Broken People

I am working on my new Nocturne . . . and my editor reminded me that the hero should be very "alpha." There is much talk in the romance biz of alpha hereos and beta heroes, and heroines of this type or that. But I tend not to follow any of that. I think of all my heroes and heroines as broken people.

We are all a bit broken. On the surface, if we're well-adjusted and happy people, we don't look it. But sit down and really examine our lives and all we've been through--good and bad--and chances are you'll find some broken parts. The little dent in our heart where our first betrayal left a gash, or the old scar from unkind words uttered by someone important to us.

If we're not well-adjusted and happy (I tend to consider that I AM well-adjusted, if a bit eccentric), our broken parts will be right there on the surface. The prickly person who loses his or her temper too quickly over something utterly stupid. Or the drunk who goes on a nasty rant (Mel Gibson anyone?).

My hero in The Gemini Conspiracy is a recovering Vicodin addict who lost his daughter to a drunk driver and his wife to the depths of grief. My heroine has post-traumatic stress disorder, but has pulled herself up from the hell she went through in foster care. They are each very strong individuals. And the key thing is their broken parts fit each other like a puzzle. They simply go together.

That approach works for me much better than writing a "type." Because a "type" can lead to cliche or can lead to characters who don't live and breathe and don't function in any organic sense.

But broken . . . broken I understand.

And you all?

Make a Choice

Someone in traffic cuts you off. Or steals your parking spot. You can look at it one of two ways. One, the person is @#@#%^$%@$. A cretin. A jackass. Two, the person is stressed out, harried, really has to get home to a sick child or an elderly parent. You can acknowledge the stress the driver just caused you . . . and MOVE ON.

You get a rejection letter. Unless it is a really detailed explanation of why your book was turned down, which is a rarity in this insanely intense business, it's likely to be nondescript. "I liked the book but wasn't passionate enough about it to take it on." "I wouldn't know where this would fit on my list, but I do think it has merit . . . good luck with it." Or, taken from an actual rejection of my first novel, Spanish Disco, "I didn't find the heroine's bitchiness endearing, though I liked the writing." Or, from Simon & Schuster, "While I have no doubt Erica Orloff will one day be a best-selling author [nice compliment], this isn't the book to start her career with--too tough a sell for my list right now."

Now, you can spend hours reading between the lines. Or reading the actual words and trying to decide "What the hell does it mean that you like the book but don't love it enough?"

Or you can make a choice. Accept the rejection, the comment, and move on. It doesn't mean you wrote a bad novel or you're a hack. It probably means the benign comment you got. In that, an editor's list is his or her prize. It's what they hone. And there are very few spots on that list. And whatever MAKES it on that list has got to be something the editor feels pretty passionately about--and fairly confident based on sales and marketing, that it can sell. So you may very well have written a good book, a GREAT book, but it's not a match.

Will there be a match out there for you somewhere? Hopefully, if you don't give up.

Make a choice. Don't absorb the rejection. Let it deflect and move on. Even if there is pointed criticism, step back and acknowledge it, decide if it's valid enough to make some changes. Make them. Try again.

So the next time someone cuts you off, do what I do. Smile and wave. They obviously need to cut you off more than you need to flip them off. Drive on. Make a choice. Don't accept their stress.

Thoughts?

Why You Need an Editor

Yesterday, I had a conversation with my editor about The Gemini Conspiracy, a paranormal trilogy I am writing for Nocturne. (BLOOD SON, my first Nocturne, comes out in February.) And I had one of those great writer-editor moments, in which she said something, and I GOT it. It wasn't anything enormous. She was full of positive comments, but she pointed out that I rushed a scene on page 24, and that I didn't have to because readers who buy paranormals are going to ACCEPT the paranormal world. Therefore I didn't have to shove in so much back story right away, and could take my time to spin my spell, to build my world. Simple advice, but it hit home for me.

And therein lies your editor. It's a relationship. She or he is a professional who will bring a gift of discernment to your work. Will spot your weaknesses and admire your strengths. And if you're lucky, will give you moments of clarity like I had yesterday.

So . . . I slide into a related topic. Sort of. I got in my email box an "excerpt" and a flashy book promo-video for an author--and it doesn' t matter who it is. This person clearly spent money on promo, and I got the newsletter from this person. And then I clicked and clicked on links and realized it was a self-pubbed book. Gutsy move! Until I started reading the excerpt. And the former editor in me, the person who still edits in her head, could see so many amateurish, ridiculous, wooden things about the prose. And I felt so sorry for this person, who had clearly decided that because NY rejected him or her, that self-pubbing was the route to go. Maybe people around this person told him or her ('cause I REALLY don't want to reveal the author so I am even dancing around gender) that NY was crazy to reject the book. Self-pub . . . you're "as good" as any of them. But in actuality, this person's money would be better spent not on fancy promo, but writing courses, or at the least, a very good editor.

The best writer in the world still benefits from that red pen. The best writer in the world still has a collaborative effort with editors and agents and critique partners, perhaps.

I am so thankful for my career. I am thankful for the guidance I get. Take your time, hone your craft. Get it right.

Thoughts?

Why I Never Delete Old Ideas

The first time I realized my father killed for a living, I found a severed finger in the garage.

Opening line.

That's all I had. Just this line that blew into my head. So I wrote it down and started a file. Gave it a name like "Dad," and there it sat. Dear, old Dad. Gotta love him.

THEN, I remembered from WAY back when, I mean at least five years ago, I had three chapters of a book about a father seeking redemption while suffering from Alzheimer's, in the fits and starts of clarity he had. And a woman who was unsure whether to let him in, but then gets the decision forced from her when, in a rage, he breaks a nurse's arm in the nursing home he's in and has nowhere else to go.

And VOILA!!!!! I had the book that went with the opening line.

I mean, not the whole book, but a book. Something to work on.

And that is why I have zillions (not really, but something close) of files on my computer. Sometimes I even forget what's in 'em. But I never, ever, ever delete any of them. Because you never know.

Which got me thinking . . . the brain is so utterly amazing. Were these two always waiting to be connected in some quantum physics sense, and the cognitive portion of my brain just needed to make the connection? Is that how it works?

And does this insane thing happen to anyone else? And is anyone else out there an "idea pack rat"?

Distance

I have been furiously working on my next Red Dress Ink title, called Freudian Slip. I had proposed it over lunch about two years ago--maybe longer--but I had other books in the pipeline and under contract, so it's only been the last few months that I have revisited the book.

I had written and turned in the formal proposal . . . and then, time passed. It was approved, and I had a long lead time. So . . . I would play here and there and work on the plot in my head (yes, sitting here daydreaming IS working). But then I started working on it more feverishly. And I discovered something.

I adore the book.

I cannot tell you what a thrill that is. My main character, Julian, lives inside the head of Katie. Julian is a caseworker of sorts, a heavenly social worker, for lack of a better word. And his boss's boss is Albert Einstein. And everyone's Boss is "the Boss," as in a God. Who happens to be female. And Katie, poor Katie . . . is a mess, but by the end of the book she will be less so. The Devil makes an appearance, so do angels that work in Greenwich Village. And if it sounds whimsical, it is.

But the best part was that distance. Sometimes distance is needed so I can go back and determine that yes, the writing is CRAP. In which case I need to pull it apart. But other times, I revisit with distance, and it's a huge relief to discover that what I thought was funny really is. I adore Julian, my ex-heroin addict, tattooed semi-angel. He has a filthy mouth, and he isn't looking for redemption, but he goes and finds it anyway. And isn't that sometimes how life works.

Distance . . . every writer needs it sometimes. To affirm--good or bad--what is actually going on in our work in progress.

How about you? Does distance aid you? And what about as readers? Do you ever re-visit a book you loved years later and find to your amazement, the book is still powerful? Or that you are in a different place and now . . . not so much?

Black Friday--Thriller or Mystery

Post-Thanksgiving Greetings, blog readers . . . hope you had a lovely day. As I am on this vegan-macrobiotic kick, I overindulged in sweet potatoes, but didn't eat turkey--and had a lovely time. Woke up today--Black Friday in the retail biz, with one discussion on my mind--thriller or mystery?

Off-line, I have been discussing this with Jude Hardin. What makes a mystery vs. what makes a thriller? To a certain extent, there's an "I'll know it when I see it" aspect to it. Thomas Harris . . . thriller. Andrew Vachss . . . thriller. Ruth Rendell . . . mystery. Barbara Vine (being as they are one and the same person) . . .mystery. Sometimes it gets a little tricky when you have an in-between book . . . seems a little thrillerish but at the same time a mystery.

The reason I am so interested in this is I am working on a proposal still WAY in the beginning stages, intersecting a crisis in Africa with the dean of a small university in America. And it seems, as I am writing, thrillerish.

So what makes a thriller? Some say it's the marketing. Thrillers sell big, they're hot. Mysteries less so.

But it's more than that, right?

To me, a mystery has a deed already done. A crime has occurred and the protagonist must figure out "whodunnit." A thriller is very often a race against time to PREVENT something awful from occurring. In Thomas Harris's work, for instance, it's to stop a serial killer--and a very gruesome and exceedingly clever one at that--from striking again.

Very often, in a thriller, the stakes are enormous. It's not just to prevent a serial killer from striking, but the WORST serial killer ever. Or . . . even more common, to save the world, a town, a school bus full of children. A global stake is involved.

Very often, too, I think in a thriller, we know who did it. In fact, the villain rises up large. In a mystery, it might well be the last page before we know.

What else? I am as interested as anyone in the answers here. Also, Jude told me, and he's right, in a thriller, what do you do for an encore? In Murder She Wrote, that woman had a new "mystery" to solve each week. In a thriller, the stakes were so high, how do you top them for book #2. I think I already know for my main character--in fact, I do. But there's a tricky thing for the writer as well.

Please chime in!

Peace,
E

Perspective

This is a humanitarian tragedy.
This is not.
Nor is this.

Today is Thanksgiving Day. And as the relatives drive you crazy, or the turkey is too dry, or the gravy has too many lumps. Or Uncle Herman makes an inappropriate comment about silicone breasts. Or Dad falls drunkenly into the mashed potatoes on his plate (don't laugh . . . a friend of mine's mother once fell face first into her bowl of soup while drunk and nearly drowned . . . she then entered A.A.). Keep perspective in mind.

I have been amazed at the way the media will fall over itself when a single man or woman hits bottom, has a downfall, goes on a rant. To take nothing away from the ugliness . . . everyone who has visited my site HAS to know by now where I stand on compassion, so racism and bigotry makes me sick . . . it's just one jackass making a huge mistake. It may be symptomatic of a bigger societal problem at large, but get real. Front-page news?

When was the last time it was FRONT-PAGE news how many children go to bed hungry in this country? How many are beaten by their parents and remain in danger? How many are abused, neglected, and so on? When was Darfur front-page news? The fact that we're the wealthiest country on earth and not all our children are innoculated? (We have an abysmal record in medically underserved areas.) What about the homeless? It's only front page news when a hospital like Kaiser dumps them on skid row. The rest of the time, we pretend the homeless and mentally ill don't exist. Perspective.

I have seen these past two weeks--and didn't blog on it--a romance author ripped a new one by a number of sites because she dared to be honest about her expectations regarding her publisher and that they failed to meet them. The names she was called, all in the name of snark? Hurtful and unnecessary.

This should be a day of peace. A day of compassion. A day of gratefulness.

So as you break bread . . . perspective.

Keep the peace,
E

Thankful

I am in a Prayer Circle. We don't live near each other. In fact, we're in different time zones. We've never met. We're different religions. But we pray for each other. And we write our Grateful Lists. Three things we're grateful for.

Grateful lists are a wonderful way to kick me out of my complacency, or my complaining. No whining. No bitching. Just getting down to realize all the blessings.

Because I have been sick for much of my life with Crohn's disease, life has taught me that on those really bad days . . . remembering the blessings can lift me out of my self-pity or pain.

So, being as it's Thanksgiving week here in America, and I am sure friends and blog-readers are scattering far and wide, I just figured I'd ask people to share their grateful things--writing-related or not.

I have so many, so I'll just post a few:

• My four kids. They give me gray hair and keep me running a million miles an hour, but no one makes me smile more than they do.
• My crazy pets. They pretty much do the same as the kids. Run me ragged, but unconditional love back. Or, in the case of the python, a wary detente.
• The fact that I get to make stuff up for a living.
• My health. I am doing amazingly well for the first time in a long while, since I bid adieu to Western medicine and decided to visit Eastern medicine. I can't believe each day I wake up pain-free--it's still a novelty and I hope it never grows old.
• My Prayer Circle.
• My house, food, all those basics. I don't have to worry day to day, hand-to-mouth. I know that isn't so for so many in America, let along worldwide. A man or woman at a minimum-wage job can't feed their family. It may seem sometimes like the bills around here come fast and furious, but I do OK supporting all those mouths in this house.
• My housekeepers. I don't have any childcare help, but if you think I could run this household, write four books a year, raise four kids, etc. without a housekeeper, you're smoking something funny.
• My blog pals--Jude, Lainey, Brian . . . Karmela, Natalie . . . all the regulars and the not-so-regulars who come by, lurk, say hi, whatever.
• My agent. 'Nough said.
• My sisters, soul sisters, friends, pals, parents, everyone who is part of this really boisterous life of mine.
• That I get it's about the journey now.

And you all?

And to all, safe travels, happy hearts, full bellies, love, and most of all . . . PEACE.

Sharing

One of Hollywood's leading idiots, Owen Wilson, mocked, of all people, the Dalai Lama. His Holiness had been asked what was the solution to world hunger, and his response was "Sharing." Apparently Wilson finds this answer idiotic.

But really . . . if we ALL shared, if all nations shared, if all human being shared, there wouldn't be want or hunger. There is enough for all of us.

It's Thanksgiving week. Time to share. Wednesday I head to the Food Bank. I have enough food, so why not SHARE?

And then . . . this comes back, importantly, to writing. Very much so. I have, over the years, shared my agent's name and number with aspiring writers, I have blogged as much as I can about what I know about the industry, writing, etc. I have no problem sharing what this editor or that has told me he or she is looking for. But I know I am in the minority. It seems like MOST writers, once they make it, or even while they are trying to make it, guard information so closely. They share nothing. J.A. Konrath is an exception. There are a few others.

A couple of people even posted here last week about how several writers, once they got their first deal, started acting downright imperious. It happens. A lot.

Why? There's a FEAR at the root of not sharing. I won't have enough if I give too much away. If I give until it hurts, then what about ME? People think there are a finite amount of book slots, a finite amount of success to go around. I don't believe that.

So, I just ask everyone this week to share. Do something small, something big, something kind, for someone else. Better yet, do it and don't tell them.

How about you? Do you find people share in the writing community? Are do people keep connections closely guarded? And why do you think that is so? What about in the world at large? Have we all become cynics? I hope not . . . .

Love Me, Love My Lucky Bathrobe

There is a zen sensibility to how I write. Get up at 5:30 a.m., come downstairs, brew tea (used to be coffee), put on music, begin. In many ways, that early hour makes for an almost spartan feeling to writing. Before the sun even rises, when it's still dark and cold. When I am alone and I feel like I am the only person. When the stars in my corner of the world still dot the sky and the moon still hangs there whispering to me. Alone. Me and the moon.

But when all else fails, I will bring out my lucky bathrobe.

Because, as I have shared before, I am a tschotschke (pronounced, roughly, choch-ski) person. I have all my funky writerly stuff around me, like my Buddhas and candles and elephant statues, and my canary (named Zen) and my finches (Myra and Roy--free autographed copy of Trace of Doubt to the first person who posts here and guesses correctly why they are named that!). And my stuff. And every once in a while, when I am in a bad spot with my writing, I put on my lucky bathrobe.

What is this lucky bathrobe? Well, it belonged to the man I probably loved most unreservedly my whole life--my late grandfather. And it has a HUGE rip on the shoulder but is so threadbare, I am not sure it can be repaired. And when I put it on, I assume by some cosmic circumstance, he, from wherever he is, is telling me he loves me and I can do it. I don't try to understand the quantum mechanics of it. I just believe it.

The bathrobe is ugly, by the way. A plaid that is frighteningly garish. I'll try to snap a photo of me in it and post it.

I think most writers have an equivalent of a lucky bathrobe. I think most PEOPLE--writers or not--have the equivalent. When they are blocked or lonely or stuck or grieving or betrayed or simply sad, there is something that unfailingly quiets those feelings for them.

So? Your lucky bathrobe? And if you email me care of this site, with a picture of you WITH your lucky whatever it is, I will post it.

Peace,
E

My Spidey Senses

With great power comes great responsibility. Anyone who's seen Spiderman or likes comics knows this.

Right now, I am working on Book #1 of the Gemini Conspiracy. In the first book of the trilogy, it's about a woman who is psychic--not because of an innate gift, but because of human experiments performed on her when she was a foster child. On the one hand, it would be easy to make her just this superhuman chick.

But boring.

Because with great power comes great responsibility. You wouldn't really want to be psychic. It's a burden. That new show Heroes is very much about those burdens. So are all of our superhero movies.

And I think that's the key when depicting ALL heroes and heroines in mysteries or thrillers or romantic suspense or paranormals. The hero or heroine can be a cop, a firefighter, a teacher, a detective, a P.I., a forensics investigator. But unless you show the internal burden of what they do, it's all paint-by-numbers. They have to feel the weight of what they do. Of their gifts--superhuman or otherwise.

As for me, no superhuman powers. Unless you count python wrangling, nursing babies through colds and flu, High Priestess of Homework, and assorted other talents.

And you? What kind of extraordinary abilities does your main character have--what burdens do they carry because of them?

What It's REALLY Like to Hold that Red Pen

Yesterday Karmela Johnson visited this blog and asked me what it was like to wield that red pen as an editor before I became an author. Oh, the tales I could tell.

Years ago I started out as a production editor at Simon & Schuster. I left because they paid too little to live on in the NYC area. As in . . . too little to buy groceries AND pay rent. From there, I embarked on a fifteen-year-career as a freelance book doctor, book editor, and consultant. Eventually, I started working with some big names--some in fiction, some in nonfiction. I saw my authors get on Oprah, and I saw them go amazing places with their books. As my career went along, I began ghostwriting--but I can't tell you who I wrote for or I'd have to kill you. LOL!

I would say that wielding the red pen was so much fun! I was generally involved with people at publishing houses who really wanted to put the best book out there--who were passionate about publishing and books. I loved being around all those people--and one of the best things about being on THIS side of the desk is that I still get to be around them.

I met some amazing authors. But I met some real jackasses, too. I met one Harvard doctor, well-published in self-help circles, who called the Vice President of the company I was freelancing for because I dared to question the his writing. I was told he said, "I AM HARVARD-EDUCATED, how DARE this woman question me."

And I have to tell you that I met some beautiful souls, who, when they wrote nonfiction, really tried to make a difference. Like Sally Downham Miller. If you know anyone going through death in their family, this book is powerful. She's an amazing person, as gracious and real as anyone I have ever met in publishing.

But, in general, I often found that a lot of the people in biz were like the Wizard behind his curtain in Oz. National speakers who were slick and could talk a good talk, but really were dysfunctional, womanizing, drunken, arrogant folks in real life. I have no problem, in essence, if you want to be a womanizing weirdo and make passes at your editor. Or if you want to get so drunk at BEA that you vomit in a plant in the hallway of your hotel. BUT, to do so and go on the Today Show as a paragon of psychological self-help, or as the "guru" of love? Um . . . the hypocricy of it stinks. Consequently, my experiences shaped how I view my world and myself. I don't tend to look to others for solutions because I pretty much assume that most of the time, they are a thousand times more screwed up than I'll ever be.

The fiction authors I met, instead of being so dysfunctional, were more often than not divas about their words. As in don't touch my words. As in I don't want to hear ANYTHING but praise. Fawn over me.

I have been told--more than once by more than a few editors--that I remain a grounded and unfailingly nice person in a biz that breeds divas. I think, sometimes, people think it's an act. Like, she can't be that nice. And in actuality, if you are around me and my four kids, you'll hear me yell and you'll hear me scream about the puppy that just ate my shoe, or you'll hear me complain about the python (I really, really hate that my son has a python). So am I ALWAYS nice? No. But pretty much what you see is what you get. YES, I have remained the person I always was. I have actually greatly improved upon that person. I don't need to be a diva over my words. I am OK with the journey. I unfailingly thank my copy editors for jobs well done, or the cover people for beautiful designs, or my editors for their contributory ideas that make my books better.

I've been on the other side of the desk. And it ain't pretty.

Does any of this surprise you? Know any author-divas? Self-help wrecks?

"How Nice . . . "

I once dated and considered marrying a man who thought my writing was a hobby. The best he could muster was, "Hmm . . . this is . . . nice." I was in my early twenties, and "nice" wasn't the answer I was looking for. So, though wedding bells were considered the next step . . . we were doomed! (And I can now say in hindsight, thank the friggin' gods!)

However, I have to say that the people in my life fall into two camps. Those who really "get" where I'm coming from as a writer (i.e., they are writers themselves are in the arts) . . . and those who pat me on the head and say it's "nice."

I don't think I could ever live with another writer. The one time I had a very intense creative boyfriend . . . DOOMED! There was a competitive edge between us. Where I had visions of reading aloud to one another on the porch listening to the rain on the roof, it was really far more complicated.

So it got me thinking . . . what is the relationship of your writing to the rest of your world? Is it intrusive, like another lover? Or is it something shared? Is it something they don't get? A competitive thing? Part of me really, really longs for someone in my real (non-cyber) life to get this thing, this monkey on my back that is writing. Support is one thing. I can receive encouragement or support. But GETTING it in the way it's under my skin. I don't have that in my immediate circle.

And you all?

Cave, Sweet Cave

Done.
As in "I'm toast."
Five days in Disneyworld, come home, throw some laundry in, repack for overnight trip to Raleigh-Durham. Baby (20 months old) has a fever and cold and more mucous than something that small should have. Flying? Hell. Driving back from Raleigh? More hell. Back again, laundry going full guns. Four kids, three dogs . . . travel . . . is it worth it? More than that, do I even like to travel?
Answer?
No.
And it's not just the packing and laundry and lugging suitcases, the security at the airport (NOTE: The TSA at the Orlando airport is possibly the rudest group of people I have ever met in my entire life. RUDE! Separated me from my minor children on long lines, nasty to me, pushy, rude, rude, rude). So no, it's not just that. It's this umbilical cord to my desk. When I return and hunker down in my writing space, I can feel myself exhale.
Remember when I blogged a few days ago that I was going to speak to nine classes of third-graders? They were great. And I kept emphasizing a writer isn't something you become. It's not something you aspire to be "when you grow up." It's something you are. And never is that more apparent to me than when I come home to my space where I create. I am intrisincally tied to this space as where I feel most comfortable.
I am starting to wonder if I am a hermit. It is this space I love and getting to sip my tea (for anyone wondering, I never slipped . . . coffee free, and major macrobiotic diet . . . 11 pounds lost, feeling fab, no Crohn's symptoms--amen to acupuncture and LOTS of little needles--LOL!) and feel my mind spreading out, like taking a big stretch and going . . . Okayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, now where are we going in that brain.
On the flipside, I still love a good party. But I have definite hermit tendencies.
Anyone else? Are you tied to your CAVE by some cosmic creative umbilical cord?

Dealing with Disappointment

Buddhists will tell you that suffering is unavoidable in life. For writers, disappointment and rejection go hand in hand with the joy of the wild ride that is publishing.

You finish a book, land an agent, get a contract, see your book on the shelves . . . any and all of these steps along the path are full of elation. But to write that book is angst and hard work and refusing to listen to the doubters (even if the main doubter is yourself). Landing that agent is rarely based on the first query. Getting a contract . . . very rare that it's the first publisher.

Everyone has his or her own way of dealing with disappointment and suffering. My own tip? I consider the disappointment . . . is it HUGE and life-altering? When I was first diagnosed with Crohn's disease, that was pretty life-altering, especially since I was lying in a hospital bed hooked up to IVs and tubes when I found out. Is is painful but . . . well, smaller than that? Is it a small blip, like a bad review? Whatever it is, I consider it's "weight," and then I assign it a time. In minutes. Or hours if it's really big. I set a timer and I tell myself that for that hour (or whatever time I assign it), I am going to simply accept that I feel badly. That I hurt. That it is disappointing. And then, when the timer goes off, that's it. Because "it is what it is." All the bitterness or self-pity or tears or bargaining with the universe won't change the outcome. So when the timer goes off, it's over. Move on. Done.

What about you? How do you deal with the disappointments inherent in this biz? Any tips for girding oneself against rejection?

The Critical Beast

One reason I think I can tap in and write YA novels is I was the outsider girl. Too brainy to be cool, too skinny, with a very strict father (never went on a date until I was 16), with just the most lifeless hair (four kids later, something about giving birth has evolved it into a thick, somewhat unruly but presentable thing of its own--but back then . . . limp and BLAH!). In HIGH SCHOOL BITES, Lucy's heartaches mirrored the way I felt. She lived in the creepy house, where all was not quite as it seemed, and I suppose I felt a little like that. I didn't have a creepy house, but I had my secrets and my loneliness, and some of the things Lucy speaks about.

And sometimes . . . if my day isn't going well . . . if I run into snobby moms at school, whatever . . . I can hear those adolescent voices in my brain. I think shrinks call it "playing old tapes." You know, the voice of someone who once said you weren't good enough or pretty enough or strong enough or . . . fill in the blank.

And writers are probably more prone than most to replaying criticisms because we live in a world inherent with rejection. We live in a world in which people can bash our work on blogs or Amazon or in gossip overheard at conferences. We need acceptance in order to succeed. We need acceptance by an agent, then by an editor, then by the book-buying public.

We also have to self-edit and critique ourselves and this can feed that Critical Beast. I have known more than one writer over the last twenty years who has never, ever finished anything because the Critical Beast just keeps brutally bashing every word, every scene until the delete key is their new best friend.

We all have very specific things, though, that we tend to fret about. Our Critical Beast knows EXACTLY where our insecurities lie. Our personal minefield is full of hidden traps laid since childhood. Give me a room full of kids to talk to any day. Stick me in front of five adults and I want to run and hide. I force myself to do signing, but I don't love them. In my work, I think my dialogue rocks . . . but my Critical Beast rolls its eyes at my attempts at getting across my "Big Idea" in verbal pitches. I do it. But I feel as if I fumble, and do so much better at the written proposal. Something about that face-to-face thing taps into my Outsider Girl status. My agent will tell me I nailed the meeting. And from the offers I've gotten or events that followed, I think he's right and not just flattering me. BUT . . . the Critical Beast? Still roars.

How about you? Take your Critical Beast out . . . and maybe when we see them all in the light of day, they won't seem so beastly after all.

Once Upon and Time . . . Happily Ever After

Once upon a time, we were all young and liked stories that began pretty much that way. The plot unfolded and ended with "And they lived happily ever after." We were little. What did we know?

But now that we're all grown up, or at least masquerading as grownups, we search bookstores for books and open them to the first page to read the first line. And I have to tell you . . . my guilty secret? I will also read the last page. The last line. I know I am not the only one, but it does make people who DON'T do that scream and their hair turns white. :-)

When I started writing, I knew every short story I penned needed a great opening line. When I tried my hand at novels, I knew the same thing. Some of my opening lines have been:

Blood spatter was artfully arranged. (From Trace of Innocence.)

Or . . .

"Hello, Buttercup."
Most people panic that a jangling phone at 4:09 in the morning is the death call--the one in which a cop is about to tell you that he's found your sibling or mother or father plastered like a bloody possum on the pavement of I-95. Instead, I uttered his name like a curse: "Michael!"

That book, Spanish Disco, ended with the word testicles. You'll have to read it to find out why. I actually had a bookseller comment that she handsold that book a lot on that basis (she had a great sense of humor).

The Roofer started with "My first instinct was to look at the corpse. It's what all the Irish do. We treat our wakes like weddings . . . "

That book ends with a full circle of a phrase . . . a saying of the Roofer's.

For me, finding that first line--knowing where to start in the story--is like getting ready to make love. I dance around that first sentence, not sure . . . but then when I commit to it, I'm there.

And for me, writing the last line . . . same sort of thing. I sit at my keyboard and wait, sort of delaying, waiting to be sure, to be positive, waiting for the last line to find its way to the keyboard. And when I write it, the last line usually feels very right.

It's an amazing sort of process.

The rest of you? First line? Last line? How do you know? Do you ever re-write them or do they seem etched on your heart when you begin--or end--the book?

Brushes with the Famous and Not-So-Famous

My youngest daughter tells people I have two pen names, and that my name, Erica Orloff, doesn't match her last name because I am an author and need to avoid the paparazzi. Um. Not so much.

But today, I got the best fan letter EVER. Today, I heard from a twelve-year-old girl who wrote me a snail mail letter, care of Penguin, because she could pick "anyone famous" in the whole wide world to write to and she chose me because she loved High School Bites. So I promptly sat down and wrote her back. I also sent her some signed cover flats (she asked for my autograph). As letters go, it was sweet, and I was humbled.

Next week, I go speak to NINE classes of third graders. I am sure that will be equally wonderful. And I know--because it happens every time I talk to kids--that I will look out at those cute little faces and see a few who really, really, really want to be writers. And I will tell them a writer isn't something you become, it's something you are. And I hope they remember our day together.

And it got me to thinking . . . have you ever had an encounter with an author--someone famous, someone you had always wanted to sign your book, or maybe just someone you've run into over cyberspace . . . and it impacted you in some way? Or you were just delighted to meet them? Or maybe they were just strange!

I used to be a book editor. I can recall one BEA in L.A. when I met James Patterson. Way shorter than I imagined. Nothing like I expected. The poor man was blinded by fans flashing cameras at him. I met Billy Dee Williams at the same event. Totally cool! But the most amusing thing to me was running into a fairly big-name self-help guru and finding him to be a lecherous, drunk groper. Creepy!

My favorite author encounter was with John Updike. I met him in college when I was chosen to attend some swanky cocktail party with him because I was a Creative Writing student. He was the most gracious man I had ever met with that level of fame, and he spent considerable time talking to students. I was awed.

So no, I don't hide from the paparazzi, and no, despite my dear sweet fan, I am not famous. Or even almost famous. But it was a nice letter. And it got me thinking . . . you all must have stories! Share!

Peace,
E

Cold Gusts

William Styron died yesterday.

Every writer has one or two authors who inspire them in ways difficult to articulate. William Styron is one of those for me, and I really feel terribly sad about his death.

His obit is up there in the link, but he lived an extraordinary life, fighting for liberal causes and writing great works, punctuated by periods of mental illness and great personal anguish. If you have never read Lie Down in Darkness or Sophie's Choice . . . pick them up and prepare to be awed. From Sophie's Choice:

Sophie ceased looking at the pictures -- all became a blur -- and her eyes sought instead the window flung open against the October sky where the evening star hung, astonishingly, as bright as a blob of crystal. An agitation in the air, a sudden thickening of the light around the planet, heralded the onset of smoke, borne earthward by the circulation of cool night wind. For the first time since the morning Sophie smelled, ineluctable as a smotherer's hand, the odor of burning human beings.

What is astounding to me, as I read his obit, is I really had very little idea of how much horrific criticism his work received. I assumed, foolishly, that because he had won the Pulitzer, because he had written works of great brilliance and sad beauty, that the world recognized that. But it didn't. In the times he published--1960s in particular--the world reviled him and said he had no business writing the story of a black man (Nat Turner) or a white woman (Sophie's Choice). Styron didn't feel that way. He felt we could, as writers, meditate on the life of another and write from that perspective. I feel the same way.

The cold gusts I reference in this post's title refer to when he came close to comitting suicide and felt the "cold gusts" of death blowing over him. The cold gusts came from him yesterday.

Is there some author you held so dear to your heart that their passing made you pause and remember? Someone you admire so greatly?

Peace,
E

Doubt

Doubt can be a poison that disintegrates friendships and breaks up pleasant relations, a thorn that irritates and hurts.
~Buddha

Doubt. It can plague any kind of relationship--from lovers to friends. But perhaps the worst kind is self-doubt.

I don't believe there is any way to be a writer and not have some kind of self-doubt. You know, deep in your heart, that you want to be a writer, that you are meant to do this. But until you get some kind of "proof" that you are any good, self-doubt can come and poison your own relationship with your work.

Because that's what doubt is, often. Wanting some tangible proof or guarantee. Look at the person most associated with doubt in the minds of many--so much so that it's in his name: "Doubting Thomas." According to the story, until he put his finger into Jesus Christ's nail wounds, he doubted the man in front of him was the resurrected Christ. That is some pretty serious doubt.

Proof. We choose this profession for which there is no exam to take to show whether or not you are any good. No bar exam, no CPA. We don't get a job title, corner office, or company perks. We choose an avocation that is completely subjective.

If you are unpubbed, then the burden is intense sometimes. Rejections pile up. People ask, "Oh . . . writer. So have you had anything published?" And doubt sets in.

If you land an agent, all that means is one bit of "proof"--an agent signed you. But they merely act, in some ways, as a buffer to the rejections. But at least you can say, "Speak to my agent." Sounds cool.

Then you get a deal. More doubt. For me . . . this was actually the only point I was really, really plagued. Could I ever write a second book? Second-book jitters are common.

Then the reviews come in. So a publisher put your book out, but what does everyone else think?

And it goes on from there. But doubt is a poison. If you are going to make it as a writer, that vision and belief in your destiny has to be like magnetic north. You have to point your internal compass at it and just follow the path.

Plagued by doubt? Sure you can hack this crazy biz? Or is your magnetic north true?