Letting Go

I know a couple of writers--well, more than a couple, actually--who can never let go. They have been tweaking their masterpeice for years. Or, worse, have never actually finished anything ever.

Now, I have friends who write for the pleasure of it, so I know not everyone is dying to be published. But they're in the minority. Yet some people just can't seem to toss their hat into the ring. Fear of rejection? Sure. We all have that. But sometimes it's a psychological hiccup--a fear of letting go.

I know that fear. Every time I turn in a book to my editor, the VERY NEXT DAY, as soon as my mind isn't so focused on deadline-deadline-deadline, I will suddenly have an epiphany. I'll think of a cool plot twist, a better back story for a minor character, whatever. You dread letting go. You get your galleys--and you fear letting go because somewhere is a typo you just KNOW is going to jump out at you only after it's in print.

But having let go of 15 or 16 novels now, I realize something. Like parenting, it's all about letting go. Always letting go. It's a process. You accept your child is going to get that nose ring when he or she turns 18 and there's nothing you can do about it . . . you recognize you have to let go . . . the same thing holds for novels. You WILL get rejections. You WILL find mistakes after it's published. You WILL come up with a great plot twist six months after you think you're done. Accept this. Also accept the novel is pretty darn good as it is.

The best cure for the fear of letting go is to be working on your Next Big Thing. Move forward. Accept that your fears are the fears of countless other writers. If you can't seem to finish, you must. Just force yourself. Let go. This is a marathon, not a 40-yard-dash. Release your creativitiy, finish your novel, put it out there and start the next one. Make a conscious choice. Cut the cosmic umbilical cord. Let your baby out there. Then start trying to conceive the next one.

Say it with me.

I will let go.

Unhappy Muses

Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

I love this quote from Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. It's the stuff of life. And the stuff of novels.

I find myself fascinated by the coverage of Aaron Spelling's death--and the news that his wife has made certain her daughter was stiffed out of his will. He was worth a HALF A BILLION dollars. But in the old adage of money can't buy happiness, Mrs. Spelling apparently feels no need to share.

I'm not blogging about gossip because I really CARE that Tori Spelling will only get slightly more than Mrs. Spelling's MANICURIST in the will. But I am blogging because it's just so damn amazing. People who should have everything can't seem to remember they could help the destitute, they could create a foundation like Bill and Melinda Gates and Warren Buffet, they could help make sure the victims in Dafur get rice and medicine or that every child in the U.S. get vaccinations . . . and most of all, even if they don't want to save the world, that they could love and share with each other. I don't get it.

But Tolstoy is right. The themes of novels . . . and the themes of life . . . may differ in the details, but when it comes right down to it, they're pretty much the universal. Love, loss, betrayal, murder, more betrayal, deceit, death, grief. But it's those horrid details, those slights and backstabbings and broken trusts that are unique and fascinating. Sure, you can write about happy things, but really, we all seem to gravitate to those core themes. Look at fairytales. Most have a happily ever after . . . but what would Cinderella be without a dysfunctional family? Snow White's stepmother wanted her dead!

I look at my own writing. In The Roofer, dear old dad is a murderer. And he's actually one of the good guys. Even comedy is laced with tragedy. In Spanish Disco, the heroine's father is slipping away from Alzheimer's disease . . . and she is afraid of saying good-bye to him. Or anyone.

Yes, unhappy families are unhappy in their own unique ways. Thank goodness . . . or we'd have nothing to write about.

The Flashlight

There's a recurring theme or thread through nearly every writer's life. We all loved to read as kids. We devoured everything we could get our hands on.

I tell stories of signing out the eight-book library limit in second grade and begging my mom to bring me back one day later to get new ones. I owned every Nancy Drew ever published, read Anne of Green Gables, every Little House book, and then in third grade my father started me on an unabridged Sherlock Holmes . . . Robinson Crusoe . . . She . . . A Tale of Two Cities. He gave me an amazing gift--CHALLENGING books. And my mom? I ALWAYS saw her reading. (Still do.) They told me books were everything--they opened the door to education, to all the knowledge you could ever want. Right there at your fingertips.

I asked for books for my birthday. I preferred them to people, and certainly to sunshine. I rarely went outside if I could avoid it . . . except in summers when I went to stay with my grandparents and lived in a bungalow near a lake. But there were still delicious rainy days.

Nearly every writer I know has the same tale. "I would hide with a flashlight under my covers to finish the book after my parents told me 'lights out.'"

I remember the FEEL of fresh, crisp pages when I got a new hardcover book. Words were magic . . .

And even now, when I meet someone and they tell me what their "flashlight" books were . . . if it was Little Men or Jane Eyre, I will somehow feel a kindred bond, as if YES, this person knows a little bit about me, even though they might be practically a stranger.

So what transported you? What were your flashlight books? And how did they shape you?

The Club

When I go to speak to elementary school children, I get asked some pretty cool questions. Middle schoolers are even more amazing because they are starting to understand the craft of writing. But those first- and second-graders are funny, because inevitably, someone holds up a hand and asks, "DO YOU KNOW MARC BROWN?" (He writes the Arthur series of children's books.) "No," I tell them, "but I like the Arthur books, too." Then, inevitably, because it's hard for first- and second-graders to pay attention totally, someone who wasn't listening will ask me five minutes later, "So, do you know Marc Brown?" And then I'll say, "No, being an author isn't like being in a Secret Club. We all don't know each other."

But it kind of is like a Secret Club. Of course, I have non-writer friends. I have friends who are accountants and lawyers, and doctors. And friends who sell real estate and friends who are retired. But I have to say the majority of my friends are writers. Some are published. Some aren't. Some don't even want to be published, but they just love writing. And we're in a Secret Club.

Why? Because when you're with other writers, they "get" you. There is usually this instant understanding. Circles under your eyes--deadline fever. Distracted? Can't figure out my last plot twist. Talking to yourself? Goes with the territory. Writers get that you're often agonizing over single word choices. You're struggling to get better as a writer, to hone your craft, and sometimes you want to take your computer and hurl it out the window. They get it's not easy and it's often VERY isolating. They get that you know you're somehow different. You're a little weirder, a little more introspective. They know you worry, if you're published, about numbers and sell-throughs. If you're not published, they know the agent search and publisher search is filled with rejection. They know in the blogosphere, once your book comes out, anyone can say anything about you or your book and there ain't a whole helluva lot you can do about it. It's baring your work of art--and that's not easy. They know you wonder--quit the day job and go for it?

So no, I don't know Marc Brown (but hey, if he wants to drop by and say hello . . .). But I am in Secret Club. Care to join?

The Cone of Silence

It's no surprise that I write in chaos. I'd "like" a Cone of Silence around my writing space, but with four kids and a lot of pets, it's not too silent around here. In fact, the only silent pets are Lydia the python and Blossom the fish. And the kids are far from silent unless it's the middle of the night. So I've learned to create in noise.

But in a metaphorical sense, I create in a Cone of Silence. I write four books a year, and am usually playing around with proposals, ideas, etc. I can't bring all my books to my critique group because we only meet every two weeks. I usually bring my mainstream fiction books, like Invisible Girl.

So I tend to create in a Cone of Silence, in that I have no idea how readers will react. Then the book comes out, and I find out--"I laughed out loud," "You made me cry," "I was so mad at the character of Tom," "I loved the character of Tom," "Will you write a sequel," etc.

It's strange. You create in isolation, turn the book in, get some feedback from your editor . . . wait six or eight months more, and THEN you find out if you moved people. And, like acting or painting, what you're trying to achieve in storytelling is a connection. You want someone else to FEEL something. Yes, you want them to BUY it (subliminal message: buy the book, buy the book)--but that's not all. You want readers to BUY it and then to FEEL something--even if it's just feel entertained. Feel happy. Feel amused.

But first, long before you get to the feeling part, you have to create in the Cone of Silence. You have to feel something yourself. It's a strange process, isn't it?

What Remains?

I remember it clearly. As if it happened yesterday. I was sitting in a Friendly's in my hometown. I was maybe eleven, and I was with my grandparents, who were the most wonderful, kind, loving grandparents anyone could be blessed with. At another table, maybe two rows away, sat a boy, my age, maybe a little younger, face covered in freckles and cowlicks in his hair, and his very stern parents. His mother and father basically berated him the entire meal--not just berated, but abused . . . calling him stupid, useless, pathetic, disgusting. They wished he'd never been born. His "crime," if I remember it, was poor table manners. I felt so powerless. I wanted to call the police. How could these people speak to him that way? His expression was . . . flat, as if he was so used to it, he was like a beaten-down dog.

I looked at my grandmother, and she was clearly saddened. I remember asking her about it and her sort of shrugging that it was one of those horrible things. Some people just should never have children. We drove away after lunch, and I remember thinking I still wanted to call the police. I can remember looking back at that Friendly's and feeling that I had abandoned the boy. But there was no real crime, my grandmother said. It was terrible, she concurred, but the police would do nothing. Words were not a crime. Especially not then.

All these years later, that memory, like thousands and tens of thousands, shapes me. We all carry with us those things that remain: hurts, humilations, shocks, and the angst and pain of existence. The first time you realized people could hate their own child. The first time you saw a dead body. The first time you heard someone you loved had died. The first time you discovered you had been betrayed and the breath got knocked out of you. I remembering volunteer teaching ESL to a large refugee family, and watching one of the men slap his wife across the face so hard her head snapped back . . . because of her lowly status in that culture and his frustration with all they had been through. I remember being there in their house, trying to tend to someone's leg wound so open and infected that I could see bone, but they were too poor to go to the doctor. I was seven months pregnant, they all had T.B. I learned firsthand how being in America wasn't the answer to everything.

The good stuff, too. The first time you held your baby or heard your child's first cry. Your favorite Christmas, your most treasured memories. Your favorite comfort foods. WhenI am sick, I still crave ginger ale--but Canada Dry only because that's what my mother gave me.

The writer takes all that remains and processes it, trying to get at those "firsts," those raw emotions. What remains gets put on a page.

So . . . any memories? Any things that remain that somehow drift through all you write . . . and all you do? All that you are?

Hell

I am not sitting here in a lake of fire, but I am in Deadline Hell.

And, I'll soon be announcing something cool . . . but . . . I can at least share I am now officially in Development Hell.

No lake of fire, no man with red skin and horns and spiked tail. But what does Deadlien Hell look like?

Well, author Heather Brewer has blogged about and reminded me here on my own blog that taking care of yourself while in Deadline Hell is a good idea. Take a break, go for a walk, eat well, drink plenty of fluids. I love what I've seen of her upcoming book, but I am here to tell you I don't follow her advice. Not that's it's BAD advice, just that I am BAD at following it.

So, for the record, this is Deadline Hell: stay up until 1:00 a.m., go to sleep, but too stressed to sleep. Mind races. Wake up groggy at seven when that 16-month-old demon of mine reminds me he wants to get out of his crib and eat. Stumble to coffee pot. Press the button--PRESS THE BUTTON LIKE DETONATING THE A-BOMB! Wait for coffee. Pour coffee, brain starts working. Sit baby in highchair with Cheerios, sit own ass in desk chair. Start writing. Wait! No, best re-read what I wrote last night. Discover I was deusional last night. Fix the various typos and nonsensical crap. NOW start writing fresh. Work for eight hours straight, maybe more, until bleary-eyed and that pinched nerve now has me hunched over. Eat standing up in kitchen. Remember I have four children. Discover left to own devices that there is now a lake of Cheerios on kitchen floor, and the house has a smell like. . . yes, unwashed smelly dog let into house with muddy paws. After two-minute dinner "break" (standing up, and for the record lunch is a pipe dream), decide I need a glass of wine to get kink out of shoulders. Have "happy hour" and sit back down and write for many more hours, stopping to remind children they will turn into pumpkins unless they go to bed. Kisses and hugs to said children, checking that they have not labeled baby with permanent marker. Baby is OK except for the flower drawn in WASHABLE (thank God) marker around his belly button.

Work until I drop.

Start all over again. Press replay.

Now, just so you all know, my office is open on two sides--it's this very cool room (I'll have to post new office photo). So in actuality all of the above is punctuated by having to stop every few minutes because my kids are running through my office, talking to me, and so on. I have mastered the art of "uh-huh" while still typing.

And if all this sounds nuts, it is. But the other side of it is once Deadline Hell is reached . . . I get to play hooky, which is infinitely more fun. So the frenetic pace sometimes happens. And sometimes . . . life is really laid back, but either way it's not nine-to-five.

So welcome to Hell. Anyone else care to describe their Lake of Fire?

The World According to . . . Erica

A LONG time ago, on an electronic board in the writersphere far, far away, I was publicly reamed by a somewhat . . . angry . . . reader. I won't dissect it and will spare you the boring details. But the gist of it was that I had an "agenda" having to do with child abuse--that I wanted to, if I can summarize, propogate the idea that child abuse and child sexual abuse was widespread, and that if I was going to have these issues in my books, my books should have a warning label. This was in reference to The Roofer, which does, indeed, have issues of abuse in it. Then the whole discussion at the time fell apart into one of expectations of readers and censorship and mature themes. But what stuck with me was the word . . . AGENDA.

Sounds kind of . . . Big Brother-ish, totalitarian, political.

But . . . I have to confess something. I don't have an agenda, but my worldview sneaks into my books. For instance, my beliefs on Buddhism, on good vs. evil, on loyalty, on evil mothers-in-law. ;-) On greed . . . on power and its corruptibility. On the idea that with great wealth and power comes great responsibility. On the importance of charity and good works. On kindness.

I don't hit my readers over the head with it. But it's there, if you look. It is there in the pain of my characters, in the struggles they face, in the ways their loyalties are tested. It's how they breathe and what they do and the choices they make.

So maybe I do have an agenda. The world according to Erica. In it, I say compassion is the most important quality a human being can possess. In it I say death with dignity and living with grace are the walk we must aspire to walk.

I wear a dog tag around neck. Two chinese symbols grace each side: faith and hope. And two quotes. On one side, from Einstein:

There are two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.

On the other, from Camus:

In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there was within me an invincible summer.


I never take my necklace off. It reminds me how I want to walk my walk. So how about you? Do you find your worldviews creeping into your writing? Does your worldview color all aspects of your life? Do you have an AGENDA?

Writers Anonymous

"Hi. My name is Erica, and I make dumb writing mistakes."

Response, "Hi, Erica!"

"Now let me share my story."

There is a risk, with a blog, of disintegrating into pontification. However, by focusing on writing, I firmly aim to share honestly about the journey and the craft. The most talented writer I know is unpubbed--and likely to remain so for his own complex, personal reasons. So by virtue of being pubbed and some of you being unpubbed . . . well, that doesn't mean anything. We're all in this together, right?

To that end, I wanted to periodically share my dumb mistakes. Maybe you have made these dumb mistakes. Maybe you have avoided them. Maybe by my sharing said dumb mistakes, you can sidestep them altogether.

Dumb mistake #1: Thinking because you're so damn brilliant you'll remember everything.

Yup.

I admit it. I have a near-photographic memory, skipped grades in school, won an academic scholarship to a fancy university with real ivy growing up the walls (or at least dogwood trees on campus, I think) . . . was the typical brainiac. Said brain has gotten me where I am in life. It has also shortcutted me considerably. I.e., as long as I attended a lecture in college and LISTENED to it, I didn't have to study for exams. Lucky that way. I learn by listening, others are visual learners, others have to take copious notes.

So it only made sense that since these books are MY novels, and MY characters, and MY inventions, that I wouldn't have to write too much down. I don't outline, and hell, of COURSE I'll remember everything, like if my heroine is left-handed, blue-eyed, and likes FIVE jumbo green olives in her martinis (because I do, so of COURSE I'll remember THAT), and hates men who wear corduroy for some reason.

But, in fact, I have learned the very hard way that I don't remember these details at all. Most especially, I don't when it's a series and I am a full year into it, writing book 3 and now can't remember the eye color of ANY of my key characters.

So why is that?

Well, I think it's the process of creation. By being a writer, let's say on page 100 of book 1, you decide to toss in a little detail. For instance, in BLOOD SON, my wip, the hero is a full six inches and change taller than my heroine. But SUPPOSE on page 182, I mention she is five feet six. NOW, I must remember, by domino effect, that he is HOW TALL? But didn't I somewhere ELSE say he was six foot one? You get the idea.

I am doomed to forget little details.

I REALLY, really, really, REALLY! learned my lesson during INVISIBLE GIRL. My editor advised me, during editing, that she thought I should add a dateline to each chapter, because the book veers between the 1970s and the present day and many years in between to span the Vietnam War, our covert involvement in Laos, Hell's Kitchen (before it became trendy), and so on. Great idea. I don't want the reader to have to work too hard in an already multi-layered, multi-cultural complex romantic suspense book. One problem. The time between when I turned it in and when I got my edit back was about FOUR MONTHS. And in that time, I got dumber, I guess, because now it wasn't so easy to connect all the dots. It was a nightmare of epic proportions that gave me nightmares and sent me for the martini shaker.

So . . . join with me now. Write down some notes. Index cards. Something. Details, so you don't have to scramble and you don't get it wrong.

Dumb Mistake #1.

Discuss.

My So-Called Life

I read a lot of blogs of aspiring writers or pubbed writers who still have to work the dreaded "day job." And I read a few comments on writers' bulletin boards from people who think once they sell that first book, it's easy street. I don't want to mock anyone, but even J.K. Rowling's first advance for Harry Potter wouldn't be enough to retire on (of course, now she has more money than the queen, so good for her!).

Well, I haven't had to work a day job in maybe four years. I never actually HAD a day job--I was always a freelance writer or book editor. But it's been a while since I had to take a ghostwriting gig or editing gig. Sometimes I do, for the fun of it, or the money dangled is too good, or it's a referral from an old client and it's hard to say no, but that's very rare.

One thing I can tell you about my so-called life is this: getting your first book published is the first step--and it's a fabulous feeling. But then you have to roll up your sleeves and start book two (usually) while simultaneously promoting book 1, and plotting your career.

Now toss the Internet into the mix. I blog--and get a lot of traffic (interestingly, I get a lot of lurkers--they'll email me but not leave a public comment--and that's cool, but don't be shy if you feel like jumping in). I have to answer fan email--I answer every single one personally. I usually have to check in with my agent at some point (right now, he's negotiating a TV deal for me--keep your fingers crossed that I have a big announcement soon). I try to do two or three Internet chats a month. I plan a contest for my website with new releases (shout-out to JANE who won a copy of INVISIBLE GIRL!).

What else? I am ALWAYS working on new books and ideas. Galleys come in--always on fast turnaround. Inevitably, I'll get a "rush" from my editor to read back cover copy or review something. I'll be asked to fill out information for my cover designer. (I have had some awesome covers with one or two exceptions. WAIT until you see the one for Poker Diaries--it'll blow you away. Can't reveal it just yet.) And now, add My Space into the mix.

Yes, I have my very own My Space . . . and am developing one for my Liza Conrad YA author persona. But I have no friends yet (Wah!) so add me to your friends' list and visit me there.

http://www.myspace.com/ericaorloff

Come say hi.

I publish about four books a year--usually one teen book, two or three category, and a trade. But then there are proposals to write . . . and books to complete.

Oh . . . and don't let this sound like I am bitching for a single second. I'm not. I wouldn't trade this insanely busy, coffee-fueled existence for anything. I have met some of the most utterly amazing friends and online pals. I have traveled and met TV producers and other authors. I've eaten some great meals in Manhattan with my editors, and I get to MAKE STUFF UP FOR A LIVING, which is so f***ing awesome.

But add four kids, a python (named Lydia), cockatoo (named Ava--I got her when THE ROOFER was completed, named her after the main character), a disobedient corgi (named Chip), lovebird (Kiwi), canary (Zen), beta fish (her name is Blossom), and a real life, too.

So yeah, selling the first book . . . a huge friggin' milestone. But it's like reach the top of a mountain . . . only to discover you have ten more to climb.

Beasties

Working on BLOOD SON today, and my hero is majorly conflicted. He's a dhampir (half-human, half-vampire), and he REALLY hates his Daddy. In fact, he hates him so much that he loathes half of himself, the dark half, anything he sees in himself that isn't right and good and moral and decent.

But you don't have to be a beastie or a vampire or a thing-that-goes-bump-in-the-night to have this conflict. I have known plenty of men and women who have wrestled with their darker halves. I have had dear friends diagnosed as bipolar, and I have had friends struggle with mental illness, alcoholism, drug addiction, and abusive relationships. I have had friends who stayed ten years too long in relationships they should have left pretty much after the word, "hello," and I have known people who so hate their own pasts they have run from them their whole lives.

And therein is the secret, I think, to writing about beasties, vampires, and even anti-heroes and murderers. I think the father in THE ROOFER is damn sympathetic even if he tosses his enemies from the rooftop without a thought, and even if he breaks his own son's nose. It's all in the complexity of the dark side, the backstory of why and how someone came to be the beast they are. And I think to write a successful paranormal or fantasy book--or mob book or crime story--you have to be able to go to that dark place and make it understandable even for people who walk mostly in the light.

You have to shine your flashlight under the rock and expose the creepy-crawlies in all our souls. And in the souls of beasties, too.

Sometimes, while you're at it, you can even make a villain a hero. Or at least sympathetic. And you can make a half-monster seem like someone you'd take into your bed. Which reminds me. Off to write a sex scene with said dhampir. And I think it will be hot.