s SFWC, when I won the contest in that division. This caused me to look at my poetry with new eyes.
My poetry is the most hidden of my writing, because I view my poetry as truly a piece of my heart – not for general consumption. I’ve only shared them with a few people; the occasional contest, my husband. That’s it.
My writing developed because I’m not much of a public speaker. Writing (and reading) made me brave, a person who I wasn’t in real life. Ask anyone who I knew in school. I was *shy* i.e. quiet. A bookworm. A nerd. (What a change from now: boisterous AND loud.) I’d never thought of my words as being spoken before this conference.
The poets are all about performance. Words are good, pretty words even better, but beautiful words accompanied by touching exposition is like a sumptuous meal.
With a little prodding, I decided to sign up for open mic poetry reading, which was to be held right after the gala cocktail party (which is always a smashing get together). How hard could it be, right? To read a poem? In front of real poets? Really…I’m the queen of karaoke, even though I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. I chose a poem from the good old days (college) and a flash fiction piece from my online classes with Meg Pokrass.
Dr. Andy starts the proceedings.
Thankfully, I was third in line so the wait was brief. In my apprehension, I had consumed one too many cocktails (2 is my limit). I’d gained bravado, but with the jet lag and lack of a full meal, along with the heat of stage lights, I completed the task at hand but not much more. I went right upstairs to my room before I could pass out from exhaustion-anxiety-a slight buzz and really make a fool of myself. I have no idea if my performance was good, bad, or ugly, but if I can find a local open mic, I might try it again.
The rest of the conference was of course a blur of information. I finally figured out what is wrong with my web sites; whether or not I can fix my problems is another matter, but at least I have help if I need it. Linda Lee is so knowledgeable about WordPress, it’s scary. While waiting for my plane ride home, I changed my jewelry site so that it’s current, and am trying to get it into shape in the next few weeks.
I love San Francisco, I love this conference, because it comes at the right time – deep in the bowels of winter, when my enthusiasm is most apt to flag. Now I am stuffed full of ideas and information, enough to kick start me forward. And of course, the venue is wonderful, the weather cooperated for the days I wasn’t attending (thank goodness, that area has had a lot of rain!), and I love seeing old friends and meeting new ones.
This is what a good conference will do for you.
I have been moderately silent online, but not without writing, or editing, or plotting and planning future writing in my Real Life world. I bought a Hobonichi cousin and have been writing in it faithfully every day. (Whee!) (Sometimes I draw, but that’s still creative.)
Unfortunately, I have had some other issues to attend to, ones that required way too much of my personal attention. Let’s put it this way, if you buy a brand new washer/dryer combo, you expect it to last far beyond three loads of laundry, dozens of phone calls, five service calls over an eight week period of which only ONE counts as a “real” call since only one had a beginning to end resolution, and a two month shelf life.
I happen to be a master at business letters. I used to write answers to union grievance letters and rebuttals to workers’ comp claims. If you get me riled up and going, my complaint letter will burn the hands of everyone who must touch it at the Post Office. (I hear that it ignites the fiber optic cables via email.)
I have been an unhappy camper regarding this washer/dryer since Christmas. I wanted to jot off a quick and scaldingly hot letter weeks ago, but my husband (who has a much cooler head than I) suggested I give them a chance.
So I gave them a chance. Then another. Then another. And another.
Finally, I hunted down the addresses for the CEO, CMO, the national customer service office, and wrote them a letter, sent on January 28.
Certified.
Return Receipt Requested.
This got me entree to a customer service agent in our country and not in an offshore call center. She assured me this past Friday that everything would be taken care of.
Except it wasn’t.
They were late. The current occupant of my hopefully-one-day retirement home had to get her kids from school, so the repairman left a nice little note on the door. “Sorry we missed you.” (!!!) You were 45 minutes late!
So here is the product of my ire, the best thing I wrote in the month of January (names blocked – for now – I might go full metal jacket next week and post this everywhere online):
Dear Sir
This letter is serves as a formal complaint regarding the washer/dryer combo unit I purchased from the XXX Livonia, Michigan store on October 8, 2016.
I had purchased the unit in Michigan, but it was to be delivered to my second home in Colorado Springs, Colorado. The unit was delivered on October 17, 2016 (I was present) and set up. It appeared to work at the time of installation. In the meantime, I have short term tenant who moved in November 1, 2016.
After three successful loads of laundry, the unit began to leak profusely. I have a water alarm on the washer/dryer which is tied to our alarm service. The leak was so bad that it shut off the water completely.
My tenants went out of town at the end of November to mid-December. When they returned, the washer portion of the unit was in terrible shape. She attempted to call XXX service, but as she did not purchase the machine, they would not schedule a service call. I had to call them. When I called, I asked the customer service rep to take down her cell phone number, as I cannot help her or the XXX technician from 1,400 miles away. I also do not know her schedule. Customer service took this information and informed me that she could make the appointments if she had the sales check number, the phone number of the primary account, my name, and the address of the primary account. I gave her all this information.
Unfortunately, when the tenant called, the person she spoke with would not make an appointment. So I ended up making all of the phone calls.
Here is the history and a partial list of the calls I have made:
12-22-16 Set up customer service (3x*) / repairman came 12-23-16
12-28-16 Washer stopped working / repairman broke the door (!) door ordered
12-29-16 Called for service, informed the door was sent / repairman came 01-06-17
01-07-17 Called for appointment / repairman did not show up
01-09-17 Called for service (4x*)
01-11-17 Repairman showed up to fix door / told tenant the entire back of the machine needed to be replace so they ordered that (2 week). Repairman suggested a replacement.
01-13-17 Went to local store. No store manager. Salesman called customer service 3 times in one hour. (Kept getting hung up on. Tried to see about getting replacement.) Nothing resolved.
01-14-17 Called for service / part had arrived
01-18-17 Repairman came / said it was just a loose wire / fixed it and took away the new part
01-19-17 Washer leaks again / called for service (2x*) Second call I tried to get a replacement. Agent (I was transferred to) said I had only called once and the service man had only been out once, basically saying that I made up the entire thing. He said he would transfer me to service, but instead I was hung up on.
01-20-17 Called for service / was told someone could come out that day
01-20-17 Repairman calls me / says he can’t make it before the tech support closed at 7 p.m. Also said he didn’t think he should fix a problem when he was there the day before but the other guy “fixed” the problem. Said the other repairman should fix it.
01-25-17 Repairman came (I guess the first one who broke the door?) / ordered the part the other repairman took away. (He could have fixed it had the part been there.)
*Denotes the times I was cut off, disconnected, or hung up on so I had to call back.
(By the way, when I get email from XXXX saying when the service is scheduled, it has my name, the address where the unit is located, and my TENANT’S phone number. Why customer service will not allow her to make appointments when they obviously have her number is a mystery.)
In the meantime, I looked online and posted to community.XXXX.com, where my post was just one of thousands of other unhappy customers’ posts. I received an email saying they were working on my problem. Six days later, I made another post on the web site, just a nudge thinking that maybe I was forgotten, where I found this comment made by Wendy:
I do apologize that contact had not been made and greatly appreciate the update. Your concerns have been forwarded to our weekend team, Sears Service team, for assistance.
Thank youThere was some back and forth, as Wendy indicated that someone had worked on my problem before. I told “Wendy” I was sure she was a very nice woman, but no one had contacted me. I am still waiting for the weekend team (last weekend) to contact me. I’ve been waiting for anyone to contact me.
It is now January 26, a full seven weeks since the washer broke down. I am beside myself over this. My tenant has three small children and NEEDS a washer. She is finished with dealing with this and will buy her own (not from XXXX), which unfortunately cannot be delivered for a week to ten days. I will have another appointment, hopefully before then, to fix it. In the meantime, I am paying for her laundry of the last two months which far exceeds the cost of the unit. Instead of “fixing” it, I would rather you take it back and credit my account.
I have been a staunch customer with XXXX for the last 35 years. You used to offer well-made and reliable items, and your customer service was second to none. We have bought everything from TVs and appliances and furnaces to having all of our cars (company cars, more than a dozen) serviced at your auto center. This last purchase, a washer/dryer combo, is the straw that broke my back. I might NEVER buy another appliance from you.
I just want to also note that I have called the 800 number any number of times in the last month trying to get this issue resolved. The store employees are great; your customer service number is not. Here are the issues:
- They can’t find you by telephone # half the time, but do the rest.
- They can’t find you by name half the time, but do the rest.
(By the way, I know we have a massive account and I’ve seen all the names and addresses and phone numbers associated with it and I understand, but STILL.)- If you give the address of the primary account, they can’t find you.
- If you give the delivery address, they find the person who owned the house before me.
- If they do find you by any of the above, they will reference a washer you bought in 2014 that is in Michigan, which is not the same make/model.
By the time they’ve located your purchase (by using your sales check number, which works most of the time) the original person who gets the call can’t help you so this happens:
- If you get transferred to another person, you will either be on hold for the rest of your life, or your call will be dropped. Or in many cases, you can hear the agent but they can’t hear you so they hang up.
- If you call back you have to go through the entire process again. Which means I have to endure #1-5 and someone else has to listen to my story again.
- If you call back the Philippine call center and ask to speak to a customer service supervisor, you still have to go through all these steps. And THEN be put on hold by THAT person just to have the call dropped after 20 minutes.
I know the 30 day refund/exchange period is over, but I’ve been calling on this issue for 7 weeks. This is a BRAND NEW washer which has only seen 3 loads! If you can fix it NOW, I will accept that. An exchange would be most helpful. If you come and take it back and refund my purchase price, I will not be displeased. Otherwise, I might have to resort to legal action in small claims court.
*sigh*
I’m sorry that I cannot report that I finished five chapters of my current work-in-progress during January, but February looks promising and March looks even better.
By the way, I am available to write complaint letters for the general public. I charge by the level of irritation.
🙂
This year, I decided to start writing daily. The most in-your-face way I can think of is doing it manually. A person can always shut down a laptop. With the screen closed, you might not even realize it’s there. And if you pile a bunch of stuff on it like books, magazines, catalogs, and tax information, your laptop could be lost for a long time. (The longest for me was two weeks. I got an email notice from Carbonite that I was long overdue for a backup. I know. I’m bad.)
So I decided to write daily in a notebook. Yes! Using pen and paper and pencil. You know me and notebooks. I fall in love with a pretty cover or a size I think is handy; I buy one. And another. And. Another. (Very much like my nearly hoarding affair with books.) But I do use them…
For 2017, I invested in a Hobonichi Techo. It’s a datebook, a calendar of events. It’s got all the handy-dandy doo-dads a good calendar has, plus room to write. One of my high school friends who is very artistic uses one. I am constantly impressed by her Hobonichi creations. You can follow her on Instagram HERE.
Hobonichis are manufactured in Japan, and they are ALL THE RAGE there. When I first ordered my 2017 in the US, I was excited. Not so much when it arrived and I found it was the baby Hobonichi. I learned you can only obtain the larger Cousin by buying it straight from Japan. Thank goodness for the Internet! (I am using the smaller one at work.)
Why do I love the Hobonichi? The paper is fabulous! Although the paper is very lightweight, it takes all sorts of pens without bleeding through. I’ve even used my current favorite, the Pilot G-2. Sharpies, highlighters, it’s a very durable paper. The only downside is that any writing in it is Japanese. (The smaller version is printed in English, so I can at least read the witty sayings and quotes at the bottom of each page.)
What do I put in it? Sometimes tirades of daily frustrations. Sometimes weather reports. Every day, what we had for dinner. Lists of things to do. Simple sketches of weaves (my third or fourth love after food and writing and a few other things.)
Sometimes when I don’t have time to open the laptop, I might work on the book in my Hobonichi. This is how I spent my weekend:
I finally had to map out my setting. As I was writing, I noted that I didn’t have a clear vision of what the place looked like. Of course, this is not a perfect rendition, but at least now I have a clearer idea of how the motel is laid out.
The Hobonichi Cousin is a little smaller than the Moleskine notebook I usually use. In that way, it’s perfect for the procrastinating writer. I can fill the page in about ten minutes. The Moleskine maybe 30 minutes. Both notebooks are laid out in grids, which I like because it keeps my writing nice and even. The Moleskine doesn’t have as many pages, which may be less daunting to those writers who view a blank page as Mount Everest.
Daily writing doesn’t have to be a thing of beauty, as my journal indicates. The point is to note something every day, and that’s the hard part; sitting down, thinking, putting thoughts to paper. It’s all hard. But what I’ve learned is that you can glean something creative and worthwhile in everything. Sometimes you have to let what you spew out sit for a while. When you come back to it you’ll find the glimmer you missed before.
Have a writer in your life? Want to encourage them in their endeavors? Christmas is coming up quickly, but there is still time to get that perfect gift for your writer friend/relative.
Have no funds? You really don’t need to purchase a thing. The best gift (in my opinion) is the gift of time. If you are a relative, offer to do the laundry, make dinner, shovel the sidewalk clear, or mow the lawn. This will free up valuable time for your writer to put butt in chair and write without worrying about those common, everyday distractions that we all must tend to. If your writer friend has children or elderly parents to babysit, offer to watch them for a few hours. It would be especially nice if you could make a habit of it, say every Friday from 3 – 6? (Hint, hint…)
Books (of course!) are always a welcome gift, and writers need their libraries full of reference books. Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Novel by Jane Smiley is excellent. On Becoming a Novelist by John Gardner, also good. Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way Every Day is a daily reminder. Having had attended some of her workshops at the San Francisco Writers Conference, I can attest that Martha Alderson’s Blockbuster Plots: Pure & Simple is a good reference, especially if you find yourself stuck. (Currently using this one.)
Another good gift option is online backup. When you have hundreds of thousands of words saved in digital files and can barely remember what you had for dinner last night, much less remember to manually back up, you need a little automatic help. I have been using Carbonite for years, and it’s saved me when three of my laptops have died. Every time I power my laptop, it backs up – a no brainer. For me, it’s been more than worth the $59 a year.
Gifting an online class is also a good idea. SavvyAuthors and Litreactor are but a few of the web sites offering classes on craft, queries, and even design, most of which are given by authors, agents, and others in the publishing business.
Having taken a class with Michelle Richmond, I would highly recommend gifting classes, reference books, or even a personal session with this best selling author. You can find her store here, or you can purchase her novels on Amazon or any retailer.
Depending on your writer, blank notebooks are also a great gift and will be well appreciated. I’m a strong advocate of keeping a small notebook on your person at all times. Doing so prevents the use of napkins or Taco Bell wrappers when inspiration strikes – items that can be easily tossed into the trash, because…well, it looks like trash. I personally like the pretty, small notebooks for such tasks. I also use a full-size Moleskine with graphing lines for each novel I’m working on (or if I’m in a class). The squares make it easy to plot out your story line into a graph, or if you need to make a calendar in order to keep your events straight. I’ve also given each character a page and a color and can cross-reference the number of times they appear in my novels. Moleskine also offers an “Evernote” which I have but haven’t figured out how to use yet. It takes your notes from your Moleskine and somehow through the magic of technology, transfers from paper into your computer. (Yeah, right.)
In 2017, I’m going to use a Hobonichi, only because I will be prompted to write something every day. Like the Moleskine I like, the pages are graphed. I’m using a big one for creative thoughts and the smaller one for work.
Speaking of notebooks, if your writer has a favorite pen or pencil, consider buying those for gifts. (I like the Pilot G2 07 pen in black but mostly use the Papermate Sharpwriter #2 pencil. Erasures, you know…)
No matter who your writer is, there’s a perfect gift for them just around the corner. If you have any other suggestions, feel free to leave them in the comments. There is no such thing as too many good suggestions.
Merry Christmas!
I started the NaNoWriMo challenge last week like I ended Week 1 – on fricking fire! As soon as I hit the halfway point (25K+ on Wednesday), I had to slow up and do a few minor things around the house. Like finish harvesting all of the sweet potatoes and bring all of the house plants back inside after their long hot summer out of doors. This is Michigan, you know, and the threat of a freeze last Thursday night was upon us.
It only took my husband and I from 2 – 6:30 p.m. to complete the task of lugging the plants back in. That’s because we are getting too old for this bullshit (as I reminded him every five minutes, at first gently, after the first hour with more vigor). And he prefers ceramic pots, so an 8′ fig tree is going to weigh about 300 pounds. I love growing things, and most of my plants (angel trumpet, bird of paradise, citrus, bay, rosemary, agave, etc.) are not cold hardy here. I’ve been lobbying for a greenhouse (preferably attached, preferably heated, and preferably with a water supply) for three years now. I think I’m going to have to put my foot down in 2017.
The rest of the week was spent in research for the current work in progress. I don’t usually perform an in-depth research, but this time I’m studying the weather conditions in the areas where I am placing my characters. I’ve also set up a calendar (my story takes place in the month of May) and have begun to sketch out where the ups and downs will be, the climax, etc. I’m a pant-ser, so this is pretty remarkable for me. I normally don’t do this kind of “planning” – such as it is, until after the first draft is complete.
After a weekend of very little writing, I’m looking forward to starting again in earnest.
In the meantime, enjoy this:
This is Purrby when we adopted him three years ago. There’s nothing like a kitten picture to brighten up your day.
Until next time…
Yesterday, I spent the day at Leon & Lulu, a hip shop that once a year features local books and authors. This is my third year of attending.
I have to say that I love this store. It features furniture, clothing, and chatzkees you won’t find anywhere else east of San Francisco. I could spend all day in it reading (there’s a great selection of books as well) while I try out couches and side chairs. (I have hence spent a great deal of money on furniture, as you can imagine.)
After setting up my table, I settled in with complimentary coffee and sweets. (There’s complimentary hot dogs and wine later.)
I don’t do too many of these meet and greets with my books. For one thing, while spending the afternoon in a fabulous venue with interesting people who are overly kind to you is a fantastic way to spend an afternoon, I don’t really have the time. I could have been pulling up my sweet potatoes or doing laundry, but I do make the time for this one event a year.
I’m also a recovering introvert, which is why I force myself into situations like this. It’s honestly hard for me to start a conversation, but I’ve learned through many years of practice that if you start with a smile and a hello, you can often build from that.
I certainly don’t attend to make a ton of cash. Let’s get real. When you’re an artist, you have to steel yourself for the looky-loos. You can’t creative for everyone. In a room full of children’s books, mysteries, and prescriptive nonfiction, my contemporary literature isn’t going to appeal to a wide audience (although grown men have purchased my book, amazingly so).
Plus, I think it’s a win-win if only one person is enamored of my story just from the back cover blurb and it’s a home run if they love the book once they’ve read it.
So I don’t go in looking for a windfall. After all, this is a charity event. The most I can hope for is getting my name out there.
I also attend for another totally selfish reason. I people watch. I listen to people with their stories, like the little girl who loved to write and was interested in self-publishing, or the man who lost his wife to cancer and was dealing with the pain, or the author who looks a lot like Santa Claus.
There are stories everywhere! You don’t have to look far or wide, you just have to open your eyes!
In a lull moment, I opened up each of my novels and read the final chapter. Something came rushing in…pride? a sense of accomplishment? inspiration? I found the urge to put pen to paper.
And this is why I do Books and Authors.
I’m afraid I’m going to have to walk away from the electronics for a while…
I came to this conclusion last night after watching the Presidential debate.
At the end of this vitriolic passion play, I felt sick to my stomach. Dirty, like I needed to take a hot shower. I felt like grabbing some water wings and swimming over to Canada. I’m not a strong swimmer, but I think I could make it.
Before you think, “well, she hates this candidate or that candidate” – NO. First of all, I’m an independent. Secondly, I think both choices are sadly lacking. This is the best we could do? Neither one is a true statesman, someone who could keep their head above the fray. What really galled me was that they were talking about things that don’t matter, or that certainly don’t matter to me.
I’m a problem solver; I need a detailed step-by-step solution to our problems, real problems. I want justice for all. I don’t need pie in the sky dreams or handfuls of money thrown around. I need someone to think ahead – way ahead. Like beyond the grandkids ahead.
It’s not just the election. At the risk of sounding like an old lady (I am), the whole world is whack. We’re in a new century with all the modern conveniences, and yet so many people are dissatisfied or disenfranchised. So many people feel hated or unloved. We have this big, tremendously useful thing called the Internet, too. We should feel closer to each other, not farther away.
Last night as I was lying in bed wondering why I couldn’t fall asleep, I realized what the problem is. We live our lives by the flicker of the screen, TV, computer, cell phone. The very anonymity of the online world is what drives us apart. Media riles us up by telling one sliver of a story and not the entire big picture. It amplifies our fears and raises anxiety. The world is now crass and without dignity. The more outrageous, the better. We want what we want when we want it NOW. Everything is an event to be witnessed from afar, in front of others, selfied and video taped for maximum YouTube views instead of submersing yourself in the act. The “reality” of media gives me a panic attack, not unlike the one I felt in the weeks after 9-11.
So I am going to disengage from the pretend world for a while. I’ll draw, create art, finish writing my book. I’ll read more, including the classics. I’ll walk outside in the wind and rain and feel the sun on my face. I’ll visit a few museums. Cranbrook, maybe? I haven’t been there in a decade or so. I’ll talk to people and look them in the eye when I do, and when I shake their hand or hug them, I’ll do it like I mean it. I’ll write longhand in my notebook, and write letters in pen and ink and send them the antiquated way – via mail.
Oh, I’ll still have to use the Internet for my job, but I’ll make a conscious effort to shut it and my cell phone off.
The only way to engage in life is to disengage from the crap.
Summer is underway, so it’s almost time to get back to serious writing.
I’m fond of calling myself a procrastinator, a slouch, a lazy ass, etc., etc. with regard to my sporadic writing schedule. Some periods of time find me pounding away at the keyboard (or in my notebook) like a possessed soul; other times, I’m absent. In speaking with someone who has helped me edit a novel but who is now concentrating on her other business as life coach, she pointed out that we make choices in life. I make choices in life. To write, to not write, to do one thing and not another.
In my case, I’ve been waylaid by the purchase of a Money Pit (more on that later…if I survive it) and also by preparing for the Ann Arbor Art Fair. I have also entered into a major art competition (more on that later…if I make it in). Gardening has also been a huge part of my life.
This afternoon, I have finally finished my spring planting. We had a late start with this year’s non-traditional spring. One day it would hit 80 degrees, the rest of the time we were dealing with frost warnings, so Michigan went from winter to summer in less than a week. It snowed (!) the weekend after Mother’s Day! Okay, so the stuff didn’t stick (thank goodness), but it was still snow.
I managed to plant potatoes during this crappy spring, but as they grow underground (for the most part), I didn’t have to worry about frost. Now my first batch are nearly as tall as I am! The second and third crop, planted three and four weeks later, are beginning to show over their bags. All around me is the promise of good eating: cherries that survived the crazy frost, a few pears, spindly asparagus, blueberries I hope I’ll get to before the birds find them.
I love planting; I love growing my own food, mostly. Gardening is time consuming; sometimes it feels like a constant chore. I look at gardening as not so much a diversion from writing, but the opportunity to ponder what I’m going to write next. It’s alone time, just me and my little shovel and hours of quiet. As I pull weeds, I think about characters – usually ornery ones that are like weeds. Recalcitrant, problematic, forever bad with no redeeming qualities (at least on the surface). Characters are the fruits of our labor; if given a good start, lots of fertilization, sun and water, they’ll turn out wonderful and real.
Digging in the dirt can be a very Zen experience. Worms and spiders remind you that we are surrounded by layers in a complicated life. Much like our protagonists. Writers have to carefully construct these characters with layers that our readers can peel away, and in the process perhaps learn something about themselves or at least be entertained.
Is it any wonder that I gave one of my characters the gardening bug? 🙂
Gardening also beautifies our dreary (especially in Michigan seven months out of the year) lives, much the same way reading a good book brightens our lives.
But now that my last radish seed has been covered with soil, it’s time to move on. The gardening gloves will be stowed away, my fingernails finally clean for more than a minute. I’m making the solid commitment to put my musings onto paper. Hopefully, in a way that makes sense to the reader!
All things fall into place. The choice is yours.
And mine.
Wow, this has been some year.
Sickness, death, destruction. Problems, big and small.
Sometimes I feel like I’m my own firehouse. I’m putting out fires left and right. I’m rescuing cats out of trees and running my own EMS station, 24/7/365. (Yup, no rest on major holidays either.) I’m running from one thing to another, and while I’m in the car, calling on yet another problem. (Blu tooth, no hand-held for me. And I never text and drive.) When I fall into bed, I’m exhausted. Sleep comes too easy.
No wonder my hair is gray.
Yes, I appear to be a maniac on steroids and Ritalin. But here is a Real Truth: People are not wired to do everything. There is no such thing as a super-mom, a super-woman, or a super-person, except perhaps in the world of Marvel.
Yeah, yeah, I bought into that super-woman stuff years ago when my kids were little. I tried my best. I practically lived in my car with those kids, racing from one event to another. After a while, the frustration increases as your sense of self decreases. Things boil and bubble until there’s an explosion (or implosion).
I’m pretty old and not the smartest, but I have learned one thing: Living is all about moderation.
Living is also not about beating yourself up. There are plenty of opportunities out there to get beaten up by outside sources. 🙂
It’s hard, but I try not to beat myself up about anything, including writing/not writing. Some of the time, I’m the most prolific person out there (or it might seem so because I never throw anything away!). But most times I’m just plain *lazy* – i.e. otherwise consumed by some other time sucking activity. Sometimes (like in this last year), I’m just too depressed/angry/worried to write.
Some of the creative out there think they must be doing something creative every single day of the year in order to be considered an artist. I’ve heard some claim that if you cannot play music every day, you’re not a real musician. The thought is that you breathe, so you’re a person, and you have to breathe all the time, ergo you must be playing every day in order to be considered ‘serious.’
Hold your horses, Mozart. What about living?
(Speaking of Mozart, although the man was a genius, the guy was a paid hack. Had to do it in order to survive, and he did a horrible job of it.)
This weekend, I opened my inbox with my Medium daily email and find this lovely post by one of my favorite authors (Michelle Richmond) regarding not writing.
Thank goodness! At last someone admonishing would-be writers out there to go to your son’s ball game or watch a movie with your husband! In my case, it’s stripping and refinishing old doors, digging up my yard, wire weaving, or planting potatoes.
Creating art should not be a chore. Your mind has to be clear and open. Yes, you need your butt to be in a chair (although the thought of a standing work station is very intriguing), but the true artist is creating in her head all the time. As I’m out there pulling up bindweed and dandelions, I’m thinking of plot twists and back story. The Notes section of my iPhone is full of tidbits of information, things I will use later on when the dust settles.
We are so busy in this modern world, attacked by Internet and TV and pretty flashes of content, that we have forgotten how to live. Writers need to live in order for the words to flow and the stories to surface. That’s why I’ve laid off the Twitter and the Facebook and Instagram. Sometimes you have to be you, not the content.
Which brings me back to the video I posted at the top of this, Words, by the BeeGees. In my 6th grade mind, I felt the pop group was telling me to write a story.
Because it’s only words, and words are all I have to take your heart away.
🙂
Recently I took an eight-week online master writing class with Michelle Richmond. You know her. Author of The Year In Fog. And other wonderful works.
I am a HUGE proponent of taking classes. I’ve been known to take music classes (piano, violin), art classes (both in college and after), and plenty of writing classes online. For God’s sake, I’ve been in the same wire wrapping class for the last five-plus years, and I’m not ever giving that one up.
It’s not that I’m stupid or dense. It’s not that I’m a stalker (although I felt that way at first with Michelle, because I have to be one of her hugest fans. I have almost all her books including the reference material and writing workbooks).
Life is a constant state of learning. Learning keeps your grey matter hopping. I can almost feel the electrons coursing through my brain when I’m in any class. I want to learn. I need to learn. And I’m not so full of myself that I think I can’t learn something new. The nice thing about being my age (finally! a plus!) is that you appreciate education and you’re in the class for your own benefit, not to score a grade. If you join a class, you are reaching out, for guidance, for knowledge. As I told my kids when they were attending college and experiencing difficulty, the instructor is there for YOU. YOU extract whatever information he/she has, whether he/she wants to give it to you or not.
Classroom situations are nice. You get to compare and contrast. You’re allowed to try and fail, and learn from your mistakes (or as they say in the jewelry world – design change). But if you’re a working adult, it’s hard to carve out time for a class for which you must physically be present. Online classes might not be the answer either. It’s tougher with online classes because you rarely see what the others are doing. At least with the master class, we had a once-weekly video meeting. It was so helpful to interact with the other students, to have Michelle offer her words of wisdom in real time, and to read other writers’ work.
To be a good student, you have to be able to listen to criticism, weigh it, and to make adjustments. This is especially true of anything having to do with the creative. I remember taking my first drawing class at the University of Minnesota. I’d always been so-so at drawing and painting, and hadn’t yet declared a major. Drawing was a class to fill my schedule.
My professor liked my work. He would stand behind my easel, his hand on his chin, and after a few minutes, offer a comment like “Try this.” or “Consider this.” Having only taken art classes in high school where it was a free-for-all, I was unused to constructive criticism. I learned then what a good thing it was to get input on your work from different eyes. I had always believed I was meh– not good enough. This professor actually convinced me to major in studio arts.
Now…for Michelle Richmond…
The first thing I learned? Read your email. Then reread your email. I missed the first video class because I somehow thought the meeting time was later than it was. (East Coast/West Coast mistake. Happens all the time, as my son lives in San Francisco. I love when he calls or texts me at 3 in the morning Eastern, just as I’m sure he loves it when I call or text him at 7 a.m. Eastern.)
The second thing I learned: A series of scenes does not a novel make. I’ve been working on various incarnations of this story for the last couple of years. I have a handwritten book full of scenes. I know what is going to happen – sort of. I really needed to figure out a beginning, middle, and end. Since I had three characters, I had to decide which was the protagonist. (I’d started out writing all three as the protagonist.) Through the weekly exercises, I learned who was the strongest and who was expendable.
I also learned there will be one common thread that draws the three characters together. Now I just have to weave the story line. I call this the “Story by Quilt” phase. Pick one thread and move it slightly to the next patch.
The third thing I learned: Don’t be afraid to do something out of the ordinary. Our last assignment was to write the final chapter. I hadn’t even thought of the final chapter, much less what I was going to do with it. What I learned in skipping over to the end was that 1. it was enormously fun to write, and 2. I’m going to rethink my original rather foggy plans for the end.
I also learned (also from a workshop at the San Francisco Writers Conference) that it’s preferable to have a title that depicts what may happen in the story. I’m not bad at writing a story, but I stumble at headlines and titles. (Remember, it took almost the two years I wrote Finding Cadence to finalize the title.) My new working title will be Bridging the Intersection of Truth and Casualty. Subject to change at any time, of course.
I needed those eight weeks with Michelle. I needed the kick in the pants, because my writer’s block was becoming a nuisance. I needed the camaraderie of other writers, to get out of my little cave. I needed to hear encouraging words from strangers regarding what I was doing.
Classes are learning experiences. They can also save your life.
Above: A fairly accurate representation of the inside of my head right now.
I recently read a very good blog post by the legendary Chuck Wendig regarding writer “self-care.” The post wasn’t so much about self-care as it was about an affliction many artists suffer from, at least on an occasional basis, and that is depression.
This post was so timely and so good, I had to bookmark it. I read it over at least a half dozen times. I tweeted it. I talked to other writers about it. That’s because we have all experienced the dreaded ‘writer’s block.’ However, Mr. Wendig draws the comparison from the blockage to depression, which is a pretty astute connection.
One that I had not thought about until I read his blog post.
Normally, I have too many thoughts in my head, so many that I can barely get a few onto paper. But there are times when I am totally devoid of creative thought, and that bothers me, especially if I find myself unable to create after a few months. I call these episodes being ‘extremely uninspired.’ It’s a major pain in the ass to think, much less form words or make jewelry.
Well, folks, I hate to admit this, but I have been unable to create for the last few months. Maybe six. And my inability to create might not be from blockage, but is likely from depression.
That’s not to say I have been in bed all day, filling my head with insipid reality shows (although I must confess that Judge Judy and Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares are especially entertaining). I’ve been depressed before; it’s not a big deal to admit it. The era of the ‘shame’ of mental disorders has thankfully passed. If one is sick, one goes to the doctor; it’s the same with depression.
I must admit that it has been extremely stressful around here lately, and stress doesn’t help with psychic well-being. I also have Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), so I am well-aware how my mood changes with the seasons. I can feel the sadness turn into something deeper, and that’s when I act. I start my prescription in August, but antidepressants aren’t the total answer. As fall turns to winter and as the daylight hours shorten, I have to (vehemently) tell myself to get out of bed. To do the laundry. To shop for groceries. To get gas. To go to work. To work out. To go to my class. To make dinner. To be somewhat sociable.
If I didn’t nag myself into action, then yes, I’d be in bed watching Judge Judy. All. Day. Long.
While I’m waiting for my inspiration to be ignited, I putter. I read. I pull out an old manuscript or an old story and perhaps work on it. Half the time, I don’t have the memory of writing any of these stories. I’ve been writing random new scenes, for a novel I hope to cobble together someday. I did last year’s NaNoWriMo, and I’ve signed myself up for an online novel writing class, just to get out of my shell. (It’s embarrassing to have so many manuscripts that are unedited and undone.) On the jewelry side, I will get out my jewels and rocks and look at them, maybe evaluate some of the smaller pieces I’ve started and never finished. I force myself into action.
I force myself to breathe. (That’s tough to accomplish when you’re depressed.) Square breathing is essential for calm.
Mr. Wendig’s blog post reminds us as writers that we are human, too. WE need tender loving care, in order to create. WE give ourselves a high bar to reach for, instead of giving ourselves a break. WE take reviews and comments too personally, instead of letting these things slough from our backs. WE feel the need to produce, or we will be ‘less than.’
Sometimes ‘producing’ might be thinking about writing or creating. Whenever I’m not producing, I’m thinking about future creativity. And that’s okay.
Writers, cut yourself some slack. We are not super-human. Even the greats are/were not super-human. Believe me, a lot more people are depressed than you would think. For most of us, the fog will lift and things will get better.
Do the best you can, with what you have, and keep going.
Take care of yourself, and keep going.
Live, learn, and love, and keep going.
To keep going is the only way to get unstuck.
Image courtesy of Flicker.
Just in time for the holidays…
I am at my childhood home as I write this. Each time I come back here, a flood of thoughts comes to mind. Like the fact that I am Catholic (albeit fallen and can’t get up) and my mother (converted) would tell us every Christmas that Baby Jesus fell from the sky, right into his little manger. Just like magic! It was a much cleaner drop than, say… from a stork, and he managed to land in a perfect, Godlike manner.
It’s a ridiculous story told by a recent immigrant and convert, but I believed her interpretation of the Birth of Our Lord – for a long, long time. I was naive and it took an awful lot for me to wise up. Looking back, I realize that her little white lie covered up the fact that she really didn’t want to go into the reproductive systems of Mary and Joseph. What better way to give birth than to just drop from the heavens? (I know I would have liked it more than the real thing.)
This caused me to think, especially now that NaNoWriMo is over. (I have my 50K or so words, but this means nothing.)
Just because you have a draft doesn’t mean it’s all over. Your 50K or so words are not perfect. Your writing will not fall from the sky, hitting its target without a bruise. It takes a great deal of thought, a lot of work and persistence, and the willingness to adjust before a book is ready for anything besides a dark corner of your basement closet.
Case in point: My first novel. It took two years of NaNoWriMo and then some to write the first (awful) draft. The only words that made sense in that version was “The End.” Going through the 175K words that first time made me want to heave. So I put it away (in disgust) for a year.
Eventually, I decided the story was good but the execution was terrible. Then came three years of editing, with various editors. Again, again, and again. I learned the first draft was woody and stiff, my characters more like caricatures, and I wobbled between genres. Once I beefed up the characters, chose a genre, eliminated 50K unnecessary words – starting the story on Page 72 helped – the job was not yet complete.
No. The more I thought about the story, the more I wove in themes. Musical themes, social themes. Everyone had a secret. I broke the book into three distinct parts to coordinate with a piano concerto. The first, the stage set with heartbreak; the second, healing begins; the third, overcoming adversity and starting anew. It took a long time to edit, much blood, sweat, and tears, but I’m pleased with the end result.
With my current NaNo effort (which stared out as a “Christian” novel, but will end up more YA with a sweet story), I can already see where I’ll have to work on my characters. I have a story line set up, complete with plenty of conflict and a resolution, but have decided that my novel would be more interesting if everyone had a secret.
This rambling post is to remind you that your first effort, while probably good, is not your best. If you’re an honest writer, you know that your writing does not just fall from out of the blue. It takes hard work to produce your best. It takes trial and error, but eventually, you will have that perfect baby.
Happy editing!
Yes, this is what I feel like. Blossom, the amazing Powerpuff Girl!
You see, I’ve been kicking ass on this year’s NaNoWriMo.
Saturday, I added up my words and found I had over 26K! And this with taking days off!
How did I do it? I have a few tips you might want to consider. Try them or not, it’s working for me.
As for me, I’m going to complete my Day Job work as quickly as I can. I have a date with NaNoWriMo and destiny.
Good luck to all of you writers, and see you at the end of the month!
Are we all excited?
Tomorrow, November 1, is the first day of NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. You know, the month where writers around the world sign up with glee, intending to pump out 50,000 words in 30 short days.
For those who are math-challenged, that is 1,667 words per day.
For those writers who are challenged by something more than math (laziness, procrastination, fear and loathing), November 1st is a day of trepidation.
I’ve participated nearly every year since 2005. I’ll admit, some years I take a break due to family issues or maybe edits of other writing. I’m not exactly an expert on November writing, but I can offer some words of advice. Take them or leave them, because admittedly, I am a writer without a clue.
Now, my fellow writers, get a good night’s sleep tonight and go get ’em!
See you at the end of November.
I am armpit deep into a major developmental edit, trying to accomplish most of it before NaNoWriMo, so I really don’t have much time to spew about my life or to wonder about whether or not I’m editing correctly. (I’ve thrown in the Paperclip Method, as well as index cards and handwritten notes, and all I have to show for it is a major headache.) So, instead, I will entertain you with a piece of creative writing, an assignment from the 21 Moments class I took last year.
The Fish
When you were a baby, I watched you sleep. I had to make absolutely certain you were still alive, still breathing. For hours, I saw your chest rise and fall, your lips slightly parted, two perfect soft hearts lined in violet red. Your eyes twitched with baby dreams. I wondered, what could you possibly be dreaming of, my little boy who had yet to experience life.
I marveled at your skin, so pale and covered in a paler, soft fuzz. A furry caterpillar across your brow, one that rarely moved. The dark hair, so long on one side. Toes and nails of perfect pearl. You were a porcelain doll, a breathing miniature human.
Now I watch you sleep, my heart heavy with concern. Your breathing is labored, not steady. Your skin is stained red, not a healthy rose, but a dull, almost brick color. I couldn’t wake you after a day and a half. Panic filled my chest, one already bursting with worry.
Life is tenuous. It takes very little to tip the scales.
I considered calling the hospital. I won’t bother 911, they’ve already received enough calls from this address. The doctors might say something encouraging, something that will tamp down the alarm.
Your breathing seems suspended, but you’re not holding your breath. It’s shallow, that’s all. I touch your hand; it’s burning. You said you didn’t feel well. Is it sickness, a bug, or something more substantial? I bring soup, but you won’t awaken. I finger my phone, the numbers are typed in, but I don’t hit SEND. Instead, I pray my boy will wake up and talk to me. I hope he will take a sip of the chicken noodle. I pray to God he will give my son a baby dream, so he will dream like he did when he was two months old.
Yes, I’m still working on my work(s) in progress.
Photo courtesy Creative Commons.
I loved the way she smoked cigarettes.
Yeah, we know smoking is bad for you. Cancer. Heart attack. Tarry kisses tinged in ash. An expensive addiction. It’s a disgusting habit. Yada-yada.
I’d always been enthralled with the way she executed her vice, her movements a poetry. She’d extract the cigarette from the package, using the tips of her long, painted nails, a perfect manicure at the end of long, slender fingers. After the cig had been freed, she’d tap the end of it against the pack gently, one, two, three times – no more – before balancing the stick between her first and second fingers of her right hand. The filter poised near lips that first pouted against entry, but relented. Usually sparks came via someone else’s lighter, but she’d do it herself in a pinch. The first exaggerated draw, a slight escape of smoke from the corner of her mouth, before she sucked it in. After the exhale, she’d extend her right arm away, an ebb of vice, a pregnant pause.
She’d sit pensive after that first puff, her eyes clouded over, her face slack. She’d left our world for her own, perhaps considering what might have been instead of her current reality. Maybe she dreamed of being the mistress of a mansion. I knew Grandma had lived in one, back in the day. She’d told me the stories of the grand staircases, the stained glass, the carved friezes. There had been butlers and maids and flouncy party dresses and all the ice cream you could dream of. But Grandma was gone now, along with the trappings of privilege. We’d been relegated to a matchbox of a house, where the windows leaked air and rain and the kitchen cabinets didn’t shut right because the hinges were bent and rusted. Where worn coats were mended and a full stomach was a guilty pleasure.
“Mama?” I tapped her arm, the free one.
She roused as if from a dream and scowled at me. “What? What do you want now? Can’t I get one minute of peace?” Her words snapped, short and mean, but she held the cigarette with the elegance of a society girl.
“I’m hungry, Mama.”
She glared at me, tapped spent ash onto the tray, before lifting the cigarette to her lips, drawing long. She closed her eyes and journeyed to her faraway place, taking the scenic route to a location without interruptions.
I try to visit the Bay Area a couple of times a year. Besides loving NorCal, I still have a child living in San Francisco, which makes visiting a requisite. The San Francisco Writers Conference is the mandatory February trip, but just about any other time of the year beats Michigan weather hands down – yes, even the San Francisco summer fog-in.
After last February’s conference, my son and I took a trip to Marin County, to visit Muir Woods (fabulous place! Go there if you can before you die.) and hit up some coastal eating. I enjoy walking on beaches – Ocean Beach being my favorite cityside beach – but every beach is different. Some are wide, expansive, and flat, like Ocean Beach. Others are rocky and treacherous. Most are in between. Cliffs line most of the coast. A straight one thousand foot drop off is not beach blanket bingo material. Northern California beaches are what I would consider ‘rustic’ – you won’t see fish taco stands and amusement piers, and the surfers are in wet suits, not bare-chested.
I’m so old, I now only travel with sensible shoes. Muir Beach is a spot of a beach. The part closest to the parking lot is sandy and relatively flat, and I took off my hiking shoes to enjoy the sand.
My son decided to explore the area just north of the main beach. Of course, he didn’t tell me; he just stalked off. Since he is over six feet tall with lanky legs and I am but a midget, I struggled to keep up with him.
The tide was out, exposing extremely rocky terrain, a complete 180 degree departure from a few yards away. Black boulders sported thousands of edible mussels. Suffice it to say, there were more small, pointy rocks on this beach than there was sand. Maneuvering the area was like walking barefoot on a carpet of hot Legos. Between huge rocks and small rocks, there was nothing of note to grab onto. Call me stubborn (I am) but I decided not to put my shoes back on. (Bad move.)
As luck would have it, because I’m old, not very spry, and because I have no good luck, I lost my balance and fell.
Falling at my age is a risky proposition. Oh, I’m beyond embarrassment. Who cares about a momentary social faux pas? I could break something I really need – like my legs. Or my head.
Before a nice young man (not my son) came to assist me to my feet, I happened to look to my side. I saw something I had never seen before on a California beach.
Sea glass.
You don’t understand. I’d been visiting California for years. I’ve found lots of things on the beach, including shells, sand dollars, garbage, driftwood, a starfish, crab bodies, even a bloated and rotting sea lion. I have never once found a piece of sea glass worth putting into my pocket.
After I had been righted into a supine position, I yelled at my son. We had hit the sea glass lottery. I instructed him to pick up any glass he could that was bigger than a speck.
This is what we came up with.
Since February, I had stashed my sea glass in a used Altoid’s container, waiting for creativity to strike me like lightning. Every so often, I would take the glass out, compare each piece, turn it over in my hand. (I do this with stones, often. Before I set something into a piece of jewelry, I let the stone speak to me.) I would think about where the glass originated, what journey it took to end up a smooth piece of silica on a Northern California beach. Who drank from that bottle? Who tossed the container into the trash? Did it come from Asia, or somewhere closer? And how was I so lucky as to literally fall on it during a challenging yet pleasant walk on the beach with my son?
Finally, the glass spoke, and this is what I came up with.
(Currently on my neck and not for sale. Yet.) 🙂
Here’s another one. This one is going in the booth at the Ann Arbor Art Fair this week.
Here is what we need to remember as artists: Sometimes, things are thrown our way – beautiful, ugly, inconsequential, glaring. Sometimes we fall on our ass. Sometimes it takes a while before “garbage” becomes art. Sometimes there is suffering, buffering, tumbling in sand to smooth the rough edges. Sometimes you have to dig deep to find the true story, inciting motives, genuine characters.
The thing to remember is that there is art in every thing.
Even in falling on your ass.
About 8 years ago (! yikes!), I belonged to a toxic “social” web site, where the main focus was to be creative, but often the vibes were twisted and borderline abusive. Sometimes scary. However, as with most conditions of the human kind (and some of the cyber ones), there was an upside to contributing to the site. For one thing, my years spent on it charged my creative juices. The friendly (and not-so) banter challenged my thinking. I started writing again, after a long hiatus of taking care of children.
My writing was horrible at first, but having been at different times an English and a journalism major, at least my grasp of grammar was better than most. I hadn’t thought about the mechanics of writing in a long time.
But this web site was self-regulating, by Grammar Police. Some of the critiques were friendly, thank God, otherwise I might have given up writing altogether.
During my last years in, I started writing a serial story about a precocious teenager in mid-1970’s Minnesota. The story started as a lark, an outrageous forty-five minute writing exercise a day of my protagonist’s rather outlandish adventures. After a while, I liked Sioux C. She was me, but with balls. I peppered her neighborhood with my cousins, my boyfriends, and my dreams. I wrote about her as a 20 year old party girl, and I wrote about her as a 45 year old has-been with regrets.
One day, the aforementioned web site appeared to be going down the drain. I was naive back then, and would write directly into the site, never putting my words into a Word document or even printing them out. But the writing was on the wall, and this good time wasn’t going to last long. Before I committed social network suicide, I painstakingly copied and pasted all of the stories into a Word document and erased all traces of her. I started a WordPress blog with the intent of continuing the story there.
In the meantime, I began writing other novels, four and half more. I put Sioux C on a shelf. This was easy, as there really wasn’t any ending to the story. Until a month ago…
Yeah, the light bulb went off above my head, just like in the cartoons.
Now that I had a story line, I decided to dredge up my document and paperclip it, using Michelle Richmond’s technique. Imagine my dismay when I couldn’t find my file!
I use Carbonite (thank you), which I have said many times that it’s the best $50 a year I spend. It’s saved me so many times. I had to dig back into the archives a little, since the last incarnation of the novella was three laptops ago, but I did find it.
(YAY!)
It was easy enough to print out. Paperclipping, that’s another story.
I can see now that I have to weave my story line in, and end it to my satisfaction. I can also see that I need to add more dialogue (I hated to write dialogue back then), straighten out more bumps, delete some, etc. I don’t know if I can use the stories I wrote of her in her 20’s or at 45, but that’s a bridge I can cross when I come to it.
These are the things you as a writer can learn from this story:
1. Never throw any writing away. You don’t know if it will come in handy. Maybe not all of it, but everything you have expended energy on has value.
2. Get online cloud storage. I have referred to Carbonite as the granny hoarder of the Internet that doesn’t throw anything out. That’s what you need.
3. Occasionally print your story out. Look at it on paper. Speak it out loud.
4. Buy pretty paper clips. The ones I had in my drawer seem too industrial. Then again, that’s the look I was going for.
Now, to get busy.
I spent this morning outside weeding. I’m so far behind. We went from winter to summer and back again four times in the last six weeks. There’s been no spring in this part of the world, just extremes.
I’m an urban gardener, not a hardy nutjob. If it’s not 60 degrees plus and sunny, I’ll wait for another day… or another year.
But finally, the gods decided to smile on me and I’ve been out in the yard since Friday. But today has been brutally relentless on the allergies. The pollen is so thick, you can cut it with a knife and feed the hummingbirds dessert for the next two months. By 10 a.m., most of my body was itchy, my tongue had swollen, my nose was a running faucet, and I couldn’t even smell the dog taking her doggie duty inches from my little trowel.
So I opted for relief. I took a mid-day Benadryl.
I don’t normally ingest this wonder drug in the middle of the day. Night time is the right time for Benadryl. That’s because eventually you will lose your will to remain seated in an upright position and will need a comfy bed to crash on.
I once made the ghastly error of taking two of them at once. It was a bad year for hay fever. The kids were little. I’d loaded them up into the minivan and drove to a not-so-nearby nature center, where we would hang out and have our dinner.
Not so fast…
It took a half hour, but I realized I had to get home…NOW. I told my son if we didn’t make it, he was to take my cell phone and call 911 and have us rescued. We managed to make it home safely, where I went directly to bed and didn’t wake up for 18 hours.
I normally power through allergy season, but today, I couldn’t stand my situation one minute longer. I’m fairly certain my neighbors were tired of my scream-like sneezes too. So I ceased all gardening and ingested a Benadryl.
You don’t win-win with Benadryl. You win a little, lose a little. See what I mean?
Mid-day Benadryl upside: My tongue has shrunk back to its normal size, meaning a trip to the ER on a holiday has been averted.
Mid-day Benadryl downside: I can’t concentrate. I was going to work on edits. I might still, but I can’t be responsible for what pours out of my head right now.
Mid-day Benadryl upside: I’m feeling oh-so-mellow. I’m smiling.
Mid-day Benadryl downside: I could take a nap anytime now. NOW would be good.
Mid-day Benadryl upside: It’s a holiday! I could nap if I want! Hurrah!
Mid-day Benadryl downside: When I type Grand Rapids, it’ looks like this – Gtsnf Ts[ofd/.
Mid-day Benadryl upside: I won’t need that cocktail later. Because I’ll likely be napping.
Mid-day Benadryl downside: I really don’t feel like running today.
Mid-day Benadryl upside: I’m at work, the phone is ringing off the hook (it’s loud and annoying), but I’m not annoyed. I don’t care!
Mid-day Benadryl downside: I probably shouldn’t use any equipment that involves sharp edges, flames, or precision. Which means I probably shouldn’t work on jewelry either.
That’s about all the hilarity I can stand for now. I have to drive home while I still can.
Yesterday was Mother’s Day.
I don’t have a mother (anymore, not since 1992), so I usually take this day to ruminate on my mother’s parenting skills, her cooking skills, her financial skills, her communication skills, and her maternal instinct, and come up with the same conclusion: She wasn’t very good at any of those things.
Oh, I’m not bitter about it. She might have been flawed, but I’m not the type who would blame my entire life circumstances on the fact that she might have been severely bipolar and/or maybe even evil. I miss that she wasn’t here more than I rue the fact that she wasn’t June Cleaver.
Not even close.
Yesterday would have also been her 82nd birthday. Here is the photo I posted on Facebook for the occasion:
Despite the bittersweet day, I’m not going on regarding emotions. I can blog forever about parent-child relationships and how it is to live with a crazy woman.
Instead, let’s devote today’s talk to F-O-O-D.
There are only two days a year where I refuse to cook. One is Easter; the other, Mother’s Day. On these two days, I prefer to hit up a high-end brunch and get liquored up on mimosas and all the prime rib and shrimp cocktail I can eat.
It is sad when I do not get my Mother’s Day brunch. Three years ago, I made a reservation at a VERY nice restaurant for Mother’s Day brunch. My husband and I had enjoyed a very nice anniversary there the September before. We loved the place. Good food, good service.
I called in my reservation two weeks before Mother’s Day. I provided the hostess with a credit card number (on the very slim chance that I would no-show my brunch. As if!)
We arrived at the very crowded venue in chi-chi Birmingham with time to spare. Enough time for the rudest hostess ever to tell me that we didn’t have a reservation. And couldn’t get me in. ON MOTHER’S DAY. Nearly in tears, we stopped at Papa Joe’s market on the way home. They saved the day with their own prime rib.
This year, my daughter is home, which is lovely. This year, Easter was cold and blustery, which caused a dissent regarding another brunch outing. In fact, I was outnumbered. “I hate eating around children.” “I don’t want to drive that far.” “You mean I have to get dressed up?” “This cuts down on my outside time.” I’ll let you figure out which family member declared which silly sentence.
I hate being worn down, so I said, “If you don’t want to go out to brunch, I’ll accept a Lobster Gram.”
Sold!
Sure they were sold. I ended up making the lobster. And the twice baked potato. And the cocktails.
And my lobster did not resemble this lobster tail/tale from another time:
That’s because we had whole Maine lobstahs (which I love).
With whole lobsters, you must know how to dismantle them. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been near one. Which is why even with crackers, a hammer, and various other gadgets, extricating the lobster meat was messy.
Lobster guts were everywhere! All over the table (should have laid down a tarp), all over the walls, all over my hair and glasses.
It was hilarious…and tasty… but that’s only because I haven’t cleaned up yet. I’m hoping the animals will take care of the floor.
Next year, Mother’s Day brunch for sure!
While I was at the San Francisco Writers Conference in February, I sat in on a few workshops with my favorite author (well, definitely in the top three!), Michelle Richmond. Not only does she NOT outline, she doesn’t write in a linear fashion. (My kinda writer. An organized pantser.)
Another news flash: She also writes what she doesn’t know.
I know, I know. Writers are often told to embrace what they know and write about that. This was the first time a major author told us to consider writing what you don’t know.
I can see the value in this. First of all, if you are penning fiction that closely follows what happened in Real Life, you will often receive critiques. “This is unbelievable!” and then the resultant response, “But it really happened!” “But it’s not real!”
Good Lord.
Sometimes Real Life is too much. Real experiences sometimes are too graphic. A fictional story might be based in fact, but it doesn’t require an angst overload. However, your story does need enough conflict to keep the reader interested.
A little careful teasing helps here.
Also, if we are too familiar with a story, if we write more as a journalist instead of as an entertaining storyteller, we will focus too closely on the facts, to the exclusion of other possibilities with your story.
My novels are based in part on Real Life. The Virtual Moms are my fictional adaptation of the Beanie Mom online group I’ve belonged to for nearly 20 years. In some cases, a personality might be loosely based on one of my friends, but in other cases, I found I had to jazz up some of my characters. Give them recognizable quirks and personalities that are uniquely different from my real friends. I also had to come up with a plot that while it might have been plausible, it definitely did NOT happen to us.
The same holds true for Finding Cadence. People who know me saw my house as Cadence’s house; they knew which high-profile attorney I used as a muse for my antagonist; my son attended the San Francisco Conservatory; I grew up in Colorado. Most importantly, I’ve experienced that love and loss, the close but strained relationships between mother and child, spouses, and sisters.
But I had to change it up, and I did. I don’t write memoir; I write fiction, and most of the tale is just that – a story I concocted in my head.
Michelle Richmond writes what she doesn’t know as a way to get her to step outside herself and what she does know. She confessed that Golden State was written in this way. It’s an excellent idea, which requires the writer to research. Research equals found knowledge. The writer sees things from a different angle of the life prism. Not only does it expand the writer’s world, it expands the scope of writing.
After I get my current edit out of the way, I’m working (using the Paperclip Method) on the next story, which is now in bits and pieces. I think I’ll step way outside of my comfort zone and write about what I don’t know.
While at last month’s San Francisco Writers Conference, I sat in on a workshop given by Michelle Richmond (one of my favorite authors, if you haven’t read her, DO) on writing a novel by the “Paperclip Method.”
Okay, so at first I was star-struck. I am in the process of buying every book Michelle Richmond has ever written (along with Laura Kasischke and T. Greenwood – my bookshelves are bursting). These three women are, in my honest opinion, the greatest writers of these modern times. Their books are lyric, complicated, literary, sometimes gritty and real – basically they touch my heart in ways that can’t be explained with mere words. I find myself thinking about the characters long after I’ve read to the end.
Back to the workshop – I finally came out of my hero fog and began to listen. I had no idea what the “Paperclip Method” was; I would have listened to Michelle Richmond reading from the phone book. I would have listened to her critique my first page to shreds. But after a few minutes of her talk, I realized that Michelle Richmond writes like I do. Talk about a hit-by-lightning moment!
Unlike most writers, Michelle Richmond does not write in a linear fashion (start on Page 1, end with “The End.”) She also doesn’t use outlines. Boom, and boom! Neither do I! And here I thought I was ADD, unable to start at the beginning, unable to know what I’m going to say in advance. *duh*
You might know what your next novel is. I kinda-sorta do. I’ve been working (lackadaisically) on a story about three women since last summer when I took some online classes with The WriterMama. Her 21 Moments class gives you a prompt each day to write about a “moment” in time. After six months, I had a notebook (hand written) filled with moments, most of which had to do with these three characters.
Do the math. If I was writing between 500 and 1000 words each day for 21 days each month for six months, I had a reserve of at least 63K words worth of story. All I had to do was to weave it together. Yeah, right. I tried to explain my story to my Editor for Life, but he was busy editing VY4ever. So the notebook has been fermenting since last July.
But listening to Michelle Richmond explain the Paperclip Method renewed my interest in the story. Her method involves writing in scenes or short pieces. (It helps to have a vague idea of the story line.) Once you have enough small pieces, you arrange them into stacks and use paperclips to keep the stacks separate. Scenes with specific characters might have their own stacks. Writing that might have to do with the theme of your novel. Maybe a parallel storyline that seems inconsequential but presents a hidden meaning for the main story in the end. Eventually, you study your stacks and piece your story together.
Like a quilt! Like one of my twisted pieces of jewelry! These start out with small pieces that are seemingly unrelated, but eventually make up a work of art.
After the dust settled from my trip, I went online and purchased Michelle Richmond’s workbooks, which are pictured above. They arrived this week. And now, I will retrieve my handwritten notebook and start paperclipping.
After all, there’s more than one way to skin a cat, or write a novel.
After my second (or third, I forget) edit of Virtually Yours Forever, I decided to run my novel through Smart Edit.
Smart Edit, for those who don’t know, is writing software that takes your words (yes, even novel length) and analyzes your word usage. In just a few short minutes, all of the glaring errors you thought you had avoided slap you upside the head. Overuse of adverbs and adjectives, phrases, what I call “dumb” words (really, like, the to-be words), redundancies, and cliches. It counts your exclamation points, apostrophes, and hyphens.
Smart Edit was the best $57 I ever spent.
I ran my final draft of Finding Cadence through it, and managed to eliminate 10K words. This book’s first draft started at 175K, whittled down to 130K (after I found I had used the word “family” 900+ times and “perfect” 700+ times – completely unnecessary), and finally pared to the 120K, which is still perhaps too long, but at that point I couldn’t take anything else out without compromising my story.
With the current pass at my Virtual Mommies, I want to tighten up what words I have in order to adequately express my parallel story line. I’m only on Draft A of the inserted story, so I have a way to go before completion. But at 92K, I’ll safely stay on the low side of 100K.
I’ve often said that I write how I speak. This talent might make for interesting dialogue, but the spoken word is full of redundancies. Yes, I visibly cringe when I see what Smart Edit decides to spit back at me. I’ve only been writing novels for a few years, but I take this craft very seriously. I read and house an impressive library of writing reference material. “You’d think you’d learn?” I say to myself.
I’m learning, but at a snail’s pace (yes, a cliche). And I’m OLD, meaning I can forget things now with amazing speed. (I long for those days when I could hear a song on the radio twice and remember the words.)
I’m not one of those writers who believe in the non-usage of adjectives and adverbs. I love descriptors, but you don’t want to read the same word over and over. I strive to limit my descriptor usage to less than five times in 100K.
It’s the same with phrase redundancies – unless the phrase is a signature speech pattern. For example, Janna always says “Oh, my Lady GaGa” because she’s Jewish and never says the word “God.” Or how I have Ashe signing off on email either “Virtually yours forever” or “Peace out.” But if Smart Edit shows 37 “you have tos,” I know I must get in there and change at least 30 of them to something else.
There is an upside to having all of your errors staring you in your face. You won’t find 900-anythings in my manuscripts anymore, which means I must be learning from my mistakes.
Yes, my main mode of writing a novel (or anything else) is via computer. It’s easy, and since I can type approximately 70 words per minute, if I get on a nice little writing jag, I can pump out paragraphs in no time at all. Everything is online these days…everything, including writing. If you’re a writer who doesn’t have a computer (horrors!) or Internet access (blasphemy!), you are an old-school dinosaur writing at an insurmountable disadvantage.
So yes, my laptop is my bestie, and thanks to the World Wide Web, people on every inch of the globe can read not only my words, but everyone’s words, if they so desire. Instant knowledge at the tips of your fingers, what’s more Nirvana than that? However… since my work involves heavy computer usage, my eyes get tired. I personally despise looking at computer monitors, especially after 8 or so hours of squinting into one at work. While the Kindle is nice, I find it difficult to read any words on a screen, much less my own. I haven’t mastered Scrivener, so I use Word which is the worst word processing program ever! It’s cumbersome, it’s hard to format (if you want to go beyond the standard 1″ margins all around), it’s basic, the dictionary and thesaurus suck, and well…I’m sometimes too tired by the time I get around to creating words on a page to fuss with it. I consider Word a necessary evil.
Call me old-fashioned, but I still write in notebooks. With a number 2 pencil – a Papermate Sharpwriter. (Excellent lead, sturdy eraser.)
First of all, there’s the notebook fetish. I love, love, love notebooks. My favorite for writing is the larger Moleskine with graphing lines, like the one pictured above. The lines keep my handwriting on track, plus, those squares are handy for plotting out scenes, easy to divide into columns, rectangles, or other shapes. I’m a pantser, so I don’t outline, but I can set scenes into this notebook. I need visuals and highlights and graphs. I might draw a scene, although my artistic skills are nothing to brag about. After I’ve got the basics down, I go back to the computer and type them into my Word document.
Each notebook contains all of the information I need for each novel. (I tried combining different stories in the same book; it just doesn’t work. Too confusing.)
I have notebooks of every size and color for other things. A small one always at the ready in my purse. Sometimes I’ll hear or see something, and jot it down so I won’t forget. (Because if I didn’t, I’d surely forget. I’m old, remember?)
I’m hoarding notebooks and pencils for the Apocalypse. Okay, so maybe when the earth is scorched and radioactive, I won’t have hands to write my stories. Still, it makes for a good excuse.
And yes, I am old school. I began writing before computers. I submitted my first story (typewritten) to a contest when I was 16, but before getting down to the typing (back then I was a terrible typist and my Remington didn’t have an erase mode), I worked my manuscript on paper many times before I committed to the final draft.
There is something about handwriting your work that makes it precious, especially when doing writing prompts. You might think the well has run dry, but give yourself twenty minutes to fill a page with your own handwriting, and it will be done. Staring at a computer screen promotes procrastination, at least, for me. I need the manual labor of writing to get me going. It’s also nice to see a notebook full, every page taken up with words and whimsy. You can see it, it’s tangible, you can feel it, not like you can when you open up folders on a hard drive.
So if you’re experiencing a slump, a blockage, or just want to try something different, consider handwriting in a notebook.
Thank goodness 2014 is nearly over! Let’s break out the champagne and usher in the New Year!
Okay, so that’s a blood orange mimosa, but you catch my drift. 2014 was a downer, a fallow 365 days of suffering, high hopes and expectations, with low production. Plus, I’m a year closer to death (or at least the big 6-0.)
Here’s how I hope to do better in 2015:
1. WRITE! WRITE MORE! Due to many unforeseen complications, I didn’t write many new words this year.
2. EDIT! EDIT MORE! This year saw me finally complete an edit for VY2. It took for-ever. My above complications made it difficult for me to concentrate.
3. RELEASE VY2! Yes, I’m fast-tracking this baby. I’ve been playing around with it long enough. However, just because I completed an edit (on Christmas Day, no less), doesn’t mean it’s ready for the big time. I’m guessing at least two more edits, maybe more, since I wove in another two characters and a parallel story line. (Can’t say much about it right now. But expect bigger things to happen to my girls.)
4. Somehow I need to get my life in some sort of order so that I can do the above mentioned three things on my list.
I’m not a fan of New Year’s resolutions, but I am a fan of setting goals and attempting to see them through to fruition.
I also plan on writing more online articles, so stay tuned.
And, to shamelessly mention during the last few days of this year, if you haven’t purchased a hard copy of Finding Cadence, you should do so through me. That way you’ll have an autographed copy in your hot little hands.
My good friends know that I’m depressed this winter, partially because of SAD and partly because of family issues.
I think of myself as a warrior woman. Machine gun me with nails, I’ll spit them right back at you. Say I can’t and I’ll prove that I can. I create out of a deep need to express myself, and with a vengeance. You can try to chop me into pieces, but like the burls of a redwood, I’ll just multiply and conquer you a little at a time.
But not this time.
Depression has kicked my ass.
So I have sought out help. I have medications, which don’t seem to be helping one bit. I have a therapist, but confronting the things that are bothering me results in a sob fest. I’m not sure if talking helps.
I’m not good at speaking. I never have been. I signed up for Mr. Dionysio’s speech class in high school and spent the entire semester in silence. When I took speech in college, I had one successful speech, one that was rather “meh”, and one where I bombed completely – end grade, B-.
I couldn’t speak on the phone, and therefore gravitated toward factory jobs instead of those involving customer service. I thought I didn’t like people, and that people didn’t like me.
(Imagine me now, on the phone all the time. You can teach an old dog new tricks.)
I’m not stupid, I’m in the low Mensa range. I have coherent, cogent thoughts. I read smart books, funny books, inspirational books. But speaking, either publicly or privately…I’m the stereotypical writer, an introvert who’d rather hole up with my laptop or pen with a hot cup of green tea by my side.
So I have decided to write (again) about these deeply seated feelings. Get them on paper. Because I sure as heck don’t want to burden my friends and family with the intimate details.
Plus I can’t.
Last night, I had a Facebook “conversation” with a friend in a similar position. I received more insight in that thirty minutes of back and forth than I did the last time I saw the therapist. Why? Because we were typing. I don’t think I could have the same conversation in person. I cannot verbalize my sadness. Not yet.
And this is why writing is better than talking.
I’ll admit, I’ve been in a bit of a slump.
There are a lot of things going on my life right now. Kids. Parent. Work. Outside influences. More outside influences. Even more outside influences.
I’m normally a pretty upbeat person, able to handle any situation with aplomb, but every person has a top level of stress that he or she can optimally handle. After two and a half months of piling on and more piling on, my creative juices trickled and then shut down completely.
Yes, I’m depressed. I liken depression to an emotional fetal position. Your brain curls up and stops working.
I’m not only fairly upbeat, I’m smart. I went to the doctor. I have medication. I purchased a light box for the SAD that began two months early because of the horrible summer weather we’ve had. I force myself to run/walk on my incline trainer every day.
But creativity… it still wasn’t forthcoming.
This is when I realized the writing won’t get done until I plunk my behind in a chair (or resume carrying my notebook, or keep a pen in the car) and begin doing it again.
Action is the only means by which to accomplish your goals.
I might be minorly depressed, but I still have goals.
So… I signed up for another writing course, starting in October. If forced to complete tasks on a schedule, well, I can do that. I also applied for an authors’ meet and greet at a local chi-chi store, for October 26. I was amazed (and excited!) to be chosen as one of the participants. (Finding Cadence might not be a perfect work of art, but it’s mine, and I’m proud of it.)
In the meantime, I’m using the J. Peterman catalog as a writing prompt. If you’re familiar with the catalog, which was made popular by the TV show Seinfeld, it sells trendy clothing and accessories (think high-end Banana Republic). The catalog features catchy titles, and the first few sentences are usually not about the clothing. Instead, the short paragraphs might refer to a romantic rendezvous in Toulouse or chance meetings with a fetching red-head whose mane glistens in a harvest sunset. This catalog is evocative. Dreamy. I’ve never purchased anything from them, but love the catalog for its literary value.
🙂
So my current mini-writing assignment is to take each title in the catalog and write my own scene. Should take less than ten minutes.
The takeaway from my sad plight is to remember this: You have to ACT. Make a move, any move. Hibernation isn’t going to solve anything. Taking that first positive step might not be a joyous one, but it’s a step in the right direction.
After all, you can’t claim to be a writer until you write.
I don’t know how I’ve been struck with the ambition, but I am in the middle of deep cleaning and purging my house, in advance of a monster garage sale I plan on hosting late in August.
I’m not a consummate slob. I tend to veer toward the lived-in but not dangerously germy look. Deep cleaning is something I haven’t done in the ten years we’ve been here. Just consider: a four-bedroom house with plenty of nooks and crannies, a basement full of boxes (most of which haven’t been opened since we moved), and a walk up attic bulging with the hastily packed mementos of my children’s school years. (Yeah. I didn’t oversee that operation, and I should have.)
Back at another place I wrote for online, an orange, hazy, huge toxic bubble, I remarked in a post that I had misplaced my folder of poetry, and asked the pressing question, “Where the hell is it?” The resulting comment thread blasted me for being a dumb ass, and how the hell would the Internets know where my poems were?
Even back then, my feelings were rarely hurt. Just temporarily slapped silly. I imagined I’d thrown my folder out by accident (I grew up in the Ice Age, and had only the typewritten copies, having not had the time or inclination to put the work on an actual computer, where my words could be backed up on a flash drive or by Carbonite), or maybe the guy we had staying at our home as it was being sold decided to run off with my silly scribblings.
Eventually, I chalked up my loss as a learning experience. My teenage and new adult angst-ridden lyrics and poetry forever absent, never to be enjoyed by posterity.
(Now I back up in several places and pay Carbonite for the stuff I’m apt to forget.)
Imagine my pleasant surprise last weekend. After fighting years of cobwebs and nearly retching over an army of dead bugs, I opened a box labeled “Kids Books” to find my folder of poems prominently sitting atop well-loved copies of Pat the Bunny and every book ever penned by Mercer Mayer.
Win! (clean basement) – Win! (possible garage sale windfall) – Win! (my book of poems). I momentarily died and went to heaven.
I spent an hour reading them. Most of my “poetry” was set to music. I played the guitar back then, and wrote simple songs with (what I thought were) tender lyrics about unrequited love and loss. Reading the words brought back the music, and I found myself humming. Most of my songs were god-awful, music and lyrics, but some of it wasn’t half bad.
What was most interesting that my writing voice back then isn’t that far removed from my writing voice now. The excavation of words cements the fact – in my mind – that I was destined to write.
Now, to celebrate my wonderful find, I will regale you with one of my favorites, written after a trip to Sioux Falls, SD, where we lit sparklers during a midnight tornado warning after ingesting Black Star.
Black Star
his grandpa was a cowboy, he said
you nod in silence–
your dreams are riding the range.
a little wine, a little smoke
helps to ease the loneliness,
shake off the chains —
lose those midnight blues.
you laugh and joke,
ha! your smiles are plastic
flowers molded from pain.
and still you choose
too much wine and smoke
the strawberry madness.
so you’re backed against the floor.
from another galaxy, he leans toward you
and shouts in a foreign frequency
heyareyouallrightdownthere?crazybroad!
o-zoned again.
lonesome cowboy, roll me in your arms
just once.
i know i ruin everything good
but sometimes one kiss is all i need.
what space tripper? you’re returning home?
but you’ll soon return to ride the range
blue skies your rolling prairie
unlimited, weightless, darkened void.
you’re always searching for the light
in a heaven that gives no easy answers,
in a heaven where the sun
is just a black star.
October 28, 1978
I’ve sort of been absent and silent on the Internet lately.
Oh, I’ve been on (a little) but I haven’t been commenting (much).
People who know me know that I’m not just a writer. I own a business, and we’re in the middle of our bread and butter season, meaning a 12 hour work day is not unheard of. I have a house which is currently undergoing renovations – let’s just say the dust bunnies are multiplying faster than the real bunnies. I have a yard in sore need of weeding. I have children – yes, they are grown, but they have problems of monolithic proportions. I’m married to a man who is not the healthiest person on earth and I can’t get him to make a follow up doctor’s appointment re: his Christmas Eve pulmonary embolism.
So in the face of a rainstorm of lemons, my writing has kinda-sorta taken a back seat.
Except for participating in Christina Katz’s 21 Moments Challenge (since February) and goading my ED for Life regarding the edit to my sequel to Virtually Yours, I haven’t been writing as per usual.
I’ve been writing, but not in a linear projection.
I’ve filled a notebook with pencil scribblings, a page and a half or so each day. A moment here, a moment there. I’ve been using my angst over certain situations as fuel. I have dissected my broken heart and used words to describe the agony, 500 words and 20 minutes at a time. I’ve written passages specifically meant for works in progress. (Good Lord, there are a LOT of them.)
Writing in this way is not advised. I prefer to have chunks of time (at least three hour blocks) dedicated to fleshing out my stories. However, I’m giving myself a one-time pass for using the patchwork tactic. Partially because it seems to be working, and partially because I *think* there may be a light at the end of the tunnel.
In the meantime, I have a notebook of moments, scenes, dialogue, sketches, rants, that I can draw upon later.
After all, summer’s almost over. When I finally snag an afternoon of solitude, I’ll be prepared.
Lemonade, anyone?
I am currently armpit deep into a MS with a beginning and a middle but no end, and waiting on my Editor for Life to provide feedback for another finished novel. My head is full of [too many] words. So I guess I’ll just unleash a rant on a completely unrelated subject.
Equality and the Fairness Issue
For some reason, there’s been a lot of emphasis put on the “virtues” of being “equal” or “fair.” I really don’t get it.
I know. I’m old. I’m a freaking dinosaur. I’m definitely not hip. I’m so opinionated that I’m politically incorrect. I’m also busy with my own pursuits; I don’t have time to luxuriate in new (maybe imagined?) slights.
There seems to be some consensus that if only the playing field were level, people would be happy. If only minorities could get a special dispensation for being minorities, they could get into college. Or if only the Evil Rich One Percent would give away all their money, the poor wouldn’t be poor. Even our President and our Pope says we have to do something about income inequality.
If only we could get special consideration for our shortcomings, no matter what they are.
If only, if only.
(Let me say right here, right now, that I’m several shades of minority, I’m a woman, and I’ve been on the dole – for three months, the worst three months of my life. So I’m not an over-privileged white person who has never had to struggle.)
It’s not fair! *stomps foot* Remind you of something? Like a headstrong toddler who wants candy NOW or a defiant teen who wants a later curfew? As if demanding “fairness” will make the world right.
The world isn’t right; it was never right. It’s not going to be right, ever.
Life is not fair, so what?
I might be in the minority, but the purpose of life is not to get everything you want. The purpose of life is to work for everything you want. It’s to take your struggles, puzzle out a solution, and come out on the other side a better person.
The past might be a bad thing, full of heartbreak and injustices. So what?
At what point do you drop the past and journey into the present (and the future) on your own two feet?
One should build (positively) on the mistakes of others, instead of falling back on the negatives of the past.
And here, for my own personal rant of things that aren’t fair:
1. It’s not fair that my ancestors were Native American. It’s not fair that my great-grandfather had to take my grandmother (when she was a toddler) and hide her in the northern bogs of Minnesota to escape the Bureau of Indian Affairs and their plan to put them on a reservation. It’s not fair that for much of her life my grandma couldn’t vote, hold property, or drink alcohol because she was 1/2 Chippewa.
2. It’s not fair that the male members of my Greek grandfather’s family were killed by the Turks, and that he had to travel across the ocean all by himself to start a new life in America.
3. It’s not fair that my father had to join the Army to escape poverty. It’s not fair that after he married my mother, she had to wait in the immigration line for two years and accumulate 4 inches of paperwork to come here and become a citizen.
4. It’s not fair that I had to quit college before finishing my degree. It’s not fair that eating and putting a roof over my head became more important than my education.
5. It’s not fair that my health insurance is so high (even though for an old lady, I’m in fairly good shape) that I’ll probably have to work the rest of my life just to be able to afford it.
6. Speaking of that, it’s not fair that I’ve worked since 16 (actually 13, if you count the time spent working for my father in his gas station) and that I’ll NEVER be able to retire.
7. It’s not fair that I have to pay taxes. It wasn’t fair that my tax dollars couldn’t fund a decent school system and we had to pay out of pocket of our kids’ education, or that our tax dollars aren’t enough to repair the city-owned sidewalk in front of our house and we’ll have to pay for that ourselves. Or that we pay exorbitant fuel taxes to keep the roads up, but they’re still like driving on the moon. (I wouldn’t mind taxes, if I could see a return on investment that wasn’t lining some millionaire politician’s pocket with retirement possibilities.)
I guess I could throw a couple more trivial unfairness issues on that shit pile, ones that have to do with writing. It’s not fair that I don’t have unlimited time to write, or that I don’t have a wonderful agent, or that I’m not traditionally published, or that I’m not sitting on a pile of writing-related money.
*********This part of unfairness rant over. It didn’t feel good, so it was likely not worth it.************
My husband (who is very wise) says that for some the whole “fairness” issue is not one of leveling the field, but rather it’s borne out of jealousy. Whipping out fairness (or unfairness) is the easy fall-back explanation for everything not right in your world. It’s a way of blaming everyone else for your woes, instead of working toward fixing the problem on your own. You can give people whatever they want, but you can’t give them happiness, or equality. These things come from within.
As for me, I’m going back to doing what I do best: making my own world better, despite my shortcomings, my history, and my circumstances.
And I’ll be happy no matter how unfair life is.
I am currently in the middle of writing the first draft of my fifth (!)* novel.
As with my first effort, Finding Cadence, I’m starting out with a load of vague ideas and a kinda-sorta story line. I have characters, and they all have their own problems (i.e. baggage). I have a situation, which will eventually culminate with a show down of sorts on the biggest, most iconic bridge in America, hell, probably the world (the Golden Gate). Other than that, I have a notebook and a pencil and a bunch of scenes. At this point, I’m letting my imagination do the talking and walking. Somewhere later on, I’ll have to tie these people together and resolve their problems.
This, my friends, is known as the “pantser” method of writing a novel. Being a pantser means you don’t write outlines (because you’ve never been able to stomach them), you don’t use 3×5 cards or sticky notes (because it’s a waste of cardboard and you know how I love trees), and you don’t do any preliminary work, like figure out who your characters are (because you are an artiste and why should you bow to convention?).
Yeeee-ah…
I’ve also written novels using loose outlines and sketched out story lines for my characters way in advance. Consider my Virtually Yours books, where I’ve got a lot of characters and thirty days worth of time to get the story finished a al NaNoWriMo. Thirty days is nothing. I don’t have time to mess around with pretty prose or inner character angst.
Having done both pantsing and outlining, I would agree it’s much easier to proceed when you have a plan. It’s still not foolproof and writing a novel is still daunting, but the work seems to flow more seamlessly.
Writing is a lot like painting a picture. Having done a fair amount of painting (since I was an art major, once, a long time ago), I can say that my best work started out with sketches. Stream of consciousness painting can work, but it’s more like creating without a clue. (It can be done, it’s just a different journey.)
As we all know, I’m a rebel artist. I resist convention. I currently design jewelry, and I’m sassy during class demonstrations.** I have taken pantsing to a new pinnacle when it comes to metals. Me, sketch out a design? You’ve got to be kidding me.*** There is a downside. Oh, if you could only see my scrap-junk-failed projects drawer…
Pantsing is a very interesting way to write a novel. It takes longer and it’s fraught with landmines. You might have to write and rewrite to achieve the desired result.
However, if you’re open to constant change, it is definitely a way of discovering infinite possibilities.
Either way, I’m writing.
__________________________
* I know. Can you believe it? I got from an opening line to a “The End” four frigging times? Unbelievable!
** Ask my teacher, Mary. She will give you an extended run down of what a horrible challenging student I am.
*** That sound you heard was my butt hitting the floor, as I fell of my chair, laughing my ass off.
It has to do with the fact that I’ve been busy getting my novel ready for release.
Can we say “YAY” or SQUEE? Or sympathize and pray for my soul? 🙂
Yes, I’ve decided to publish FINDING CADENCE myself and I’ll go into the reasons why in a later post (I keep saying I’m going to do that, but my notes keep getting larger and larger and I might have to chop my one post into three more manageable ones), but today I will tell you a little about my book by using the world-famous Chuck Wendig’s Ten Questions About [Fill in the Title]. I hope he won’t be mad that I lifted his device from his web site, but I figure if an author can’t answer the ten questions, he/she should probably find another line of work.
So without further ado, I’ll get on it.
1. Tell us about yourself; who are you?
Wife, mother, business owner. I MAKE time to write. I began writing as soon as my mother put a pencil in my hand. (Cliche, I know. She regretted it, especially after I was expelled from Catholic school for…writing.) I enjoyed some local success in high school, some journalistic endeavors in college, 100 pages of a first novel (still in my basement – somewhere). Then came life and I figured eating and putting a roof over my head was more important than art. Marriage, babies, when the babies went to college, I started writing again. It’s a full circle.
2. Give the 140 character pitch.
Recent widow learns ugly truths about her husband, her best friend and herself. She overcomes financial and personal hurdles to find peace.
3. Where does the story come from?
While obviously the story is fiction, you may pull threads of it from my life. I drew much on what has happened to me, my time in Michigan, Colorado, and my love for San Francisco. How music has played an important role in my life. There are parallels with the son in the story and my own son, both classically trained pianists, both attended the San Francisco Conservatory, both with a soft spot for Rachmaninoff. The list goes on and on, but remember…this is fiction.
4. How is this a story only you could have written?
See #3. Plus I’ve felt that ultimate betrayal in the way Cadie experiences it – enough of a blow where it leaves you incapable of functioning. I wanted to get that across, as well as the healing.
5. What was the hardest thing about writing FINDING CADENCE?
There were many. The first one, getting to “The End.” It took two years. After that, cutting and editing. My first draft was 175K words. It took some convincing for me to see I didn’t need all the words. After that, editing became a matter of tightening.
6. What did you learn by writing this book?
Everything! This was my first completed novel and I made all the rookie mistakes you can think of. I took classes, I bought reference books. Somehow I turned a mindless stream of consciousness blob into a story with an arc, a reveal, and everything!
7. What do you love most about this book?
It’s cohesive and makes sense. It’s a book about adversity and hope. I love how it’s finished (finally!) and I can move on to other projects.
8. What don’t you like about it?
Dare I say it? I don’t know if it’s “literary” enough. I know it shouldn’t matter, I should write my best story and let it go. I went for literary with this one, and don’t know if I succeeded.
9. A favorite paragraph from the story (the fourth paragraph):
Carter, consistently late, would be later still because of the storm. A fine pinot, first a glass, then more, kept me company. Hours of waiting on my husband turned my annoyance to vexation. Outside, my wind chime collection banged hard against the garage wall, the once soothing tinkles replaced with dissonant clatter. I remember thinking, if Jackson were here he could name the pitches of each steel and copper rod, contralto A flats clanging against high C sharps. Behind the discordant score, the wind’s relentless, anguished caterwaul vying for attention.
10. What’s next for you as a storyteller?
I have two completed manuscripts to edit and query. One is Virtually Yours Forever, the sequel to my first novel, and a YA tentatively titled Acorns and Oaks. There are other 100 page starters that beg to be completed too. I’ll be busy, no doubt.
Having just spent the better portion of a year editing my Epic Tome (and just completing a perfunctory proofreading a few days ago), I have to pat myself on the back. It’s been a long, strange, hard, ass-kicking journey since my first thousand words scribbled on a series of Northwest Airlines napkins (and the back of my itinerary, and my boarding pass, and along the margins of a magazine I was reading). That idea ballooned into a monster that I ended up giving a literary colonic bypass to. Thanks to classes, reference books, writing friends, my Editor for Life, etc., I learned the ropes to better writing – the hard way.
The most basic rule concerns descriptors: adverbs and adjectives. Especially with the dreaded adverbs, if you use them, don’t, or at least, use sparingly.
I didn’t believe this rule at first. I LOVE words. I LOVE descriptors. I love flowers, and I (thought) loved flowery prose. I love obscure words, I love reading them and discovering them. I like to throw in a couple of unusual words here and there. A seldom used word causes me to think, and I would imagine the reader has to reach inside and think too. (That’s my thought anyway.)
The -ly words add punch to ordinary speech. My father is a big user of them – literally, evidently, actually; to me, it makes him sound like a backwoods philosopher, even though it’s been more than a half century since he’s lived in the backwoods and he’s not much for philosophy. But writing is not speech, as I was to learn later. The human brain doesn’t need to see these words, and super descriptors end up being super distractions. So for my own work, I searched and replaced, and used SmartEdit to remove the redundancies, to eliminate the adverbs, and to tone down the adjectives.
Really, just, completely, seriously, you don’t need them.
After all these years, I think I’ve gotten smarter about writing.
Unfortunately for me, now that I have a working grasp of the rules, the descriptor overdose in other writers’ work is glaringly apparent. I not only read for entertainment, now I’m an accidental English teacher armed with a red Sharpie. Believe me, I’m no teacher, but adjectives and adverbs blink at me from the page. It’s disconcerting. Sometimes it’s so annoying, I cannot finish reading the book.
I’m currently reading a sweet little romance (an ARC sent to me by Simon and Schuster) that I’ve been asked to write a review for. I like the characters, but I found it hard getting over the uber-liberal use of descriptors, especially within the first two chapters. It so annoyed me, I had to put the book down. I’m about halfway through now, and the reading is easier. It’s as if the author came to her senses during Chapter Three and toned down the adverbs to a sensible level.
As a person who once suffered from LUAA (Liberal Use of Adverbs and Adjectives), I know why she and others write like that. We think it’s witty. We think we are wordsmiths, turning a phrase with literary gymnastics. We think it will make our characters appear snarky/sassy/sad/insert-descriptor-here. We think it will draw attention to our work.
Well, writers, I can tell you, it DOES. But it’s not the kind of attention you want, really.
It’s like dressing up a beautiful girl in sequins and hooker heels. We’re stunned by the get-up, not by the person under it.
What writers need for a successful book is a compelling story, honest characters, and eventual redemption. Feather boas and chrome plating gets in the way of the story.
Yes, descriptors were used in the writing of this piece. Please feel free to ignore.
🙂
I wish I could say I completed the 2013 NaNoWriMo with 50,000 words written easily and under my belt, but it was not to be…
*sigh*
Oh, I had good intentions. I started out with a bang. I knew the story I wanted to tell. I racked up a worthy word count within the first week – even exceeding the minimum daily count. But something else happened.
One, I really wanted to finish my edit of Finding Cadence. NO, I REALLY WANTED TO FINISH IT, ASAP. This is a story that must come out, somehow. I’m not getting any younger, and this novel has languished in various stages of disrepair since 2007.
After you’ve stripped and layered a manuscript for nine months (funny, that gestational metaphor), after you’ve taken classes specifically for this MS, after you’ve deleted and inserted, sweated, re-inserted what you deleted two weeks before, ran the thing through SmartEdit a couple of times, and let two editors and a couple of BETA readers have a go, there was only one thing in my sights: Finishing this sucker.
This is where I tell you that 2013 NaNo was a bust. Yes, I’m an abject failure this year. I had to suspend my new story – which is going to be great by the way, once I get going again – to polish my old (very old) story.
I had to make a gut-wrenching decision, one that didn’t come easily. I decided to prioritize.
I fretted over it for days. I like to write while the fire is hot, because there is nothing more motivating than passion. I had a burning desire to begin the new story, but I had a bigger urge to finish the old. That’s because by hook or crook, if I have to crawl over shards of broken glass, I’m going to get this story out of the edit stage of its life and into the final production stage of its life.
This is a huge move for me. After years of cobbling together a writing schedule, I realized I can’t flit from one work in progress to another. Maybe other writers can do it, but I can’t. My novels are so different from each other, i.e. they don’t fit into a single genre, that I have to concentrate on one at a time. It’s too hard to get into the serious-literary-thoughtful voice after you’ve been playing in the sassy-fun-romantic voice.
So I spent the last three weeks of November working on Cadence, jiggering the developments, the ending, the arc. I took that baby apart and put it together. I somehow eliminated 6K words. (I might have to add a few somewhere, but I’m not so concerned about it; I think this incarnation is as tight as it can be.) Then I shipped it off for more eyes to view.
I’m going to take a couple of days off, just vegging and clearing my head, before I start working on another first draft in sore need of editing. And when I have the time, I’ll add to the new story, but my main priority is to get what I’ve already finished (two manuscripts!) whipped into shape before I finish NaNo 2013.
Sometimes you have to prioritize. It hurts. But sometimes you must. Believe me. A finished result will lessen the hurt.
And I mean very quick. I have things to do – lots of things to do.
First of all, it’s Day 2 and I’ve already exceeded my minimum word count per day. Chugging right along! I am thinking there are several reasons why this year’s NaNo seems to be easier in previous years. I’m basically a pantser, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a plan.
If you’re attempting NaNoWriMo and are having difficulties, just keep these things in mind:
1. It helps you you have the characters, at least one or two main characters. You won’t need to know the depth of character yet, but it’s helpful to name them, have a general idea of what they look like, and also have a plan for them. Your plans can always change, but it’s easier to write if you already know their beginning, middle and end.
2. It helps to have a time set aside for writing. And I mean time you use wisely. The last two days, I’ve been out of town and therefore on my East Coast schedule while on the West Coast. I’m up at 3 a.m. as a result, and I’m using my sleeplessness to write.
3. Write as fast as you can. Don’t edit, don’t worry. That comes later, after you finish the challenge. Grammar doesn’t have to be perfect, the plot doesn’t have to thicken, just get down as much as you can as quickly as possible.
4. Always carry a notebook! I lost my hotspot capabilities and my trusty notebook came into play as a back up. You can’t easily count the words, but it’s easy enough to type them in when you’re ready.
5. Most of all, be kind to yourself. If you falter, don’t beat yourself up. Try to do better the next time.
Okay, fellow writers, that’s it for now. I’m going back in.
Happy writing!
Anyone who knows me (and probably a lot of people who don’t) and who has been listening to me bitch over the last month and a half has probably known that I’ve been armpit deep into a major edit.
Writers, here is the down lo: Editing a manuscript is not easy. Editing a first manuscript is enough to make you tear your eyeballs out with your jaggedly fingernailed hands (jagged because who has time for a manicure when there’s so much to do?) and throw said peepers across the kitchen and into the compost bowl. Your eyes will belong with the slugs and the fruit flies after a gazillion hours of cut and paste, semi-and-major plot shifts, and more cut, cut, cutting.
Obviously, it’s my feeling that my story is good. This story is my life, on more than one level. If I’d thought it was a stupid story, a horrible story, or a meager attempt, I would have cut my losses and erased all 175K words from my hard drive the weekend after attending my first writers conference. (In San Francisco. In 2009.) That weekend was an eyeball-opener, when I learned that what I thought was complete was so far from it, I might well have started from scratch. But you know me, hard-headed. I have a burning need to complete this novel to my satisfaction. And I would not have invested in critique groups, in associations, in conference fees, in online classes, in reference books, in following authors or studying (stalking) agents, or in editing services if I thought the book wasn’t worth it. (Let’s not add all those boxes of hair color to that fire. I have children I can blame my gray hair on.) No, I would have given up on fiction and continued my path as a wag and food snob and travel reviewer, with occasional forays into opinion pieces.
I still love food and travel, and I have plenty of opinions, but I made the choice to write a N-O-V-E-L. Writing fiction is an awesome choice, one fraught with pitfalls, one full of responsibility, and certainly not one taken lightly.
Editing is like trimming a tree. I personally subscribe to the Sukiya or Japanese style of pruning. I try to get as close to the tree trunk as possible. I might sit under it or inside. I study whether the branches cross. I snip away anything that does, or any growth that might point down. Unlike Western gardeners, who whip out their electric trimmers and hack from the outside, I trim from within.
You know what they say, cut the dead wood out, new growth will take off.
Now that the major plot shift hurdle has been achieved, I’m back on the path of not-so-major editing. You know, tightening up my sentences, Things have been going swimmingly, at least the last few days. But in case you don’t get enough advice as to how to edit, here are a few tips that have worked for me.
1. Back story – do you need it? I thought I needed mine. After the twenty-fifth edit (or thereabouts), I realized why I wrote it in. Back story is comforting to a writer. It supports the reason for the character’s being in the writer’s mind. Other that that, you really don’t need it. The reader doesn’t need it. The reader first wants to be let in on your world. Your character must be sympathetic enough for the reader to want read on. Later on you can explain your character’s motivation by using the back story. LATER ON. I’m now in the process of eliminating all references to back story in the first part of my book. I plan on introducing some of it in the second and third parts. Where it belongs.
2. Passive verbs. Was, is, weak verbs, take them out. Change the sentence structure so that your verbs are meaty. You’re not going to eliminate all of those passive verbs, but you can definitely remove a ton.
3. Adverbs, adjectives – No, no, and no. In this current run through, I can see – clearly – too many descriptors. I’m taking out all that are unnecessary.
and finally…
4. Dialogue. It’s a good idea to read OUT LOUD your dialogue. I’ve done it several times already, but this last trip down the editing lane, I realized the speech of the son was rather stilted. Excellent grammar and good English, but not how a 20-year-old would speak. Even the socialite wouldn’t quite speak the way I had her speaking.
Keep in mind that I’m no expert and am only a student of the written word. And while the book’s not perfect – yet – I think I’ll still bask in the glow of my modest achievements.
It’s true: sometimes you must step away from your work long enough to gain a different perspective.
This is why writers seek feedback. (Perhaps not all writers, but this one does!) We use our family members and friends, look for critique groups, employ the use of editors and book doctors – basically run our manuscripts through the wringer and then some. Some use feedback to gloat and marinate in praise. I need it because I see the value in being slapped silly every now and again.
Take my good friend, The Little Fluffy Cat. She’s not really a cat, but a great writer, and on top of that, a kick-ass editor. I’ve emailed her passages and she red-lines and returns them in minutes. “No, this won’t work.” “Adverbs?” “Purple here.” (These aren’t quotes, but it’s along those lines. Plus there’s many strike throughs. I can almost hear her sighing from Texas.) I don’t ask her often, because she’s a busy woman. I ask her when I need an unvarnished review. I’m not sure what she really thinks of me, but I must be somewhat amusing because we’re still friends after all these years.
It smarts a little to read a LFC edit, but she’s 100% right.
And while I have an Editor for Life, I like the idea of another pair of eyes. I’ve signed up for classes to work on my manuscript, one that’s already been through the editorial process. MANY times. I am thinking that my ED may be too close to me to give me an unabashed review. (He likes me. I like him. As a person, not just an editor.) I suspect my ED is like me, the writer. We are too close to the trees to see the forest. (Or too close to the forest to see the trees.)
Recently, I signed up for a Savvy Author mentoree class for my manuscript, Finding Cadence. The current edit is better, much better, but I’m going for making this manuscript the best I can. While waiting for my Book Doctor-Mentor to read the manuscript, I hurried to finish the current edit.
Then I put the book away.
She called me a week or so later and we had a nice chat about what she liked, what she didn’t like, what was unclear, and what could be improved. New Eyes Hillary pointed out a few things that were true, basically the sapling trees I’d forgotten were in my forest. She had me send her an outline. This took a while, because the outline saved on my computer was a few incarnations of this book ago and the middle and end was nowhere close to what it is now.
Again I put the book away.
Lately I’ve been working on a different edit. My brain has been full of Cadence for the last six months. It’s time to give it a temporary rest, while I pursue some other work.
If your work is starting to look like a blur of green, step away from the forest. When you return, it will be that much clearer.
In addition to writing – like I have time for other pursuits – I also create jewelry. It started out a simple diversion with pretty beads, but has now grown into a monster of another color. I love rocks and stones, I like copper and silver (silver especially now that the price has plummeted.) My creations are, how do we say this? Not mainstream. It’s not exactly steampunk either. Like my writing, it’s… me. Singular, unusual, and me.
Okay, it’s more than a diversion and you twisted my arm; call me a jewelry artist. A crazed one.
Each Tuesday during the school year, I take a metals class at the local art center. This is known as three hours of ME TIME. I’m a busy woman; if I didn’t consciously manufacture time for writing, working out, gardening, cooking, or cleaning, I would not write, I’d be 300 lbs., my yard would be overgrown, I’d subsist on fast food, and you wouldn’t be able to see the floor through the cat hair. That’s why I carve out one teeny, tiny three hour niche for playing with wire (and fire).
My latest endeavor once I get to class is going through the discards box, which normally contains about 50 lbs. of copper scrap. Copper is the provided metal of choice for this studio. (Honey, if I work in silver and there are leftovers, my bits and pieces goes into my own personal scrap pile.) The failed pieces of other classes, twisted wire, sheets of fire patina flat stock, shards of cut copper triangles that are sharp enough to be used in an operating room, I scavenge through for just the perfect shade or color or twist. I especially love the wire I pull out of there; you can’t replicate the compaction and then the freed wire squiggles, even if you tried.
I take home my little gems of garbage that start out like this:
and sometimes I end up creating something like this:
It’s the same with writing.
On my computer hard drive, I have bits and pieces of creative moments. Maybe they’re not well formed stories. Maybe they’re failed stories or the beginnings of ambitious novels. Maybe they are observations or opinions or love letters or chastising treatises on the human condition. Maybe they are parts of poems or the chorus of a song that I wanted to finish once I came into close proximity to my guitar. I have a file of interesting names, places, restaurants. I might note the debris on the beach or the sway of black-eyed Susans in the wind or the roiling energy of clouds before the impending storm.
As a writer, there are always times of self-doubt and self-loathing. Unless you’re a big name author, and a super smart one at that, you’re going to find that writing is hard work. You might love your work, but someone else cuts it down. Your real life might take a turn for the worse and you may want to blow up the entire works as a result. I know of writers who delete and start over.
I’m not that type of artist. I can’t be; I’ve invested too much in my art. I don’t have a lot of free time, and I especially have little time to create anew. Besides, it’s worth it to poke around in the scrap pile. From my perspective, some of the best art can be culled from the depths of the trash heap, re-worked, re-purposed, spiffed up and shined to a glossy finish.
It is so worth the effort.
Funny this article came through my email blast today, regarding naming your characters. Just in time, right when I needed it.
(As an aside: “Grayson?” Are you kidding me? I would have never come up with such a name. George, maybe, but never Grayson.)
I’m in awe of writers who can come up with witty names for their characters. They’re also the ones with inventive Twitter handles and email addresses. I am notoriously terrible when it comes to character names (and Twitter handles and email addresses – it’s j-l-h-u-s-p-e-k for everything). I usually use something generic and stupid, until I’ve finished the piece and start the first edit. Then inspiration might hit me like a bolt of lightning and I might come up with something more interesting. Maybe. Maybe not.
Now that I’ve finished my second edit of Finding Cadence, I’m seriously considering name changes. The manuscript is almost ready for querying, and I don’t want to saddle my baby with character names that are humdrum. I can just see some agent looking at my query and saying, “Maggie? She couldn’t think of anything besides Maggie?” I must give the name process careful consideration; after all, this book is my labor of literary love. When I first began writing, the original name for Cadence’s two-timing husband was “Tom” – as in my brother Tom. I love you, Brother Tom, but the name is BORING. Then my daughter went away to college and hooked up with an a**hole surfer boyfriend from Marin named Carter. After a bit of drama which included several tickets he incurred on her car and a trip to the emergency room (accompanied by a panicked phone call in the middle of the night), I decided to rename my errant-husband-character CARTER. Fit perfectly, and gave me more than a smidgen of satisfaction to click “Find-Replace” with such wild abandon.
Actually, I labored over Cadence’s name for a long time. I started writing the story without a first name, that’s how bad I was. I wanted a musical inference, and Harmony was too cheesy. (My apologies to anyone named Harmony. It’s not personal, honest.) Melody is Cadence’s sister’s name. Then I opened up my son’s Dictionary of Musical Terms and Cadence popped out at me. Now the name makes so much sense, since she didn’t feel any harmony at all for the duration of the story, and her life’s cadence endured its shares of ups and downs.
I might have to rename “Bill,” Jackson’s (Cadie’s son) roommate. I just don’t like the name, it doesn’t fit the character. The character is a big, lumbering, old hippie type. Smart, laid-back, and mildly attractive. Teddy, perhaps? Jerry? Kenneth? Definitely not Fabian.
In Virtually Yours, I ended up renaming just about everyone. Diana became SKYE, Lori became LAUREN, Scarlett became RHETT. (In that case, there was a gender change as well. Don’t ask me, just read the book to find out.)
By the time I’d penned Oaks and Acorns and Acorns and Oaks, I’d already started with kick-ass main character names. Amberly Cooper. Maya Cooper. Clementine Bartlett. Of course, I’m not happy with the sister’s name. Martina. Don’t like it. I’ll probably change it someday. I also will have to change the name of Amberly’s love interest, Trent, and probably Grandma’s. Don’t like either one.
I tend to draw upon my real life peeps for names, which might be why I’d gravitate toward George rather than Grayson. My choices may be thinly or heavily disguised. For example, Jackson’s girlfriend’s initials are M.T., just like the initials of the Real Life girl I based her on. Or I might name someone after a place I’ve been. Blaine comes to mind.
Come to think of it, I had a difficult time naming both of my kids. We called our son “Baby Boy” and wouldn’t name him until the hospital threatened to not release him without a name. And while I came up with my daughter’s name while she was still in utero, we ended up changing her middle name from George (there I go again) to Cristina. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I wanted to keep the peace.
Perhaps I name my characters lamely because they are just germs of ideas, not full fledged people, at least, not until I take them out for a spin and slap them around a little. I saddle them with emotions and problems and flaws they must overcome. Only then do they somehow morph from a two-dimensional thought into a many-layered organism.
The one thing I enjoy about the San Francisco Writers Conference are the contests. Yes, I enter, and yes, I’ve had mixed results, but that’s the whole point. How will you know if you’ll win or not unless you try? I’m also impressed that they hold a similar contest for high school students. Even though I don’t currently have any high school students, I was once one – a long, long time ago.
I have, in fact, told stories as long as I can remember. I like to draw, so many of my tales were illustrated. I had a wild imagination, one so off the beaten path, that in 7th grade I was expelled from Catholic school because of a rather racy short story I wrote that got passed around until it landed in the hands of Sister Mary Ruler-Slapper. (I can laugh about it now, but my mother didn’t speak to me for three months.) It was so bad, I was not only banished, but so were my siblings.
My shortcomings were not in writing, they were in speaking, which is why I never said a word during debate class. However, I read voraciously, skipping right over anything age appropriate and going straight to the classics. The “harder” the book, the more I wanted to tackle it. Book reports: in 4th grade I wrote nearly 30 of them, for extra credit and because I loved to read. That’s more books read than there are weeks of school.
In my junior year of high school, I decided to enter the city-wide Junior League Creative Writing Contest. Okay, so the city was Colorado Springs and not the Big Apple, but it was a big deal to me. My short story was a dystopian, future set tale of a broken down world and one man’s love for a priceless antique chair. I dug it out of the basement about a year ago and typed it — it was TERRIBLE. How did I win Second Place?
I have no idea.
Now I am old(er), and starting to sound like my dad. I am concerned about the reading abilities of our children. I deal with teenagers all the time in my Day Job, and I had two children. As a writer, I’m fearful for these new readers, my potential audience. Many of them can’t read because they were taught some cockamamie theory when in kindergarten. I’m surprised my son can read at all, because at the time, “inventive” spelling was all the rage. He was encouraged (by the school) to spell words however he wanted to. On the other hand, I, as the mean mom, would make him write his spelling words twenty times and then grill him in mock tests. (What can I say? I’m half-Japanese.)
Other kids are dyslexic or have ADD. This would be my daughter. She would read out loud perfectly, but would write out of context or not retain one iota of information. That’s because her mind was thinking about something else – it’s always thinking about something else. She doesn’t enjoy reading, and the only way I could get her to ‘read’ Harry Potter books was to buy the accompanying audio books so she could read along while listening.
My children didn’t grow up deprived; we read to both, all of the time. We supplemented what they were learning in school (had to, even though they went to private schools). We could afford books and I bought plenty. Yet, I believe that neither one (for whatever reason) could read to my ability in 7th grade.
Sure, kids these days read, and the popularity of the Hunger Games and the mad YA market are testament to that. But my own kids have been in “reading” classes where they watch the movies the books were made from – not exactly reading.
I live in the Detroit area, and the city schools have notoriously low graduation rates. Many of the kids I see come through here can barely write their names. Some can’t spell or pronounce the streets they live on. They can read abbreviated text messages, but have no idea how to read a book for the enjoyment of it. Suburban kids might fare a little better, but the standards are still mediocre. Some kids (and adults) these days want to do the least amount of work, to just do enough to get by.
I place advertising in school newspapers, partly because I am a product of several school newspapers (junior high, high school, and college), and partly because I like to read what the current crop of kids are writing. Most of the writing is good, witty, relevant. However, one by one, I am seeing school newspapers being dropped as a class. One advisor told me it was not just the money, but the school spends a good deal of time trying to get test scores up, so they drop the classes that don’t apply to the state test, like newspapers, wood shop, home ec, etc.
The result is kids who can’t create because they aren’t given the chance, and not given the chance, can’t improve their minds. I don’t know if what I’m seeing on a day to day basis is an anomaly, or if it’s a trend. The other question that lingers is if these are writers of the future, what will become of books? What will become of opinion, or art?
That’s why when I see articulate, intelligent teenage writers at the San Francisco Writers Conference pick up their awards and get recognized for excellence, it quickens my heart, if only temporarily.
I still have my fingers crossed.
I know. I am pitifully behind. That’s because I’m semi-recently returned from the 2013 San Francisco Writers Conference. Thanks to this great conference, my head is *b-u-r-s-t-i-n-g* with ideas. Unfortunately, having been out of town for over a week, the other areas of my life are bursting as well.
Before I forget, I would like to relay the best advice on storytelling that I have ever received, thanks to a SFWC workshop lead by Mary Knippel and Teresa LeYung-Ryan. These are two, very smart ladies, and I don’t love them because Mary and I shared lunch and Instagrams of Mark Hopkins’ famed room service hamburgers, or that Teresa is so effusive, she dragged me into a photo after last year’s workshop.
Are you ready? Because this is the wisest sentence I’ve ever heard about writing:
Someone we care about wants something very badly and is having a difficult time achieving his/her goal.
Honestly, it was a lightbulb-over-the-head moment. (Yes, I know. I’m slow. That’s already been established.)
Wiser words have never been spoken. Okay, so you can study hard and obtain a Masters of Fine Art in literature. You can take all the classes on story arcs and layering and the intricacies of denouement the world has to offer. You can belong to the critique group made in heaven (I’d have Edgar Allen Poe, Ayn Rand, and Carly Phillips in my fantasy crit group), or to national writers organizations. You could line the basement walls with past issues of Writers Digest. You might even be able to lock yourself in a room for eight hours straight with no internet and no distractions and tap at the keyboard until your fingers atrophy. You can hang out at conferences and learn from the best.
You can do all these things and more, but if your story cannot be told in this simple sentence, you don’t have a compelling story.
I grew up eons ago, when creative writing teachers claimed a good story had to have conflict – man against man, man against nature, or man against himself. I’m also a fervent believer of having a beginning, a middle, and an end. (You wouldn’t believe some of the writing I’ve read that has none of this.)
Someone we care about [protagonist] wants something very badly [possible end result] and is having a difficult time [the journey] achieving his/her goal.
It’s so simple, I’m wondering why I’d never considered it before. Like, DUH. No wonder I had a difficult time writing the first novel. (By the second one, I’d kinda-sorta figured it out. By the third, I’d fleshed out stories for each of my characters before sitting down to write.)
My new mantra also makes for an excellent measurement for the casual elevator pitch or for the first sentence of a query letter. Breaking down your story to its most basic form (a single sentence) crystallizes the concept, making it easy for the prospective agent to see what the heck your story is about.
I spent the plane ride back to Detroit devising a simple sentence to explain each of my novels. See?
Finding Cadence:
After her husband dies, Cadence Reed tries to find a new normal, but confronted with Carter’s secret life and with finances in disarray, she battles a powerful attorney (and once friend) for control.
Virtually Yours:
A bereaved parent wants to get closer to an online moms’ group, but traverses a minefield of secrets that could blow up the friendship, until the truth finally comes out.
Virtually Yours Forever:
Janna and Ashe are (finally) getting married – that is, if she can lose ten pounds, if Ashe can get over his cold feet, and if the Virtual Moms can book flights through a Snow-maggedon Nor’easter.
Acorns and Oaks:
Amberly Cooper escapes frozen Michigan to her tony life in LA despite a few minor roadblocks: her grandma is crazy, her mom doesn’t want to leave, her Cali friends are uninspired, and oh…she’s 14.
While these aren’t perfect, completing this exercise helped focus my attention on the story, the guts of the matter.
Everything else is icing.
Another San Francisco Writers Conference has come to an end, and just as with the other SFWC I’ve attended, I’ve learned so much. Honestly, they could hold a month-long conference and there would still be things to learn.
One of the workshops I attended was on place being an intrinsic part of the novel. It makes so much sense, you’d think it was a no-brainer. Location description is one tool the novelist can use to transport the reader into the characters’ world.
This is preaching to the choir. I enjoy writing about different places, just as I enjoy reading about different (or familiar) places. As a reader, I want to be able to feel, touch, and smell where the action is. One book that does this seamlessly is the Hunger Games series. I’m a reader not “into” dystopian, teen fantasy, but the author does such a great job of place description (an imagined place), and along with the compelling story, I couldn’t put the book down. In fact, I think about that world even today, months after I finished the series, and compare and contrast the author’s world with the present day one.
I’ve said elsewhere that I enjoy reading stories about places I’ve been. San Francisco comes to mind immediately. I’ll pick up and read any novel with a photo of the Golden Gate on it. San Francisco is a city rich with history, culture, and diversity. The architecture is stunning, the nature of the ocean here is so unlike any seaside I’ve ever been to, and the native plants are intriguing in look and feel. No where else could you find squat trees with gnarled bark, calla lilies growing out of postage stamp sized yards, or trees precariously angled toward the east, their stance shaped by relentless ocean winds. I love the smell of the neighborhoods, the scent of eucalyptus. The people are different, too, a contrast from those in the Midwest, the West, and even from Southern California. Being in the City is an all-out assault on the senses.
Is it any wonder that I love to use San Francisco as a setting? 🙂 It’s why I return: to get an accurate feel of a driving wind on Ocean Beach, the bustle of Union Square, the squeak of MUNI brakes. Because even though I’ve experienced those things in the past, I can lose the memory of such things.
Because a character is in a certain place obviously shapes the way they behave. In the book I’m working on now, Finding Cadence, Cadie begins life in Colorado in the late 1960s, when the high plains were wide open and wild. Then she moves to Michigan and marries into a rich family and assumes the role of socialite, even though deep down she’s far from it. By the time she ‘finds’ herself, in San Francisco, she is a different person altogether, but probably the truest she’ll ever be.
One of the presenters stated you can use the Internet to help with research on your place. I agree, but only to a point. Some places have to experienced in order to get the correct pulse of place. I grew up in Colorado, and every time I return, some sensation comes to mind that I had forgotten; the subtle shading of the mountains, the way storms roll in, the arid landscape. (That’s why it’s handy to keep a notebook on you at all times!) Also, you as the writer will have a different view of a place than another might. You can only trust the Internet so far.
In using place, be careful; I sometimes concentrate so much on place description, it detracts from the story. It’s because I’m so excited about the place, I want to take you there. As a writer, you don’t want to overload your work with too much description (unless you’re writing a travel book). As with all parts of the novel, the descriptions should be succinct, and your use of words should be judicious. Take your readers there with vivid and realistic portrayals, and let the story begin.
Five years ago I was THIS: an author with a freshly pressed “The End” at the bottom of an abyss-like (and therefore abysmal) tome of 175K words. My first novel. I’d researched plenty of writers conferences and thought the San Francisco Writers Conference was the one for me. Highly touted by everyone, and when my writer pals found out Donald Maass was slated as one of the speakers, they pushed me to attend. It’s held in February, when I can usually take a week off without the (Real) world coming to a crushing end. And my son was going to college there, so visiting after the conference was a definite plus. But I was self-conscious and didn’t think my work was good enough. That was the year I thought, “I’m just going to be a fly on the wall and observe dispassionately.” I’ll become the human sponge and soak up all the knowledge I can.
Yeah. Right.
I must admit, I was star struck, flabbergasted, and so amazed that my head didn’t stop spinning for a month. Agents, writers, editors – genuine best selling authors! But there was more to it than a reporter’s unbiased look at a world class writers conference. As with any love, I fell, deep and hard.
Wallflower no more, I made friends. I chatted with people around the country and around the world. Their positive energy and enthusiasm caused me to step outside of my comfort zone. Even though my draft was a first draft, and needed a TON of work, I signed up for agent speed dating and gave it a whirl – where I learned not only was my book not ready for the big time, I was not ready either.
Tomorrow morning at 6 a.m., I’ll be jetting back to the City by the Bay for yet another conference. This year, it’s different. I’m seasoned. Thanks to the SFWC, I have accumulated a ton of writing friends, belong to the RWA (PRO member!) and Greater Detroit RWA, and have an editor that I work with. I self-published what was my second completed novel last year. I’ve learned to stalk agents on Twitter without having them take out a personal protection order out on me. I’m hooked up with so many helpful writing web sites, and have increased my writing reference library by 10 fold. But just because I’ve attended five years in a row doesn’t mean I know it all.
I’m counting on Michael Larsen and Elizabeth Pomada to host another kick-ass conference, where I’ll learn more than my head can possibly contain (and therefore will take copious notes), be thrilled and encouraged by the successes of others, and jump start my mojo so that I can write yet another day.
They haven’t let me down yet.
🙂
OMG. I just realized that in one short week, I’ll be packing to go. Am I ready?
Not really, and it’s not just because I realized when my wayward 7 By 7 (code for San Francisco) daughter came home for Christmas that her suitcase was bulging with MY sweaters (I was wondering where my sweaters ran off to…I dry clean them, so they couldn’t have gone the way of missing socks) and I really need to shop for replacements to fill the holes in my trendy, business casual wardrobe – retail therapy I don’t have time for.
No, it could be that my re-write on FINDING CADENCE still is not finished.
That’s because I’ve been tightening and deleting, and tightening some more. Then I had to reread what was left to determine if it all still made sense. I have to balance a tenuous psychological component with the fact that my antagonist is an attorney running for Governor, so I’ve had to button down the legalities of my story. And I still need to exterminate at least 5K words, to take it from the scary, over 126K mark down to a count that won’t scare off an agent. (I’m fairly confident a little white query lie of 120K will petrify anyone in the biz.) Every once in a while, I drag out my query and take a stab at it. The art of the query is not my major forte. Honestly, it’s like trying to kill an opossum with a chopstick. It’s slow, I’m stupid, and it just won’t offer me a speedy demise.
And while I’m feeling super confident and open to any and all suggestions, I am suffering from the same stomach-trapped butterflies I found in my stomach five years ago – just before attending my FIRST San Francisco Writers Conference. When I was a newbie and afraid of not only agents and editors, but of fellow writers.
Now editors and agents don’t scare me anymore. They’re people, just like me. And fellow writers are the best! They are helpful and kind and many of them stay in touch after our weekend is over. While I’ve made huge strides in my writing, have learned, struggled, written a LOT, queried, even self-e-pubbed, there is still the lingering d.o.u.b.t. You know the drill. Am I good enough? Will my epic tale ever find a home with a good agent, one who has faith in me and my work? Will I ever sell more than a hundred books?
I recently learned I’m not a finalist in the contest this year, another semi-crushing blow (for a minute).
And the final, Big Truth moment? THIS IS MY FIFTH CONFERENCE.
Not that I don’t love it; I do. When I go, I get caught up in the enthusiasm and all the positive energy. I learn something new every year. The SFWC is what I need to drag me out of winter doldrums and writer’s slowdown. No, while the venue is heavenly, it’s just that one would think my learning curve might have improved over time. Over the span of five years (not counting the two years before that I spent on the first draft). Shouldn’t I have been scooped up by now?
Well, I have expended my twenty minutes of doubt and self-pity. It’s time to get back to the edit, and my Honeybaked ham bean soup. And my edit.
See you in San Francisco.
🙂
I will divert myself from lamenting of the woes and trauma associated with writing and trying to get published. Writing is a lot like golf: too many things to think about. Swing, conditions, clubs, stance, reach, etc. Just when you get one thing right, something else falls to the wayside and you’re back to square one. Yada, yada, yada.
Let’s not forget one thing, however; there is an upside to writing.
I’m basking in mine at the moment. 🙂
My friend, Edie, wanted to read VIRTUALLY YOURS, but she’s not very Internet savvy and doesn’t have her own eReader, instead occasionally borrowing one from her friend. On a completely random note having ABSOLUTELY nothing whatsoever to do with this post, HERE is her son. (He’s a hottie.) Edie didn’t want to burden her friend by asking her to buy the book on Amazon ($3.59! Now on sale!). It’s only in ebook format, but I just so happened to have a few review copies in the back of my car, leftovers from when I had sent them to a few book bloggers, so I gave Edie one.
It’s taken her a few days to read, but 20 pages in, she texted me and said how much she loved it. Then halfway through, she called me and wanted to be friends with all of the Virtual Moms. (I’d explained to her that I based this book on a real online group I belong to.) Then came another text wanting to know what was up with Ashe. (It’s a spoiler, so I’m not going to say.)
I saw her at my jewelry class yesterday, and she finally made it through the Big Reveal. “I thought **** was ****! And she remarked how similar the Virtual Mom relationships were like her longtime girlfriends she has known for 30 years. Last night, I received a text saying she finished, she loved it, and when was the sequel coming out.
This morning, I received a short voice mail from her, thanking me for allowing her to read my review copy, and that she can’t stop thinking about the characters, they are so real and interesting. Where the story will take them, where will they be, what will happen in the future.
I’m afraid I’m going to have to bring her a blurb the next time I see her. VIRTUALLY YOURS FOREVER, covers all of that and more. Now I am wondering if I should consider writing yet another novel based on these characters. Perhaps, from the kids’ points of view? The possibilities are boundless.
Listen, I know I may never grace the New York Times Best Seller’s List. I might never win awards for my writing. But the glow a writer gets from just ONE satisfied reader provides enough motivation for me to slog on through the mundane or the bad times. The next time I feel writer’s block coming on (rarely these days, but it can happen), I’m going to refer back to this week, remembering Edie singing my praises.
If you’ve wondered where I’ve been, the editing of Finding Cadence has taken up a lion’s share of my time. Update: I’m still on the second part, although I’m very close to nailing it down, and will then go on to the third part, which will be more like a second edit since it’s so full of new plot twists and characters. The ending is also new.
In the meantime, I’ve finally figured out the RWA PRO loop. I’ve been PRO for over a year, but Yahoo! forums make me want to sell all of my modern devices and go live in a forest somewhere, a forest without electricity. For one, I can’t get into my Yahoo! mail, because my password changed (!) and my attempts to recover are futile. Even when I got into the mail, 90% of it was junk, and I’d spend an hour or so deleting the junk. Somehow, the Yahoo! loop mail now gets transferred to my regular email account. How that happens, please do not ask me. I’m woefully terrible on the computer.
The main topic for the PROs this week was sales, going indie, and more sales. Small house vs. Big House vs. indie, self-pub vs. helped self-pub, etc. The upside of this rather depressing exchange is that selling 100 books is actually not a bad thing (I mention this because that’s just about what I’ve sold). Many, many authors sell that or less. Many, many PRO authors.
I’ve said before that I just don’t get into sales. I have a product, but I’m not going to push it. My lackadaisical attitude probably stems from the fact that when I want to buy something, I despise getting “sold.” Not to decry salesmen (although the used car salesmen are rather slimy-I can say that because there are some in my family) many of whom are great people, but that’s just not me. I’m similarly that way with my jewelry. If people are interested, cool, if not, cool too. In this world, there is art for everyone. I won’t be offended if you don’t like mine.
I might mention VIRTUALLY YOURS every once in a while (currently ranked 519,148 HA!), but I don’t spam my Facebook or Twitter feed with impassioned pleas to buy. I don’t have a “real” author web site, although someday I might, when there is more than one book available. Perhaps if I begged, or invested in blog tours, or passed out freebies, or stood on my head, I could sell more than 100 books.
But…I do not use my creative side to make money (obviously). Being in the business of making money rather sucks. You have to push, sell (a little bit), cut corners, stay within budget, and worry, worry, worry. Oh, we need to make money, and I do it in my day job, but it’s not what I live to do. I’m an artist; I live to create.
Coincidentally, I’m taking another Savvy Author class, this one on The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. She looks at writing as what it is: art.
Unlike a job, though, being an artist requires a certain amount of freedom. You must free yourself from all sorts of conflicts (anger, shame) inside yourself. This makes perfect sense to me, and is how I generally look at living, as though it’s a spiritual journey. A person full of fear, loathing, angst, and doubt cannot possibly make the best art. Of course, trying and trying again, perfecting the art, as well as the artist, is the whole point.
And this week, I was also directed by Book Baby to this post by Michael Larsen of the San Francisco Writers Conference and the Larsen Pomada Literary Agency. Creating Your Literary Ecosystem-I liked it! The ten “P’s” of writing. I was so impressed, I printed it out to keep near my computer when I write.
You see, I might never be a best-selling author, but I will truly be the best artist I can be.
🙂
I don’t like to address this part of the writing biz, because I don’t look at writing (or any art I produce) as a business, but perhaps we as writers should. My cautionary tale today deals with the Big Bamboozle, or how people and companies can make money off your art, leaving you with pennies for your effort. And getting pennies is the positive scenario. There’s also outright plagiarism and broken promises and contracts. Several web sites and email blasts I’ve received this week deal with this problem. I also attended a Greater Detroit Area Romance Writers meeting on Tuesday, and many of the members addressed the issue.
Let me preface this by saying only that a writer should be aware, much like the adage ‘buyer beware.’ I should also say I know nothing from nothing, only whispers and reports. No decent writer wants to slam anyone, be it another writer, an agent, an agency, a publisher (either e-pub or traditional), because, let’s face it, we might not want to burn a bridge we may need later. But with the economy being tenuous at best and the publishing world now a cyber as well as a brick and mortar experience, the likelihood of getting scammed increases exponentially.
I am excited to write. I love it. I like creating a world that started out residing in my head and ends up living in an actual document. I like learning, too. Writing as an art is a learning experience. However, I’m kind of fuzzy on the mechanics of the business. Who wants to bean count anyway? Keeping track of sales is boring. And if you’re like me, you trust in the judgment of others, especially in names that are big, or purport to be big.
I self-e-pubbed my first book, because after a year of querying, I knew it would never be traditionally published because of a lack of narrow genre. It’s not a romance, but has romantic elements. There’s a mystery component, but it’s not a suspense. Chick lit? Well, maybe, if the chicks are old enough to have grandchildren. It’s definitely not literary fiction. It’s a beachy read. There were too many characters. Ya-da, ya-da. There was also the element of being based on the Internet, and the Internet was changing with every keystroke. I also have a sequel in the works, where I’ve updated the technology, but this is a losing battle, as anyone who has bought an i-Anything can tell you. You walk out of the store and *poof* it’s already an antique. So you see how this paragraph alone is enough to send most agents scurrying into the netherlands.
I’ve lately heard a lot of negative press about a lot of presses. This concerns me greatly. I actually spoke with the CEO of one of these firms, several times in person, during the course of several writers conferences. He seems very down to earth, very honest, very helpful, promised to do a good job, yet how could his company garner warning articles all over the Internet? Of not paying on time, not paying at all, providing false documentation as to how many books were sold, etc.?
I will not include links to these articles, on the off-chance that the reviews are specious sour grapes from disgruntled customers; however, I will say this, DO YOUR HOMEWORK. First of all, Google (or Bing-that’s my favorite) “writers beware.” What will happen is TONS of web sites will pop up. Peruse them, study them, keep them as bookmarks for later searches.
Secondly, if you know any writers, ask them if they’ve heard anything about a particular agent/publisher. Published authors have the inside scoop. They won’t want to tell you anything negative, at least the ones I know. Take their comments with a grain of salt, but investigate.
Third, if you’re considering any form of publishing, whether agented or not, read the contract. Understand the terms. If doing so leaves you with a sour pit in your stomach, at least walk away and investigate further.
With the proliferation of do-it-yourself and indie operations online and off, it’s a buyer beware world. It’s heady to see your name in print, but you don’t want to give it away, or worse yet, have it stolen. Don’t slip into the Big Bamboozle.
This weekend’s editing was frustrating, among other things. But Tuesday afternoon I came home and went back at it. Whoa! So much easier that day (why, don’t ask me), and I managed to eliminate another couple thousand worthless words (sorry, “just,” but you’re just not worth it). Having completed the first third of the novel – and feeling very satisfied, indeed – I decided to take a break and cruised around the Internet.
That’s where I found AutoCrit Editing Wizard. It looked interesting, so I decided to test out a few hundred words of the newly edited Part I. In a few short seconds (amazingly short), I received the results. I found I was not in the “danger” zone on anything, except for three cliches (in 40K words, that’s awesome). I’d done a good job of eliminating my overused words, my empty words, and adverbs. Yay, me!
Let me preface this post by saying I do not recommend this form of editing. There is nothing better than to learn the proper way to write, create, and edit. Yes, yes, I know. I am a pantser, but one with an enormous library of reference books and an Internet bookmark list of good writing web sites to back me up. Plus, I am cheap, very cheap. The AutoCrit Editor is expensive; well, expensive to a writer who has sunk a lot of time, energy, and money into reference books and decent editors. At $117 a year for a “membership” – it’s not software you own – it’s not like Dr. Wicked’s Write or Die ($10 donation, and one payment allows you to put the software on every computer you own).
However, AutoCrit is a very fun diversion. I entered a short story I’d written at 16 (second place winner in a city contest) and found it was full of terrible errors. Like I didn’t know that before… when I look at it now, I cringe. To remain on the “free” side of things, you can submit 400 – 700 words to AutoCrit at a time, so it might do well as a final polish to a scene or chapter.
Now, back to work.
My New Year writing resolution would be going quite swimmingly, except for the fact that I’m editing (for the seventh time) Finding Cadence. I signed up for a mentor’s class at Savvy Author, and received the final edit back mid-December. So I’ve been industriously working on her suggestions as to plot and pacing, as well as tightening up my sentences and eliminating all of the unnecessary words. My goal is to finalize the edit and streamline The Epic Tome to 120K words. Should be easy, right? I’ve been working on this baby since 2007. I’ve taken classes, I’ve let BETA readers take a stab, and editors. I’ve bookmarked every helpful writer site on the Internet. This book should be just about finished. Armed with this kind of firepower, I should have the edit sewed up in no time.
Heh…
After this weekend, I’ve come to the conclusion that editing is a bitch.
Saturday afternoon was spent on an entire chapter. After three hours of painstaking concentration, I was nearly ready to throw in the towel. (Yes, I have felt this way about this particular book many, many times in the last five years.) I had to get up, do something else. Changing the sheets seemed like a good idea, especially since I suffer from night sweats and my husband sleeps with a heating pad under his knee. Refreshed by the freshness of Bounced bedding, I returned to the computer, only to struggle for a few more hours.
I took out sentences, I shortened long, cumbersome ones. I reworded and eliminated gerunds and “justs” and questions and empty words like “oh” and “well.” (And “oh, well.”) Still, this particular chapter was a huge struggle, and I felt as though I wasn’t getting anywhere. Especially when I reached the end of the chapter and found my editor’s notes (she must have nothing to edit in between, they are always at the end). She thought I had to pick up the pace in order not to lose readers.
*sigh*
We’re talking Chapter 6 here. There are thirty more to go.
All of a sudden (I know…so cliche), I looked up and realized it was dark. I hadn’t even started dinner; heck, I wasn’t hungry. My husband was on his way home from work; I implored him to pick something up from the grocery store. (My normal modus operandi is to cook from scratch, which is probably why both of us need a crash diet. He was not amused that I hadn’t even planned a meal.) Luckily, I had just wrapped up Chapter 6 (for now), and rushed to put my computer away.
Sunday was a much better editing day. I actually breezed through three more chapters. Still, I’m on a search and destroy mission to pare the first part down. 7K to go. Oh, my.
Cross your fingers, and your toes.
I’ve been hit by a case of the lazies, and it’s only January 4. So this is my announcement that as soon as I post this, I’m going back to editing.
In the meantime, here’s the scoop: I’ve been successfully larded up by the holidays, so will now go into anti-hibernation mode. This includes the writing schedule. For Christmas, one of my little birdies flew back into the nest with her boyfriend. Visitors are a high-caloric time suck. Now that they have returned to San Francisco, I can get busy.
I had a semi-depression on the day before New Years Eve. That’s because I decided to visit the Facebook page of one of my writing friends.
I knew something was up. He hadn’t felt very well throughout the spring and summer. He was like me, posting a couple of things a day on Facebook, then going back to working on his novel or his real life pursuits. All of a sudden, I noted a lack of posts. But I don’t spend much time on the Book of Face, so I figured we were both busy.
Actually, something in the back of my mind scared me from searching further. Something ominous. I’ve always prided myself on my intuition, but this premonition was uncomfortable.
This past Sunday, I decided to look him up, and that’s when I learned the bad news: my internet writing friend had passed away.
His other Facebook friends left glowing accolades, ones that my friend deserved. Because he was not only a writer, a blogger, and a published author, he was also a doctor, a husband, and a father. He played golf and played bluegrass, both fairly well. He possessed a sense of being that’s rare to find. And although he passed away much too young (just 3 years older than I am), he lived a life that can only be described as overflowing.
We couldn’t be more different, he a country doctor in North Carolina and me a sassy Jill of All Trades in the Rust Belt, but I think he liked me. I certainly liked him. He gave me tips on everything, the writing, the music, the golf, the child-rearing, even on the tenuous life of the self-employed.
As I scrolled down the wonderful wishes, all I could think was thank goodness he lived to see his book being published.
I was sad and sick to my stomach for two days. Would I ever see my own book being published by a Real Live Publishing House? I mean before I die. Or was I destined to exit without seeing my goals being met?
I wallowed in my loss for forty-eight hours.
Then I took out my manuscript and started to edit.
This lovely missive was in my email inbox today, from Michael Larsen of the San Francisco Writers Conference. The sentiments expressed are perfect not only for writers, but for anyone who wishes to live a more perfect life.
Thank you, Michael, for keeping it real, and see you in February. 🙂
A Wish List for Perfect Days
In memory of my brother Ray,
a San Francisco Writers Conference benefactor, who had many of them.
If your days were perfect, what would they be like?
Your list will be different, but it might include:
Inside
–desire and necessity
–giving and having
–time and money
–thought and feeling
–comfort and the need to create and serve
–serving others and yourself
–sitting and moving
–screen time and the rest of your life
–work, home, and leisure
–ownership and access
–sound and silence
–planning, flexibility, and spontaneity
–imbalances created by the need to focus on an activity
–yin and yang
In the World
At Home
What makes a day perfect is subjective, but unlike this list, it’s likely to be simple. May every day be as close to perfect as you can make it. Like a rose, you were born to bloom. Now is the time to start doing whatever is best for you and becoming who you were born to be. As Anne Frank wrote: “It is never too late to start doing the right thing.”
Please feel free to share this list. I hope it inspires you and those you love to make a list and share it. This list will always be a work in progress, and I’d like to learn from yours. Many thanks for your time.
Michael Larsen
I honestly don’t understand how some published authors are so prolific. Especially mind boggling are those who have small children, businesses or day jobs, health problems, and the like. My life (especially the last few months) is at times so chaotic, it’s sweet relief to fall into bed at night. As a result, writing as taken a definite back seat.
Yet I try to squeeze out some writing time on a regular basis. I could be doing other things, like being more productive in my business(es) (totally boring), working out (uber boring), or maintaining my house and yard (not so boring, but time consuming). I could promote my writing more, but I’d feel like a huckster on a street corner peddling apples. Plus I’m too laid back (i.e. lazy) to do real promotion. I’m an artist: you either love my work, or you don’t. No hard feelings.
If I have one writing regret of 2012, it’s that I haven’t written MORE. Unfortunately, life threw me a couple of obstacles this year, and precious time was taken up by other more pressing matters. Maybe I was hoping the Mayans were right and I’d have no qualms about my absenteeism if I didn’t wake up on the 22nd.
Of course, that didn’t happen. The sun came up the next day.
2013 is starting early for me. Like TODAY. My writing resolutions are as such:
1. Write more. I know. I say this all the time, but I need self-flagellation on a regular basis. Perhaps I should pencil that in on my calendar? While I’m throwing that idea on the fire, perhaps blogging more would be a good idea too.
2. Write more carefully. (Excuse my probably bad sentence.) Use what I’ve learned over the last few years to prevent writing mistakes before they happen. That way I won’t have such a heavy burden when it comes time to…
3. Edit more carefully. I’ve been working on Finding Cadence since 2007. I’m on my sixth edit, and I’m amazed to find errors and awkward phrasing even now. While I’m not exactly pleased as punch with Virtually Yours, the book served a purpose, mainly to remind me that editing never ends.
4. Study more. I love the Savvy Authors web site. So far, I’ve taken two classes and found them to be most helpful. The support and feedback are wonderful.
5. Network more. While I don’t write genre romance (my work does have romantic elements) I belong to the RWA and the Greater Detroit RWA and I’m a terrible member. I need to attend more meetings. I might need to branch out and find a serious critique group.
6. And finally, finish all of the half-baked projects I have hidden on my hard drive. I’ve got excellent ideas and compelling stories, but they won’t finish themselves. Time is short; I am old. I really need to start writing as fast as I can. After all, if someone with children under the age of 5 can do it, I should be able to.
For writers, writing is life. It’s the air we breathe. We have to channel our imagination somewhere, or we turn into tortured souls.
Leaving now to find my source of oxygen.
This will be a very brief post, because I still have a chapter of Finding Cadence that I’m wrestling with. I really want to finish TODAY. More on that later. When I’m finished. *grin*
I’m happy to announce that I made significant progress on that other WIP (Oaks and Acorns) during NaNoWriMo, in fact, adding 51K words. This year, I decided not to keep a daily tally. I was working from two different documents (each one a point of view of one of the characters) and could see the number of words at the bottom. I’m math-challenged, but I had an inkling of the total.
Between the November chaos, I decided to try to edit Cadence. Not exactly a bad move. My brain was on super ADD mode and I needed the distraction from NaNo. About a week ago, I realized how I was going to end the story! (Most [professional] writers will think I’m insane, but I only had a vague idea of how the story would end, not a concrete finalization of Cadie’s problems.) I only hope my fictionalized ending is legal in most of the fifty states. (Well, at least in Michigan.) Even if it’s not, I have a tidy ending.
And now I am seriously reconsidering my initial decision to publish Virtually Yours as an ebook only. Some reviewers want to look at it – a hard copy of it – which means I have to somehow provide a review copy.
November also saw my dad turning 80, so of course I had to be there for the festivities. Or as he says, remaining vertical. This took away three precious days of writing, but they were replaced by three more precious days with family.
We’re heading into the final stretch for NaNoWriMo 2012, so if you haven’t made it to the 50K mark yet, you only have a mere 24 hours or so to get cracking. Still, this is a good tip, and if you don’t already do it, think about it for next year.
Always, ALWAYS keep a notebook on your person during the month of November. You might not always be in close proximity to your computer and the wonderful word counting abilities of the NaNo web site or Word. You might find yourself in a place where there is no electricity. In that case, a small notebook (and pen) can be an invaluable tool in the writer’s toolbox.
Back in the day, I used to only write in long hand, as my typing skills were less than prolific. Now everyone knows how to type, including my six year old niece. But there are some places where I can’t take technology. These include the doctor’s office and the symphony floor. However, you might be hit by inspiration in one of those two places and have a few minutes to jot down a hundred words or so. (Hint: I also keep pen and paper near the bed, in case I wake up similarly inspired.)
When staring 50K words in one month in the face, you have to bolster your word count every chance you can get.
I raise my glass to you, fellow writers. Here’s hoping that your NaNoWriMo dreams will come true.
Sorry for the week of absence, but my father doesn’t turn 80 every day. I had to go to Colorado to celebrate.
Back to NaNoWriMo: It’s been a wild NaNo this month. The first time I tried (in 2007 I think), I gave up by Day 10. The second time, I got to the 50K mark, as the third time. (I think. Who’s counting?) This time I started out with a bang, took a few days off, resumed with a bang, and then managed to add a few hundred words each day. (How? I’m not sure.)
In addition to being a member of the Romance Writers of America (PRO member, in case any of you have forgotten), I’m also a member of the local chapter, the Greater Detroit Area RWA. (I will admit that I’m a terrible member. I’ve been to one meeting in three years. That’s because meetings are late on Tuesday. Late is bad; Tuesday is worse.) One of the members threw down a NaNoWriMo challenge. She will buy dinner for everyone who makes it. There are occasional emails where we are to divulge our word count. There are only three and a half days left, so we’re all scrambling.
My brief tip for today is to remember: NaNoWriMo IS NOT A RACE AGAINST OTHERS!
I say this because it’s easy to get caught up in competition, especially when there are so many others in the program. And if you come in close, that’s great! (Last year, I exceeded the word count by Day 28; I’m not sure about this year.) And if you give up midway because of family emergencies, sickness, or lack of interest, that’s fine too! At least you tried.
I think it’s great that they give the winners a cyber pin. But don’t beat yourself up if you don’t make it. Give yourself some kudos, because just trying is HUGE.
Believe me, I know.
Day Five of National Novel Writing Month.
After a quick start for Days One and Two, Real Life reared an ugly head and put a temporary kabosh on my NaNoWriMo goals.
All you fledgling writers out there participating in this month’s NaNo knows that you must write approximately 1700 words per day in order to get to 50K by the end of the month. Well, sometimes that happens, and sometimes it doesn’t. It will especially NOT happen if your full time work is NOT writing, or if you’re NOT retired or NOT a lifetime recipient of the MegaMillions jackpot.
In that case, do what I did today: make up for those two days of unproductive looking at your laptop with longing by a marathon writing session when you can afford to do so.
I’ve written 8K words in a day of NaNoWriMo, so I know it can be done. As long as you persevere, you can forgive yourself a day off (or two).
However, despite the reasons why-good, bad, or lame-if you fall off the wagon temporarily, get back up and get on! If you fall off the wagon permanently, forgive yourself and vow to get back on sometime in the future.
Remember, the whole point is to incorporate writing into your daily life. Sure you want to sketch out a novel, and some succeed in doing so. But the competition is not with the thousands of people out there, the competition resides within. And since you are competing against (or for) yourself, you owe it to yourself to be kind.
Keep writing.
This post pertains to mostly NaNoWriMo works, but I guess it could apply to any first draft.
My mantra is “I’m writing as fast as I can!” and during November NaNoWriMo attempts where almost all my first drafts originate, that’s exactly what happens: I write as fast as I can possibly write. It’s essential if you want to make 50,000 words in 30 days or less. I will make time for at least 45 minutes, I wish for an hour, but I sometimes only have 20-30 minutes to get 1,667 words down.
When I’m in Speed Mode, I typically do not put in descriptors. I don’t labor over sentences, their structure, pretty prose, or anything else. I don’t put in “tags” (he said, she said). I see my scenes in my head, very much like like watching a movie, and while I’m writing quickly, I want to spew it all out before I forget what I’m doing and where I’m going. I’m terrible at dialogue anyway, and writing dialogue in this manner forces me to complete the task. (Then I read it over, out loud, but that’s another part of editing.)
Compare this to my first couple of NaNoWriMo attempts (Finding Cadence, Virtually Yours) where I belabored every move I made. If a person has time, maybe that works. In all my life, I rarely have “spare” time – I have to make it, and when I make it, I must use it wisely. It took two and a half years to finish the rough draft of Finding Cadence (two NaNos and then some). Sometimes I spent days on a paragraph, which is not a bad thing, but get the story down first! I ended up with with 75,000 more words than I needed, mostly because I was flummoxed by my sentences. Believe me, cutting is worse than the alternative!
The alternative? Icing the cake.
You have a cake (or a story). The bones of it are there. It’s a good cake. It’s tasty. But that’s all there is, C A K E. It’s dry. It needs something.
I noticed first off in re-reads that my tags were missing. You don’t need them in every sentence with two people speaking to each other, but definitely you need them with three or more, otherwise you’ll get lost. Once the tags are in, I noticed that I was missing the tone and setting of the conversations. Body language, facial expressions, the situation of the room. Yes, you know what’s going on with your story, it’s in your head, but unless you’re very concise, your readers won’t have a clue. (I remember when my editor read my first draft of Virtually Yours, he saw my characters as different people than what I saw. That’s because I didn’t describe them very well.)
After inserting tags, I usually run my manuscript through a word counter, like SmartEdit, using a list of overused words and/or phrases. You can find lists of them online, like this one. I’ve also picked up many lists from the San Francisco Writers Conference workshops. If you don’t have or use SmartEdit, you can use your Find/Replace function on Word. I allow for a certain number of the same word (let’s say “important” – in Cadence it was “family”) but if I see I have several hundred (or thousand! yes, that’s happened!), I will think of an alternate word or phrase that can do the same job but differently.
This part of the editing is where you add the icing. THIS is where you work on sentences and paragraphs, shine them up, add descriptive prose. This is where you work on clarity. Where you add the pretty pink flowers.
Re-read once you’ve finished this part of editing. I’ll also make notes in my notebook, because as we know, I’m severely computer challenged. These written notes will contain the page numbers where I noted the anomaly. (I might change it later, or I might not.) If you can, read at least the dialogue out loud. It won’t be perfect, but when people speak, they rarely do so perfectly.
This draft won’t be ready for print, but it’ll be closer to the finished product.