A Joy Forever

I went to see Brokeback Mountain this week. It was beautifully filmed--the mountains, the snow, the isolated beauty of the scenery. And I was struck most by Heath Ledger's performance. Prior to this, I really hadn't ever paid him an ounce of attention. But in this movie, what an astounding work of art, in that he made you feel the pain of his character, made you forget he was acting. The loneliness and ache of Ennis was palpable. You could almost feel it reach out to you. Ledger's acting was a thing of beauty.
Sometimes, as a writer, I'll listen to music, a turn of some lyrics. I used to write poetry, had several poems published, miss writing it and occasionally contemplate crafting poetry again . . . certain phrasing in a song will therefore awe me. Sometimes, it's a movie, a snippet of dialogue that astounds. It's so perfect. And I occasionally will just fall into a complete funk, wondering, "Will I ever create anything so beautiful in my life?" It's not envy per se. It's just an intense admiration, and the sense I always have that life is so utterly short and I want what I create in all mediums to be affecting. As the line of poetry goes, "A thing of beauty is a joy forever." Creating as a writer, I have these intense surges of angst. I know sometimes when I "nail it." A scene. A line. The opening lines of The Roofer are My first instinct was to look at the corpse. It's what all the Irish do. We lay our dead out in the front of the room . . . With that book, I just knew a lot of it was poetry. Other times, like most writers, I presume, I wonder what the heck I am doing. Like did Heath Ledger ever wonder what his agent was thinking when he did A Knight's Tale?
So it's all about beauty. The process of creation, of making something from nothing. I love the process, but sometimes your heart bleeds a little.

No Offense

As a novelist, once in a while, I worry if I offend my readers. Well, not really. I already know there will be a segment of the population that has a cow because there is a gay character or because an Asian woman dates a white man, or a black man goes to bed with a white woman or vice versa. There's incest, violence, murder in some of my books. I don't do it to get a rise out of people, I do it because that's the way my story comes out. And if you're easily offended, then my guess is you go and buy Christian chick lit, or you buy some other author that you can count on not to offend you, and like the remote control, that's every reader's choice and option.

As a person . . . I used to sort of go out of my way to rebel against people and try to challenge them on their preconceived notions. I used to go gunning for a fight if I met a racist or a guy who had a problem with a strong woman. Now that I have changed a little spiritually, I do that less so. I'm a lot more inner-directed.

But I wonder, as a WOMAN and a WRITER, in those two roles, whether there is is this thing about most women where we are afraid to offend. It's almost like society tells us, be polite, don't offend, don't make waves.

One of my kids, age eight, wants a Chinese zodiac necklace. She just wants one. She also wants a Buddha necklace because I wear two. We have been shopping online, checking out different sites that offer Asian-inspired jewelry. I think it's great she's into exploring other cultures. But as she chose a necklace (year of the OX is her sign--she's less than thrilled she's not a dragon or something "cool"), she said, "If I wear this to Sunday school, do you think I will OFFEND people?" Now, trust me, she didn't get this message from me. So I wondered, is it cultural that we try to raise our GIRLS this way? Because let me tell you, there's murder, WAR, POVERTY, AIDS, UNFAIR TRADE POLICIES, and a zillion other things to get militant about, to protest, to OFFEND us. Not if a girl chooses to wear a necklace. Not if I choose to write a piece of fiction with a gay character. Not that a rapper has curse words in his lyrics.

So . . . I don't know. I think the subtle message to our daughters is DON'T OFFEND. And I hope by what I write that I don't send that message. Be you, I want my daughters to know. And if the rest of the world takes offense? Too bad.

The Best Thing

I write YAs as Liza Conrad, and consequently, I sometimes go to schools to talk about being a novelist. I usually open with a question: "What do you think is my favorite thing about being a novelist?"
I get some great answers.
Being famous.
Umm . . . no. Last I checked I can walk down the street without fear of being mobbed by fans (though I am, oddly enough, occasionally asked to sign a book, which is cool). Nope. I'm not famous.
Being rich.
Umm . . . most especially not. Even if I was making Stephen King money, which I'm not, and even though I am well-paid, I have four kids and a leaky roof. A disobedient, FAT, well-fed dog, a bird with expensive taste in bird food. Rich, I am not.
Booksignings!
Nope. Not that either. In fact, sometimes they're awkward. Occasionally they are fun. Usually my coffee mug is filled with wine to make the time pass. Sort of kidding about that last comment.
What then?
I get to work in my pjs. Personally, I think that is the coolest thing in the world. I get to sit in a chair and make stuff up for a living. That's what I tell them.
But lately, I have a new answer.
In October, in time for Breast Cancer Awareness Month, Red Dress Ink released Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven. It's about a woman with breast cancer and her best friend, a gay writer. At first, I was worried that the depiction of a mature gay relationship (not the "Jack"-type character from "Will and Grace") would bring me hate mail. Then, who knows, maybe Brokeback Mountain seeped into enough of the collective unconscious. I got one or two negative comments, and one review I found narrow-minded and offensive, but no hate mail. What I have gotten, daily, weekly, for the months this book has been out, are emails from people from all walks of life. Gay, straight, old, young, teens, and grandmas. All saying the book touched them. It reminded them to celebrate the life of someone they loved who died of cancer. The humor in the book (because I do think your humor is sharpened when death comes knocking) made them laugh and remember some poignant moments. I heard from gay men who applauded a gay relationship being depicted in a loving way. I heard from way too many women who lost friends and sisters to breast cancer. But they all shared. Some mornings, after my webmaster forwarded me emails, I would cry in my coffee. For real. I felt it such a privilege to get to know all these people who have passed on and who are still loved and remembered. I felt honored that people would be so touched by a book they would write me.
So now, I have decided, as I have written back to each and every person who wrote me . . . and sometimes that's kept my fingers typing for quite a while each day, that THAT is the best part of being a novelist. I wrote something that touched people. I shared with them. They shared with me. So to all of you . . . thanks.

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been

Just came back from a conference where I spoke about chick lit and YA chick lit and the marketplace. I brought along my youngest child and my mom, and the baby intuitively knew that somehow I needed to be on my game, thus he ensured that he spent half of each night crying, the other half nursing, and that I couldn't even go to the bathroom without him clinging to my leg. If I slept a total of six hours over 72 hours, that was a lot, and all the coffee in the world wasn't going to give me a brain. I was rather like the scarecrow and there was nothing in the Wizard's bag for me.
I have never been to a conference before. Ever. I am solitary by nature, and though outgoing, the rebel in me means I tend not to like organized events and anything where someone says "You have to be here at such and such a time." Is it any wonder I'm a novelist and not a nine-to-fiver? But I had a fabulous time. Met some WONDERFUL writers like Nancy Robards Thompson, Leanne Banks, Diane Peterfreund, Julie Leto, and Traci Hall. And many others.
And of course, one of the the questions asked over and over again by aspiring novelists was . . . how did you get published?
And I hate that question because while I was at the conference, I realized that for so many, it was attending conferences and networking. And that would be a great story if that was mine. Because THAT really is a great way to make connections needed. There are editor pitch sessions, and it's a way to fine-tune and hone your pitching skills.
Instead, I have one of those ridiculous tales people who endure years of rejection hate . . . I sold my first novel (not counting the one I wrote at 22 when I still didn't even grasp what passive voice was), met an agent, said can I send it to you, and had a book contract in three months. So my God, that's not what people want to hear.
However, because I did have to share that this weekend, I did get to thinking. Even though I have a hideously "easy" story of my route to publication, there are some important lessons in there:

1. I had honed my craft by being in a writer's group since I was 22 (over ten years of weekly writing meetings), always trying to learn, learn, learn. My college degree, though from a fancy university, really ill-prepared me for being a writer. I learned "book smarts" and had a minor in creative writing, a degree in English and journalism, with sociology thrown in for good measure, but really . . . it was the trenches of writing groups that taught me the most. I learned from other writers.
   
2. That said, you're often told write what you know. I sort of do. And well . . . I had to live a little more before I had something truly worthwhile to say.
3. Even though I met my agent in a "must be fate" kind of way by standing next to him at an event, it was STILL, in a sense, one of those networking things. Six degrees of separation is alive and well.
4. By the time Spanish Disco was published, I was ready . . . and IT was ready. I used all I had learned to write a book that I still laugh out loud when I read. Which is a good sign. I had learned a lot over the years.
   

So that's my story (thank you for my blog visitor Jasmine for asking). To my fellow conference attendees . . . thanks. It was a blast. To my dear mother . . . SORRY that our vision of wine and Scrabble was destroyed by an eleven-month-old baby channeling Damian. But it was still fun!