A Word About Bologna

I once took a psychology course, and my professor said there was substantial support in research for the idea of food phobias being related to trauma. Let's take me and bologna. When I was nine at a Girl Scout Camp, they were the two most God-awful weeks of my life. I considered it a torture camp. Hated every moment of it. And to make matters worse, there was a policy at mealtime. You couldn't simply say, "I don't like bologna." You have to give it a "Girl Scout try." I kept insisting I despised bologna, but they essentially FORCED me to eat it, and I promptly puked. After that, even the SMELL of bologna made me sick. I have a similar story about soft-boiled eggs. I'll spare you the details.

That said . . . this post is about organic characterization. There is a tendency for some authors to pile quirks on top of quirks or to add these oddball details about a character. But WHY is always my first question. If psychologists can trace bologna-phobia to a meal-time trauma, so must EVERY trait or quirk be explained in some fashion--even if the details never make your book . . . the back story has to be there to have an organic sense of character.

In Double Down, for instance, Skye is a gambling addict. Now, this makes perfect sense--her dad is a bookie. But in truth, it goes much deeper than that, and she talks, at one point, about an incident in her childhood involving the empty places where her dad used to hide his illegal flash paper (something used, way back when, to write your gambling "books" on--you could set it on fire in a "flash" or drop it in the toilet and watch it melt away instantly in water--all the better for a police raid--don't ask me how I know all this . . . or I'd have to kill you). She gambled because of empty places that nothing but gambling filled--she gambled as a motherless daughter, missing the woman who was snatched from her life, to fill that hole. I did NOT as author wake up one morning and think, "Oh, what the hell, I'll make her a compulsive gambler." The thread of that compulsion had to run all the way back almost to birth. To the empty place.

So . . . this is a word about bologna. And a word about organic character traits. It's all, in my opinion, about threads you can trace, not traits IMPOSED.

Thoughts? And any bologna tales of your own?

Honesty

I tend to think Billy Joel was right.

Honesty is such a lonely word.
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard.
And mostly what I need from you.

Years ago--when I was 23 and struggling to be a writer--I showed a published short story to a friend and her very blunt, very difficult, very alcoholic husband. I was proud to be published, albeit in a small literary magazine, and I thought the short story was brutally dark. (Note, it was published in The Rockford Review.)

And the husband stated three simple words. "It's not honest."

I was deeply offended. Who was he to tell me if my writing was honest or not? And he was quite rude about it, too. He added for good measure: "You won't be a real writer until you are honest."

With the wisdom of hindsight, I realize a few things. One, he may have been right, but he was so socially cruel and inept through his drinking that he didn't know how to even speak criticism in a way that was helpful. But two, the story wasn't honest.

I realized that sometimes I went for shock value so no one would question the subtle elements of the story. I also realized that, as a writer, I was very concerned with what people thought--a really awful and terrible trait I have worked hard to eradicate. Since then, I danced into the realm of being published to a wide audience, and started getting fan mail and emails and realizing that ten thousand, or twenty thousand, or fifty thousand people or more were actually READING my books, and there was a temptation to be even less honest.

People have a tendency to project the author into a book. If I write truth, if I dig really, really deep and go to the dark places no one in polite society wants to talk about, what will people think? Will they think the heroine's secrets of incest and rape and sexual power are my own, as in The Roofer? Will they think I am an alcoholic, as in Spanish Disco? A little of both? A lot of both?

Honesty, I came to realize, was a very lonely word. And didn't so much pour myself into my books but a version of myself. Some place, some part that was there. An empathic part that could become the people I wrote about.

No matter how far you dig, you have to dig deeper. And you can't care what anyone thinks. I have been at conferences and had, more than once, older women approach me about the language (cursing) in my books. My attitude? Tough shit. I had a review question why I had to depict anti-gay violence in Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven? Too bad. My gay friends have been victims and that was a part of the story.

It's a very naked thing to put your words out there. See my post below--it's a naked thing to put your face out there. But honesty requires that when you write you have no vanity.

It's a lonely word.

Thoughts?

The Torture of a New Me

OK, hot off the press. My brand-new author photo.

Does it seem like "me"?

And . . . isn't it weird that you WRITE but you have to find a picture for your press kits and so on that you are comfortable floating out there. If you are like me . . . and hate getting your picture taken, it is akin to torture.

I write to keep the world at arm's length. I don't have to leave the house. I LOVE my job. I love that I don't have to get in a car and go somewhere to do it. I don't have to SEE other human beings except for my rugrats. But the new photo? Like I said . . . like some kind of primitive torture. I have others--color, black and white. Some me. Some . . . not me.

Have you thought about having to stick a face on your book cover?

E

P.S. What's on my iPod (I know, enough with the F***ing iPod) . . . Sledgehammer by Peter Gabriel.

Behold the Power of iPod

My kids will tell you I am the LEAST technologically astute person they know. My oldest daughter programs my cellphone, downloads programs for me on my computer, sets up shortcuts on my computer . . . all of it. My LITTLEST daughter sets up my screensaver. I just--and I mean in the last six months--learned to do that on my own. Go ahead. Laugh. I can get into Blogger. I can use WORD. That about sums it up for me.

For Christmas, I got an altar for my Buddhas (will try to snap a picture and post here). And my kids got me some cute items--candles and scented things. But I also got an iPod and a docking station. And not a little iPod. The one with the TV screeen to watch videos. Well, my brain has been on overload ever since.

In the vastness of music, which I adore with a passion, the ability to download any song that inspires me . . . amazing. I sit and wonder how long it will take me to get to my limit--I think at least 1,000 songs. I can EASILY do that (or so I think). Then I can go and purchase television shows, like Discovery Atlas. How cool is that? And I wonder . . . how did I do without this iPod thing for so long?

But of course this involved actually learning how to work the thing. And since my daughter was feeling benevolent since she got everything on her Christmas list, she patiently sat with me until I sort of got it.

So now . . . what's on my iPod right now? General Public's "Save It for Later."

AND . . . to bring it back round to writing. With all this talk of left brains and right brains . . . I am sure if you write there are people who think that is an amazing skill because they "can't." They say their minds don't work that way, they dreaded writing papers in college, etc. But the flip side is also true. There are some things that my brain--so overdeveloped in the arts--just HURTS to learn. Technology is one. I learn by DOING, so I have to be shown a couple of times and then I can do it. I also have no sense of direction. Zip. I can get lost going to the supermarket that is a mere four miles from my home. In NYC I do OK, but send me to D.C. or someplace not laid out exactly on a grid and I am hopeless.

So how about you? Are your left brain and right in balance? Or is there something that seems to be missing in order that your writing brain could develop more fully?

Peace,
E

P.S. On my iPod now? Billie Holiday's version of "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes."

Happy Holidays . . .

I'd like to wish all the wonderful people who have dropped by this blog, lurked, posted, said hi, emailed me . . . and most especially, the regulars who have become a part of my cyber circle of friends a happy holidays!

And I wish everyone peace. . . .

I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round, as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people . . . as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. ~Charles Dickens

Peace,
E

Speak Less

As a writer, I can tell you that I have learned my father was right all along. When I was a little girl, he, as the child of very poor immigrants, told me education was everything. It was your ticket to the American Dream. And if you can write well, you can do anything. He encouraged me to be a writer.

Over the years, I learned the power of words. If something horrible happened on a plane trip or in a restaurant--poor service of an astounding degree--I wrote a letter to the CEO and got my money back. The power of words.

When my children had some kind of difficulty in our nation's overstressed schools--bullies, bad textbooks, teachers who brought their politics to the classroom during the last election or over this horrendous war, or brought religion in where it shouldn't be--I wrote a letter. And the principals in question responded and corrected things.

The pen is mightier than the sword. My father's point was proved to me over and over and over.

I saw that my ability to speak well served me in hospitals as I advocated for sick family members. It affected people's perceptions of who I was. It got me results when I needed them.

But my father and mother didn't think education was all about a college degree. I had to read the NY Times on Sunday. I did crossword puzzles. Instead of Nancy Drew, like I ASKED for, my Dad gave me, in fourth grade, an unabridged collection of Sherlock Holmes. ("Now THIS is a detective," he said.) I was gifted with books for every occasion. A Tale of Two Cities when I got my tonsils out to read during recovery. David Copperfield. Words took me places. To this day, I read the NY Times every day . . . I feel a nearly obsessive need for knowledge and to be informed.

Which brings me to my post. If the pen is mightier than the sword, then I have also learned how words can inflict horrible pain. Yes, they're only words, but they have the ability to wound. Buddhists try to live mindfully. We try to speak LESS and think more. Think before we speak. Pause. Be mindful. This year, I have walked away from more political arguments, comments meant to incite me, than I ever have before. I don't have to be right. I can keep the words inside me.

Of course, this has trickled down to my writing. Each word counts. Every word is necessary.

How about you . . . how have you learned the power of words?

Naughty . . . or Nice?

If you ask my mother-in-law, she would say evil. If you ask certain friends of mine, they will tell you a dash of naughty. After all, I'm the one to talk people into a game of poker or a party when we really all should be getting some work done. If you ask my kids . . . they'll say "Usually nice, but occasionally crabby." And as for anyone else . . . odd, eccentric . . . and, all right, nice. Oh, if you ask my best friend in the whole, big, huge, widest world, she will say, "Winsome." (Hi, Pam!)

We're all a mix of naughty and nice, which brings me to my post. Bad boys. Because, frankly, they are a fixture in women's romance--and other genres. And to my way of thinking, they ain't bad. They're naughty. Big difference. One goes to prison, the other Santa brings coal.

It's like my father, who grew up in a rough neighborhood in NYC, where his friends routinely ended up in the "joint" doing hard time says when he sees rich white boys wearing ghetto wear. Come on, you ain't so bad. You know what? My father's in his 70s and he could still take any one of them. And on THAT, I'd bet some money with my naughty-girl self.

See, there's a big difference. Bad boys in these romance books have no appeal for me. They are posers and pretenders, often with a chip on their shoulder. Arrogance in NOT an attractive trait. And you really wouldn't want a bad boy like that. Trust me, I was married to one once . . . too much baggage for my taste.

And a REAL bad man. Well, you really wouldn't want him either. Someone who could really kill without a thought, or who kicks his dog? Nope.

The men I tend to write about are witty with a dash of naughty. Santa might bring them coal, but they know the value of a little mischief in life. Like David in Spanish Disco. Or Michael in Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven, who pulls numerous pranks on Lily (okay, to be fair, he's not the love interest, but sort of--he's George's love interest).

In real life, bad boy-posers will mess up your life. I've seen it happen so many times it's gotten predictable. When I see my girlfriends falling for these messes in leather jackets, I want to scream.

Give me someone without baggage, mature, kind (won't kick his dog), and fearless in an emergency. Can change a diaper but also wield a .45 in a crisis (this is a novel, after all). A mix of naughty and nice.

So tell me, what is the appeal of the bad boy? And which list is Santa putting you on this year?

Endure

Most of us, if we see a tragedy or hear of someone we know going through something difficult, say, "I could never survive that." We sometimes even say it casually, over something far less dire than murder or death, such as when someone goes through a major embarassment or blunder.

But, in truth, we are all programmed to endure. It's part of our humanity. When my youngest son (see picture in post below) was in the NICU and intubated, I saw babies flailing and struggling to breathe, but struggling with every ounce of life in them. He came through it. I endured through sleepless days and nights.

And whatever it is we THINK we cannot survive changes by our suffering. Each event that causes us pain and grief raises the bar of suffering. Life, as Buddhists say, is about inescapable suffering. No one gets a free pass.

We endure.

Marriages endure infidelity. Parents bury their children. War happens . . . and the people endure. How do they go on, in crises like the Sudan? I don't know. Because it is so horrific, even though I believe this about humanity, I still think to myself, "I could never endure that." But sadly, we don't know until we suffer.

I have lived through many things I thought would kill me. I'm still standing.

And it is that defiance, that ability to look at the gods or the fates and to stand up again that is the moment I find most interesting in my characters. Even in my comedies, I don't make it easy. Cassie Hayes in Spanish Disco endures a divorce, alcoholism, and her father's descent into the unliftable fog of Alzheimer's. Lily in Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven endures betrayal, abandonment, and breast cancer.

Viktor Frankl took the concept by Nietzche of endurance. If you know WHY you want to survive an event, you will find within you the tools to do so. WHY do you want to live? WHY do you want to endure? For your children? For a cause? For a fight against an oppressive regime? To find the truth about a murder?

When my characters get knocked down . . . and then stagger to standing again . . . THAT is the crux of my novels.

Thoughts?

This Is Why I Have Written Nothing Today

Don't let this face fool you.

THIS is the reason I am sitting here at 4:30 p.m. with one lousy page written, a massive headache, tightness in my shoulders, and ready to just give up.

He's awfully cute, but today I have been bitten a dozen times. I have been climbed up as if I am a tree. My bookshelves have been scaled. My hair has been pulled. The dogs have had cookies thrown at them. I have swept the kitchen floor three times from tossed food. I have cleaned a high chair tray twice from dumping out juice. I have had my phone hung up on once. I changed . . . I think five diapers. One bath. He now has yogurt in his hair. And I wrote one page.

ONE page.

ONE page.

Just shoot me.

This is a blog post to all the moms and dads out there who write. Or who do any job from home. I know all about those gremlins and monsters and some days it is just, simply put, impossible. Today, I threw in the towel. I give up. The better--and cuter--man won.

And that's OK, because there is always tomorrow.

Parents, remember to kiss your kids. And then remember to cut yourself some slack. Because some days, it just ain't gonna happen. And the Buddhist in me accepts that.

Today is that day.

Can anyone relate?

Storytelling

On Saturday I watched It's a Wonderful Life and bawled my eyes out. Yes, yes, I know what's going to happen every time I see it. But from that scene in Ernie's bar when Jimmie Stewart prays so desperately (and frankly, it's a brilliant bit of acting, because what man or person has not been exactly that desperate, exactly that despairing, exactly that prayerful and in need of help?), I am hooked. And then . . . the waterworks start when he runs back into Bedford Falls screaming Merry Christmas to the "stupid, old" Savings & Loan . . . the movie house . . . and I keep crying right through his brother's toast to the "richest man in town." My God, each and every year, I SOB my way through that movie.

But that's not my only Christmas fave. I watch, yearly, all the movies I OWN (because, God forbid I just wait for the re-runs . . . no, I OWN these DVDs) . . . White Christmas, Bells of St. Mary (not entirely Christmas, but enough), and my personal favorite, The Bishop's Wife. I also may give a nod to the modern and watch Love Actually. It threads a half dozen love stories together for every stage and type of love--new love, grieving love, unrequited love, love waning, and on and on. I adore Colin Firth's story--love without words.

Which brings me to this blog post. What elevates a movie from the ordinary to the classic? Well, sometimes it's just tradition, but usually it's sentiment. The storyteller, in this case scriptwriter, director, and cast, tell a story that is universal. It resonates. The cliche of "tugs on the heartstrings" is evident and true.

I have been as desperate as George Bailey. I have been as idealistic as Mary Bailey. I have loved someone I could not have (the guy in love with his best friend's wife in Love Actually). I have had to parent in spite of grief (Liam Neeson in Love Actually tending to his stepson). I have wished for an angel (Bishop's Wife). I have been married to a man who didn't recognize the Christmas holiday because of his own moods (Bishop's Wife). I could go on and on. The performances, casting, and script can then elevate the movie a step above. But it is that universal longing and wishing and hoping and love that makes us adore some movies over and over again.

What is your favorite Christmas movie? And what about the storytelling do you respond to?

The Snake Who Swallowed an Elephant

One of my favorite books ever is The Little Prince. It is so much more than a children's classic. It always makes me cry.

There are so many things that resonate with me in this book, but none more so than the first chapter. The pilot narrating the story draws a snake who has swallowed an elephant. The resulting sketch looks an awful lot like a hat. At least to grownups. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry writes about meeting adults:

Whenever I met one of them who seemed to me at all clear-sighted, I tried the experiment of showing him my Drawing Number One, which I have always kept. I would try to find out, so, if this was a person of true understanding. But, whoever it was, he, or she, would always say: "That is a hat." Then I would never talk to that person about boa constrictors, or primeval forests, or stars. I would bring myself down to his level. I would talk to him about bridge, and golf, and politics, and neckties. And the grown-up would be greatly pleased to have met such a sensible man.

I hope I am never sensible. And perhaps that is why I am a writer. I cannot make myself talk of sensible things. Only characters and dreams and strange thoughts of murder most foul. What if . . . and then . . . what if . . . ?

Oddly enough, though, when I want to find out, upon meeting someone new, if there is ANY chance he or she will be my friend . . . I tell them I am a mom.

Why?

Because Americans most especially are so focused on what you DO, as if that is the sum total of who you ARE. And just like the pilot, I have my test. I will say, "I'm a mom." Because really, that is a huge part of who I am. I love children. I love my children. I like how they laugh and who they are. I find them interesting. And if someone sort of glazes over, as if I cannot be someone important to know, then I discuss bridge or golf or neckties. But if they ask me questions about who I am as a person . . . THEN I often say I am a novelist. And if they ask me questions about that and don't seem as if they are trying to peg me a certain way, then we might be friends.

So how about you? Do you have a version of the snake who swallowed the elephant? Do you like sensible people? I usually don't. :-)

Peace,
E

I Love Lucy

A long time ago, I was very sick. In fact, my family was not sure I was going to make it. The doctors I was seeing told me, plainly, "There's nothing more we can do for you . . . it's time to go to a medical college where the treatments are more cutting edge." Only my appointment was a month away with the top guy (who ended up saving my life). So I was sent home to lie in bed for a month . . . waiting. And while I was waiting, one day, in a surprise visit, my dear friend Joyce showed up with a shopping bag--and in the bag were tapes of "I Love Lucy." And she said she had read where laughter truly is the best medicine, and maybe I could watch them.

Because of the medication I was taking, I literally slept maybe 45 minutes a night. You're reading that correctly. The rest of the time, I was wide awake. For the first few days, you get a lot of housecleaning done. I cleaned my kitchen floor with a toothbrush. But after a while, exhaustion sets in, plus I was losing the ability to walk around. So the couch it was--me and Lucy. I would pop in those tapes around three in the morning. And LAUGH. Not just laugh, HOWL. The one where Lucy and Ethel get the job on the candy manufacturing line? Oh my God, but I just laughed my head off. Vitameatavegamin. Come on . . . how can you not laugh?

And . . . I did get well. I don't know if it was Lucy . . . or determination. Or the fancy doctor I saw. But I got well.

Which brings me to my work in progress. It's a comedy. And from the outside, comedy can look "easy." When I read some of the derisive commentary on chick lit, for instance, it's easy to dismiss it. When you see a stand-up comic who makes you laugh, sometimes it seems as if all it is are easy riffs on life. You want a riff? Don't get me started on diapers and babies and spit-up.

Look at comedy at the Academy Awards. Usually snubbed in favor of the heavy dramas. Because comedians make it look too easy.

But as I write 350 pages of comedy, trying to be funny on every page, it's difficult. Lucille Ball was a shrewd businesswoman. She was a consummate comedienne who made us laugh--but it wasn't easy. It was art.

Comedy. I think it take finesse, wit, some natural grace. But I never work harder than when I write my comedies.

And there's something else too. In Diary of a Blues Goddess, I had a drag queen as the best friend to my heroine. It may have seemed like an easy laugh. Tall (over six feet tall), exaggerated mannerisms, a "queen," Dominique was funny. But, I also afforded her respect. For instance, "she" was always a "she." And without the quotation marks. She was a trannie who deserved that. And she had pathos, too. Because the flip side to comedy is often a dash of tragedy, and Dominique had her share of heartache. What about Life is Beautiful? The ultimate tragedy and comedy mixed together.

So how about you? Have you ever tried your hand at writing comedy? And what makes you laugh--books, movies, TV shows--out loud until your stomach hurts?

Vulnerability

A long time ago, I decided I didn't have to be so tough. Life was too short to worry about people who will hurt you, guarding your heart, any of that. I am usually the most exuberant person in the room, the most joy-filled. I clap my hands like a kid over the Christmas lights, and will gladly run through a pile of fall leaves. I'll make snow angels, and I am the first person to get up and dance at a wedding. I let my puppies lick my face and my baby smother me in sticky kisses. And I will cry at the evening news, weep big tears when they run the St. Jude's Children's Hospital commercials, and sob with happiness at my kids' Christmas pageants--and don't care who's watching. I'll laugh until tears roll down my face, cry until I need a big box of tissues, and smile until my face hurts.

But . . .

There are the secret parts. I mean the REALLY secret parts. The grief I carry with me over events long gone and people long buried, the stabbing I feel in my chest when I see my grandmother's handwriting in the note I carry with me everywhere. When I open my wallet and see certain photos, the pain that is right there. In the quiet places.

And I think that's the best way to show your characters. In my current wip, I have a grief-stricken man and a woman used as little more than a human biology experiment by the government. And it isn't their big splashy scenes and dialogue that tells you the most about them. It's the quiet scenes. When no one but the reader is there. The secret vulnerability. That tells you all you need to know.

It's nuance and whispers. The secrets.

Is that how you feel you know people best? What about your characters? When no one is watching? In whispered prayers and tiny gestures?

Naming a Child

To me, naming anything--a pet, a child, even a boat--is an honor. And it involves great thought and responsibility. My newest pups are Dreamer and Cosmo, and each fits the name. My children all have names I consider beautiful. And when I picture adopting children someday . . . I imagine lovely names in my mind. Names are so important. I'm also lucky in that I have always liked my own given name of Erica.

Naming a character is a bit like naming a child. For me, having had four kids, I went through a very similar process. Baby name books. Endlessly. And now, I will go through THOUSANDS of names sometimes to choose a character name, just as I agonized over my kids' names until each one "felt right."

As a writer, I am also afflicted with a neuroses. I cannot write a book--even write past the first sentence, until the name of the main character has that resonance with me, like naming a new life inside of me. Worse, I cannot even do something like this for minor characters:

Tom [Fill in later] . . . blah, blah, blah.

No. There is no filling in later. First and last names must be decided on.

What are some of my favorite character names? Ava, Quinn, Teddi, Vince, Georgia, Billie. I use a lot of gender-neutral names for women, by the way, a sign of strength--like Billie Quinn. In my wips, I have Julian and Katie, in one book. And Eve and Mark in another (for some reason, I use Mark a lot).

In my last blog post comments section, Naomi mentioned her character "Scarlett." LOVE that name. I am always somehow jealous of names other people pick. And I love to hear the stories of how they came about. For me, it's all intuitive, mystical, a "feeling," much like giving birth.

An aside . . . every single time I have been pregnant, I have a dream in which an old man comes to me and tells me I am going to have a baby--usually tells me the sex too. And it's usually a dream WAY before a pregnancy test would tell me anything. Mystical but true.

Much like naming characters.

And you all?

What Does Your Character Want for Christmas?

Over the course of my years as a book editor, I very often was placed in the position of asking a writer what his or her character's motivation was. A completely atypical action or decision would be made in the novel, and I would ask the writer why? Why would your character choose x or y? And very often, the answer I got was that it was expedient to the plot.

Wrong answer.

Your character has to make decisions that are organic to his or her character, life and morality, their very being. And the decisions that seem to deviate from that have to have some sort of basis in their lives. For instance, in The Roofer, Ava loves her brother above all others. Yet in one very key scene--when she asks him to move in with her in their own apartment to escape their fractured home life--she USES him. She knows he cannot say no to her, and she manipulates him and KNOWS she manipulates him. But her desire for self-preservation trumps her love for Tom, and it makes sense in the context of the book. Does it serve the plot? Yes, but not at the expense of the inner logic of the character.

Which brings me to Christmas. You see, when I would ask writers about their character's motivations, I was always amazed at the writers who really never got under their characters' skins. Never inhabited them. I think, at least in the way that I view character development, that you should be able to answer nearly any question. Like what does your character want for Christmas? And why? Because when you know someone THAT well, well enough to answer any question, then you don't make missteps. You don't betray the character by having them prance about like a puppet doing your bidding--their decisions have a basis in their SOUL.

So in my work in progress, Freudian Slip, Katie Darby wants what she simply cannot have. She wants her father back. But he perished on 9/11, and it colors her world. She wants and longs for Christmases of old that can never, ever be again. And Julian wants tequila. And a stripper or two. But now that he's lingering near death, he starts to think maybe he would like the things you cannot buy. Like snow in Washington Square Park, and a quiet night listening to jazz.

So what do your characters want for Christmas? And do you inhabit them fully enough? Do you know everything about them? Or are you still in that getting-to-know-you stage?

Scrooge

I love the holidays. The chaos, the shopping, the exhaustion, the whirlwind of parties, the lights. When I go out shopping, I meet my fair share of Scrooges, but I just smile and wish all a happy holidays.

But Scrooge got me thinking . . . about the Writerly Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.

Because for me, the New Year is always shiny and new and full of fresh goals and ambitions and hopes and dreams. It's also a time for me to assess where I've been and where I'm going. As a human being, a mother, a writer, a friend.

With that in mind, as a writer, I am looking at my ghosts . . .

Of Christmas Past. This one is fun. Five years ago, I was a writer with a dream of publishing a novel. It was an unspoken dream because, frankly, how many people does that happen to? How many people want to be writers/novelists but never finish, or never sell? Or give up? Silent dreams are, I think, the ones we dare not imagine. But after selling 20+ novels (my first, Spanish Disco, came out in 2003), the Ghost of Christmas Past teaches me to go out on a limb and dream big.

Of Christmas Present. Four kids, three dogs, four birds, three fish, and a python in a pear tree. Christmas is chaotic around here. And I have TWO deadlines looming in January. I'm seeking peace on earth and a little quiet time to get things done.

Of Christmas Future. Being as I sold Mafia Chic to Warner Brothers this year, I would love if Christmas Future had my book on TV as a series. And more book sales and more ideas . . . and just this crazy life continuing full steam ahead.

So, no Scrooge here. Just gatefulness for how far I've come and where I'm going? How about your ghosts?

Yes, Erica, There Is a Santa Claus

I totally, much to the annoyance of my teenager, believe in Santa Claus. I also believe in the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, knocking on wood, wishing on a star, and that, in the end, good triumphs over evil.

I believe in magic, in fate, in coincidences that could only be dreamed up by some cosmic force. I believe in guardian angels, and that if you want to talk to the deceased, a simple prayer or conversation directed up toward heaven--or wherever--will do the trick. And that they talk back--because I believe in "signs." I can't tell you what a sign is--but I know one when I see one.

And this, somehow, plays into my writing. Because whether or not it's articulated, there is always an element of fate and magic and a dash of love, and a wish on a star, and dreams not quite hoped for out of fear, but still longed for in some way, in my books.

I am not a nihilist. I have a dash of existentialism to how I view the world, but it's always tempered by equal parts optimism.

In that way, the underlying great hopes and dreams of our own lives somehow make it on the page. If I didn't believe good trumps evil . . . then my books would end quite differently. If I didn't believe in fate, then I wouldn't have some of my characters meet in the way that they do. In BLOOD SON , Elizabeth Martin, a comparative religion professor, travels all the way from the University of Virginia to Prague to a remote mountain to meet the one man who can save her brother from evil.

Magic? In THE POKER DIARIES, due out in a mere three weeks from Penguin for young adults (and my best cover EVER!!!!!!), Lulu, a poker player, courts Lady Luck because she needs every bit of luck a poker player can muster to get out of the jam she is in. I believe in luck. I believe you MAKE some of your own luck, but like MATCH POINT, the Woody Allen film, so much of what happens to us amounts to chance.

In what ways do your larger beliefs about religion, philosophy, angels, demons, fate, or . . . nothingness . . . influence your writing?

I Can't Do Anything Else

Today, a writer friend of mine was feeling sort of defeated by the writing process. It's such a masochistic thing. Putting yourself out there for rejection, agonizing over your work, self-doubt and all the rest of it. Then I went out for dinner with my oldest child (will be 17 next year), and was told by her that she would have RATHER had a "normal" mom. Now that she's stuck with me, well . . . it is what it is. But she said, "Face it. You're a writer. You're weird. You're eccentric. I love you, but you're NOT normal."

Well, I suppose that is how your teenager is SUPPOSED to feel. But between conversation #1 and conversation #2, I started thinking about what it means to be a writer.

Conversations in my head constantly.
Never sitting in an airport or anywhere without eavesdropping and imagining people as characters.
Jotting down great lines at all hours.
Waking up at 3:00 a.m. because the muse won't shut up.
Rising at 5:30ish every morning to get quiet time to write.
Thinking of my characters as real people.
Crying when something bad happens to them.
Feeling happy when they have a wedding.

So yeah. It amounts to being . . . in the words of a typical teen "kind of nuts." Add to that the idea that I VOLUNTARILY put myself through the masochistic process.

But the thing is, I think you know you're a real writer when you figure out you can't do anything else. Sure, I have had other jobs. A book editor, a ghostwriter, waitress, bartender, blackjack dealer. But all they did was feed the writing process. I can't do anything else. I can't shut it off.

And THAT is a really startling realization. I am doomed and blessed to this career. I would say I am 99% happy about that. I love my job every day (mostly). But it has its burdensome aspects.

So how about you? Could you do anything else? Would you want to? And even if you work a day job, is it all just fodder for your fiction?

My True North

I am stuck. In a really thick bog. That I can't write my way out of. I need to FEEL my way out of it.

I have a complicated book that I am working on, and I lost true north along the way. Completely lost sight of it.

Which is easy to do in a complex plot sometimes. So I need to pause and go back to the basics. I need to go back to what the most primal theme is. Good vs. evil. And then I need to align my characters--which side do they fall on--and why. And then I need to hold onto that core, that true north, and not lose it again.

Do you ever get lost like that? And then have to strip your story down to the bare, most essential truth?

My true north is that a broken man will have to discover what is left of his faith and fight evil. Now I just have to set my compass on that.

What is your true north?

Developing a Voice

I had lunch today with two of my old college journalism professors. I was reminded of a literary journalism class I took, and how I had to fight to find my voice.

It's a funny thing . . . I can't define my voice. But I know it's this intrinsic part of me. I have had a number of fans who have written me over the years and said they can always tell one of my books by my trademark "voice," or my vivid characters. But I'm here, several years into fiction writing, and I am still discovering it.

Writing FREUDIAN SLIP (Red Dress Ink, 2008) these few months, which I blogged about a couple of days ago, I have discovered more than anything I have ever written, this natural cross between whimsy and a sense of the absurd, and a sardonic edge of humor. It feels so natural, and flows so freely, I feel like perhaps my voice was waiting to open up into the absurd all along.

But I couldn't really begin to discover this voice until I had the basics down (thank you to my writing teachers and old professors, my critique partners along the way, and so on). I also sense that I used to have a voice that was rather dark and also rather "removed" from me. Somehow it wasn't organic to who I am. Now, my voice flows freely from me without even thinking about it. I also, not so coincidentally, went through so many changes in my personal life, that I think my voice came into being when I became the person I truly felt I was meant to be--embodied the principles I struggled to learn, the courage I fought to find, the fearlessness that's not always there but was discovered through hardship, illness, divorce, and loss. The whimsy found through joy.

But I still can't describe it for sure. How about you? Have you found your natural voice, some way of writing that "speaks" to your being as a writer. That is natural for you. A fit. Distinctive and unique?

What Santa Can't Bring Me

I really don't want anything for Christmas. That's the God's honest truth. Swear. If there was NOTHING under the tree for me, it wouldn't matter because I LOVE giving much more than receiving. I love finding the "perfect" thing for my friends and loved ones.

Most of the material things that delight me aren't expensive anyway. I collect Buddha statues, and I like them, but they're not expensive and when I get one I am excited, but I don't "need" any. If Santa brought me one, I would be happy. I recently got into Asian fusion music with London hip-hop mash-ups, but you know, with downloads and iTunes . . . not very expensive.

The ONE thing I want as a writer . . . Santa can't give me. And that's more TIME.

Because, in my life, the biggest obstacle in my writing career isn't writers' block (never have it). It's not worrying about selling what I write, thank God. (Okay, I worry a little--neurotic in that regard--but it hasn't been a problem--knock wood.) It's not anything but the pressures of life mixed in with trying to be a full-time writer, and most of those pressures amount to time. I rise at 5:30 in the morning, and until 10:00 p.m. or later, it's laundry and supervising homework and running after an 20-month-old, and cleaning, and . . . . and . . . four children. Simple as that. And my writing has to be squeezed in around them, which sometimes means 15 minutes here and 15 minutes there. I've trained myself not to need much time to get back into the flow of writing when I do sit down. And I do, during naptime, get uninterrupted time, and again late at night. But it's time I want, and time Santa can't bring.

So what do you want from Santa as a writer or reader New laptop? A book on writing? Or something that doesn't fit under the tree?

Oh, and if he could bring world peace, I'd want that, too.