Facing Down the Demons

I am working on a book with literal demons--happens when you write paranormals sometimes. But I think it's a good metaphor for the writing life.

Author Mary Castillo (and if you haven't read her, run out to buy her wonderful books) had a brilliant blog entry about selling yourself and stepping outside of your comfort zone. I read it nodding, yeah, that's me, that's me, that's me.

A lot of writers who have sold have the fear they'll be discovered as a fraud--that happened to one of my best friends.

For me, I think one of my biggest fears is the well will run dry. It's never happened, I've never (knock wood) been blocked. But I have had bouts of exhaustion, of wondering if I can really keep doing this--someday, don't know when, won't I just run out of coherent books and plots? My other big fear is more a frustration, that what I see in my head won't come out the way I want it to on paper. I "see it"--damn you, writing gods--can't I pour it out just that way, so everyone else can see it, too?

I can add a half-dozen other writer neuroses. We don't have the corner market on them, but we usually have an abundance.

It takes some kind of intellectual and emotional fortitude to write 350 pages of a story--to actually do it. I wouldn't call it courage--that's an overused word in our culture. But it takes some discipline, creativity, intelligence, energy. To do it again and again . . . takes some more of the same. But the other part of it, the part we don't always speak about, are the demons and monsters under the bed. They're usually waiting for us writers. I was recently profiled in the Richmond Times Dispatch. I told the reporter is was like living with a lot of voices in your head. Or a whole house full of ghosts. I could have added that sometimes they're friendly ghosts. But sometimes? Not so much.

How about you? What writing demons do you have to stare down?

Your Inner Child

I am working on a YA proposal about a 12-year-old girl. And the more I write from her POV, the more I love her. It's an amazing thing, as a writer, to "be" other people for a while. In this book, I get to tap into my inner child.

What do I like about her? Well, my character is poised between girlhood and adolescence. She's not yet a teen, she still has hope. After all the comments yesterday on the blog, what I realize I love is her lack of cynicism. The world is still tarnished and ugly around her, but it hasn't beaten her down. She still wishes on stars, still believes a tiny bit that the moon follows her at night, still believes in all things and all possibilities. Still believes God knows her name. That she is special.

She's a lot like me. In fact, all my YA heroines are. I still make snow angels, still sing too loud along with the radio, still believe in Santa Claus (I really do!). I still think saving once child at a time can change the world, that one person can make a difference. As I plant my garden and plant new trees in my yard, I think I am doing a tiny bit to keep the planet green. And people can tell me I am being an idiot, that none of these things are true--that the planet will die, that Santa is a fake, that saving one kid doesn't change anything--but it doesn't matter. My inner child believes.

I am loving writing this YA. I love what it taps into, just as when I wrote the character of Lily in Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven, I tapped into her courage and her honesty. They inspire me, in some way. Or maybe they are part of me all along.

So how about your inner child? What other qualities do you tap into from your characters?

People Worth Knowing

I have been fortunate enough in my life to earn a scholarship to an expensive private university. And to live in nice places for most of my life. I count my blessings. But one thing I have noticed is at a certain level of wealth, there is a line of demarcation in the sand, and many--if not most--of the people I encountered had some pre-conceived notion of who the "people worth knowing" were.

What do I mean? Stick a bunch of very rich white people in a room at a cocktail party, get them talking about nannies, don't tell them your significant other is a Mexican man, and watch the stereotypes fly out of their mouths. Nannies become entities not people. "They" (meaning Mexicans) are "good with kids, but you have to watch that they don't run up your long distance bill calling home." And I don't think people like that "see" their nannies for anything more than help. Housekeepers? A wonderful young woman worked for me for three years. I taught her English every week for a couple of hours. Her story of what she had experienced in life back home was astounding. She worked for another family in my neighborhood for a couple of years before she worked for me--they had no idea how many siblings she had, what her husband's name was, or even that she had never been to formal school beyond sixth grade.

Move out of the realm of hiring people and it's still often the case. Among the really elite (I am talking very wealthy) and you often find your name and "breeding" are more important than who you are--it delineates whether you are worth knowing.

Ever read a book on building wealth? Some of them will tell you to pick your church based on how many fancy cars are in the parking lot--because the contacts you want to make worship there. The people worth knowing. I'm not kidding. I worked as a freelance book editor with a lot of the very top names in that kind of empowerment thinking. And a lot of those men and women don't see people. As far as I'm concerned, they see "marks"--are you worth knowing. It's no more, in my mind, than a big con. I can go down to my father's old neighborhood, and hang out with the guy who can do the three-card monte, and it's no different. At least with the guy doing the three-card monte, you know he's trying to take you. These other guys put on power suits and take your thousand dollars to teach you how to be a success . . . . and it's all a smooth, silken con.

I think everyone is worth knowing. And that seeps into my books. Most of my secondary characters have fully developed back stories that leak onto the page. Which is why the phrase "kill your darlings" becomes HUGE for me. One of my writers' group members will ask me, "Do we see this character again?" My reply: "No." "Then do we really have to know about his parents and his childhood?"

And the answer is no. I have to walk a fine line. I want to know all my characters--their stories and where they came from and where they are going . . . but it's not necessary for the reader to know it all. They are characters worth knowing--but in small doses, I suppose. I realize that I do this now, and I stop myself. And I think, given this post, I know WHY. I think it's my nature. But it doesn't make for good fiction all the time.

How about you? Do you find yourself overly involved with secondary characters?

Research Fun

One of the best things about my job is you never know when something you read might become useful. I don't read fiction--but I do read physics and astronomy texts, philosophy texts, and pretty much anything nonfiction that strikes my fancy. I watch the Discovery Channel (anyone else hooked on Planet Earth--AMAZING!!!) and my aforementioned love, Anthony Bourdain, and I will read up on anything and everything.

It's meandering, really. I will read about an art heist, say, in the New York Times. And a single sentence about a painting technique will send me off on a Google search. That might eventually morph into a reading expedition on famous art heists, which might bring me back to the infamous Lufthansa heist, which had a getaway driver of some sort who was pals with my dad and showed up the next day with a brand-new Caddie and then disappeared forever, which will then send me reading up on what's happening down in Hell's Kitchen. You see how it goes. One thing leads to another.

For a new wip, I am researching the history of magic. It's been so much fun . . . and like the above, one thing leads to another.

And the best part? This is my JOB!

What is your favorite part of research?

The Point of No Return

There is some quantum physics formula, some fulcrum . . . and I am on the side that is leaning precariously close to disaster. I am at the point of no return.

You see, I just spent five whirlwind days in NYC with my two-year-old (my godmother watched him, God bless her!). I met with my agent, had great meetings with editors, ate, drank and was merry in Manhattan, and flew home expecting to get to work.

BUT . . . when I leave for five days, there is something in the universe of my household that tips to the Dark Side. The three remaining children have no clean clothes, the fridge is empty, the house is leaning toward a disaster of Messy Proportions. So I expected to come home, clean like a crazy woman, and THEN get to work.

BUT . . . I got to the airport, and who should be standing there but my best friend in the entire universe. A sister to me, a soul friend. She tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Happy Birthday!" (It was my birthday on Friday.) She had come all the way from Florida to surprise me, and I burst into huge sobbing happy tears.

SO . . . she was here until this morning. That meant eating out, sightseeing (for my birthday, I chose to visit an old cemetery and also the Botannical Gardens) . . . more eating out, marathon sessions sitting on my ass on the couch with her watching movie after movie (Constantine, The Deep Blue, The Family Stone, Casino Royale).

And no cleaning.

SO . . . today is that day because though my desk is always cluttered, there reaches a point of no return after which I cannot write because I simply need some sort of peaceful order, some calm and tranquility. Some CLEANLINESS.

How about all of you? Is there some line in the sand about your house, your space, etc., beyond which you cannot write until you get it straight?

Peace,
E

I Love NY--and Publishing

Back from NYC. I bought my kids the obligatory I Love NY souvenirs. I ate sushi. I drank martinis. I ate breakfast with my agent and a wonderful editor at the Waldorf (LOT of power suits!). I did all that NYC stuff--including standing in the freezing cold, trying to get a cab, and one time, BEGGING a cabbie to take me from downtown back to midtown at rush hour (he took the shortcut past the Helmsley up Park, and it wasn't bad). Yup, I felt like I was home.

And I also had back-to-back meetings with editors over three days.

One thing that is wonderful about that, is you often can't sense what an editor really wants or his or her passion for a project until you meet in person. I am lucky in that I think I am easy to talk to, and I genuinely LIKE getting to know new and interesting people. And that lends itself to exciting meetings where I can really see what an editor wants--and also sense their own creativity. What they are looking for--but also their ideas about publishing, what's hot, what's not, what's cyclical, what THEY like to read. What they love about the biz.

Which reminded me how much I love the biz. It's easy to forget with talk of numbers and submissions, rejections or icky covers, or whatever . . . that most of the time, it's really a business about creating the best book possible. Being excited about that book, about the craft. It's like-minded people jazzed about possibilities. About the written word.

So it reminded me why I love doing what I do. Not that I often need reminding. Every time I get to sit down and create, I am usually pumped up--but like everyone, I get in slumps or feel tired. That two-year-old of mine likes to suck the life out of me like some tiny vampire. So trips home revitalize me.

So what reminds you that you love this biz?

Good Luck Charms

I'm writing from NYC, where I have back-to-back meetings with editors, my agent, and a few old friends over the next three days. There's a foot of snow on the ground. It's freezing. And I'm wearing two pieces of jewelry I consider "lucky."

I don't know that I believe in luck. I work incredibly hard for the "luck" I have. But I don't know a writer alive who doesn't think a little luck--being in the right place at the right time, having a mentor who opened a door, having a manuscript that seems to "hit" just as the cyclical search for that genre begins--isn't part of it.

So I say a little prayer to the writing gods. To the universe. I wear a ring stamped "1924"--it was my beloved grandmother's class ring--on my left ring finger to channel her strength, and to ask her to watch out for me from heaven. And I am wearing a locket with all four of my kids' pictures in it--to remind me, not that I need reminding, why I work so hard and do what I do, even when that includes flying to NYC in a foot of cold snow. And wearing high heels, which I despise. But I'm six feet tall in heels, so I figure that's a good "power" thing. :-)

So what good luck charms do you have? And has luck played a part in your career?

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

My kids are half Mexican, half an assortment of other nationalities. I'm half Russian, a whole bunch of Polish/Slav/Czech. And a smattering of Irish. We always had corned beef and cabbage on St. Patty's day (which I hate!), and green Jell-o.

Out of my four kids, one of them came out as Irish-looking as can be. She has the most Hispanic name--sounds like you would expect a dark, little Mexican girl to walk through the door. But she's fair, has freckles, and blue eyes. Somewhere on the Mexcian side there had to be a recessive gene somewhere. The boys look Mexican. Her sister looks like she should be named Svetlana of Russia (and has deep green eyes). But the nine-year-old . . . my little Irish girl.

All of this is an introduction to . . . something having to do with writing.

I would say at least half of my books have an obvious nationality about the characters. They are often Irish, Italian, Russian, Polish. I think I do this because, I suppose, I have warm memories of Polish Christmases, of all the little oddities about being part-Russian or part-Polish, the observations I made about my Russian grandmother, who still spoke with an accent and came to America as a teenager. She endured atrocities in Russia, had many stories of her escape, but also had oddities--like believing anything she read in the American press (vs. those Commies). But if the American press was the National Enquirer, that meant everything in it was true. Which led to some humorous situations. Did you know even the ADS in the National Enquirer are true? :-)

Anyway, I just realized that my heritage plays a part in my characters. And now that my children are Mexcian-Americans, and I have spent fifteen years around that . . . . it creeps into my writing, too.

So Happy St. Patrick's Day! And does your heritage creep into your writing?

You Disappoint Me

The worst thing my parents would ever say to me when I was a kid was "You disappoint me." They didn't say it often, but the couple of times, damn it hurt. I have the greatest mother in the world, and a complicated, complex genius of a father who is amazing. And I never wanted to disappoint either of them--thus straight As and a scholarship to college.

Now that I am older, I realize that people often disappoint me. I think I try so very hard to be a good person (often missing the mark by a mile), and I have such high ideals, such longings for people to do the right thing, that when they are human--'cause hey, ain't we all--I feel hurt. Recently, two people I can think of off the top of my head deeply disappointed and pained me. Let me be clear: It is not THEIR fault. We're all doing the best we can in life. The realist in me sucks it up and moves on. But the lingering pain is often there.

So today I was working on my next Nocturne, and I realize that a big part of the hero is he doesn't disappoint me. Same as the last Nocturne I worked on. In fact, though I write very quirky characters who may not be for everyone, one thing is true: When the chips are down, they do not disappoint. They may be pains in the asses (thinking of Lewis, in the Billie Quinn books), or they may be deeply flawed (thinking of Tom in The Roofer), but they will truly have your back. They will die, if need be, for the heroine, whether she is their lover or their sister (Sovo in Knockout, Tom in The Roofer, Mikey in Billie Quinn).

Which led me to this amazing realization. I think sometimes I write to control the outcome. I want things to work out my way, with characters that I can "fix" and who will not disappoint. I want it ALL--the happy ending, the loyalty, the stand-up person.

I swear to you, this is a completely new revelation to me.

So how about you? Do you ever write to fix things? So you get the ending you want, the friends or lover you want? To get justice in a world in which justice is in short supply? Do you ever write to fix your disappointments? I think this is one of our Couch questions, so grab a seat.

It's All in the Details

Do you ever meet someone, or do something, and smile to yourself because you just KNOW you are going to use that detail in a book?

I recently met a gentleman in a restaurant and was introduced. He was confident, tall, and he shook my friggin' hand like he was going to break it while looking at me intensely in the eyes. I hate "fish"-limp handshakes, but THIS, this was bone-crushing. And I thought, what gives? He cannot be oblivious that his grip is like a vise. So I decided, for character's sake, that he had something to prove. He may not. It's immaterial . . . I am going to USE that particular character trait and decide that it's a "something to prove" ego thing.

I love details.

Take Neccos.

If you read my books, no matter what the genre, at some point, my most beloved characters are going to eat Neccos. In Diary of a Blues Goddess, the characters play POKER using Neccos.

When my significant other went to CVS with my eldest daughter (almost 17) and bought me Neccos, she rifled through ALL the packs looking for the rolls with the most WHITE ones. They taste the absolute best. Through some bizarre genetic fluke, she likes the same Necco flavors as I do. We both hate the chocolate ones. Don't like the licorice ones. We hunt for the white ones--sort of cinammon-flavored. Significant Other stood there, dumbfounded. "They have different FLAVORS depending on color?" Of course, they do, idiot. And any true Necco-loving fanatic knows it. And that detail? Goes in the book.

Martinis for my characters have three olives. They like flannel sheets. They hate Jay Leno and love David Letterman. They're often Buddhists. They light candles in Catholic churches, even though they're not Catholic.

You get the idea. I use little details, and sometimes, like I said, I meet someone and think, "You don't know it, buddy, but I'm using that."

How about you? What sort of details do you put in your books or stories?

Because You Do

I try not to get upset over things I read, but as I checked the weather in NYC (heading there on Saturday to meet with editors next week), I saw this in The Post discussing the Today show:

March 14, 2007 -- . . . . But a TV insider said "Today" is losing its dominance: "The show is trending in the wrong direction" - partly because Vieira is busy hosting "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire," as well as raising three kids and taking care of her MS-stricken husband.

You know what? Give me a f***ing break.

I'm not unusual. I have four kids, write three books a year, work on publicizing my books, speak to schools on my YAs, struggle with Crohn's disease, have kids in music lessons (three of the four take lessons), take them to church on Sundays, organize food drives and other volunteer efforts, walk eight miles a day--every day, have friends, socialize . . . In short, I am like women across the United States. And granted, I am not writing my three books on television each morning, but it's just a pile of crap that you can attribute rating dominance to a woman's sick husband. My parents are aging. My father is going blind. Does anyone think that will change my life? Of course it will. But you go on and KEEP doing what you're doing. Because.

That is the simple f***ing answer. Because you do. Because what is the other option? Because you do.

No whiners here today. Everyone who juggles to find writing time, pat yourself on the back. Everyone who has an aging parents, marital problems, an ill spouse, their own illness, strife, kids, etc. Pat yourself on the back. Write. Because you do.

It's that simple.

A Writer's Revenge

You can't go through this life without someone, eventually, screwing you over. When I was younger, I usually got very angry, argumentative, maybe even tried to figure out how to get even. Now, I am more likely to simply let it go. As the famous quote goes, success is learning how to endure the betrayal of false friends. Endure is the key word there. Revenge is pointless. It uses up your own energy. Endure. I recently discovered someone I thought was a dear friend is indeed . . . not a friend. So goes life. It is what it is.

But, I will admit that every once in a while, I get a writer's revenge. In High School Bites, the math teacher Lucy dubs Mrs. Ruthless? That was MY math teacher, a truly horrid woman. Even with the wisdom of adult hindsight, that woman had no business being in the classroom. Each and every class was an exercise in her humiliating students. She was always in a bad mood--not sometimes, or even most of the time. Always. She was pinched and angry, and now she is immortalized in print. The worst math teacher. Ever.

There are other little bits of revenge here and there. I don't even know if, truly, I can call it revenge. It's not my motivation. Most writers draw on real life, so when I need to describe a horrid teacher, that one is the inspiration. When I need to describe an emotionally bullying ex-husband . . . not hard to describe. When I need to write about how it feels to be betrayed . . . I have resources.

So . . . have you ever stuck even a line in one of your manuscripts--maybe even a line that only YOU will get . . . that's a little bit of writer's revenge?

Identity

"I am a simple Buddhist monk."

That is how His Holiness, the Dalai Lama refers to himself. He could say he is the spiritual leader of Tibetan Buddhists, a holy man, the Dalai Lama, a Nobel Prize winner, or any of many descriptors, but he most often will simply say . . . he is a Buddhist monk.

Which got me thinking about how I identify myself. Who am I? And why do we feel a need to have a label? What do you DO, people ask. We are all so concerned with how we identify ourselves. Liberal? Democrat? Gay? Straight? I look at my kids . . . white or Hispanic? Hispanic or more specifically Mexican? There are boxes to check off when we register them in school--racial boxes, gender boxes.

And we've shared here on the blog before . . . when do you "own" the identity of author or writer or poet or novelist? Does society have to bestow it on you (i.e., do you have to be published?).

When I am asked what I do, 90% of the time, give or take, I say I am a mom. I usually have to be embarassed or goaded into saying I am a novelist. Take a recent dinner party . . . I said nothing in this room full of strangers, but my significant other told everyone I was a novelist, thus reducing me to blushing. It's not that I am NOT a novelist. It's simply that . . . I guess that is not the most important thing about me.

I have decided, lately, that I am not any one thing, or even multiple things. I am a person. That's complex enough. I am a mom--that I love. I am a writer. I am many, many things and you would have to come up with a dozen nouns or two dozen before you even got to know a fraction of who I am.

So how about you? What is your identity? What do you "own" when it comes to your writing?

In the immortal words of The Who . . . Who are you?

The Allure of Evil

I watched The Departed last night, and some of the funniest lines were spouted by the bad guys.

How's your mother?
She's on her way out.
We all are. Act accordingly.

F*ck yourself, you piece of sh*t.
And I need the identities of your undercovers.
Blow me. Not literally, though, unfortunately there's no promotion involved.

I laughed out loud. And that, is the allure of evil.

I had more than one reader tell me that they were bothered by how much they liked Uncle Two in The Roofer. Or even Frank. They're murderers. No questions asked, no guilty consciences. But they're loyal guys with totally sick, dark senses of humor--senses of humor that I share.

But does that mean I am glorifying violence? It's a question asked every time Scorsese makes a film. It was a question asked about The Godfather trilogy. It's asked about The Sopranos. And as I work on The Devil's Agents, it's something people COULD ask. But I don't. I never wonder whether I am glorifying violence. Because I'm not. I'm merely depicting it in full, round detail.

Evil is alluring. It's that simple. If it wasn't, people wouldn't sin, if you want to get all Biblical about it. Having an affair--easier than working on a marriage. Taking drugs--easier than facing your problems. Killing your estranged wife--easier than getting a divorce. At first. That's how evil sucks you in. Then it gets hard and twisted and difficult. But first . . . it has to be alluring.

Bad guys can be funny. They can be daddies. Not fathers, but dear, sweet, wonderful daddies who pick their little girls up and twirl them in an "airplane." They make sacrfices for their families sometimes--families they adore. They kiss their wives. They make love. They sit down and say grace around the dinner table. And they also kill without much thought. THAT is the reality of some gangsters. And if you play it that they don't have the humor and the allure, then you miss out on their charm, and then you miss out on that particular nuance of the story.

If some adolescent kid decides the violence is something beyond cool . . . and does something about it? That points to that particular child's upbringing, genetic makeup and so on. But the artist--filmmaker, author--was right to depict evil as it IS, not as people want it to be. People want their bad guys wrapped up in an evil bow. Like a sign pointing--EVIL HERE. But more often than not, bad men are alluring.

That's how they entice you. That's how little girls believe their daddies are all heroes even when they're out at night shooting other bookies for invading their turf. That's how they get new recruits. That's how they operate.

Thoughts?

Guilty Pleasures

The most embarassing thing on my iPod? Has to be Neil Diamond--live version of "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show. "Yeah. Can't help it. I like some of his stuff. Of course, I also have Nine-Inch Nails "Closer." And Echo and the Bunnyman, and Nirvana, and Pearl Jam, and Moby and Rob Dugan (genius!), and John Legend and Cake and Corrinne Bailey Rae and Primitive Radio Gods. But Neil is my only guilty pleasure.

Actually, the title of this blog post is incorrect. Because I really DON'T have a problem with Neil. I mean, I wouldn't shout from the rooftops I have that song on my iPod, but I like it. No guilt.

But what about books? I've never hidden that I don't read fiction. I read physics and astronomy texts. I don't read fiction mostly because I don't want my own style influenced. But also because I really LOVE reading about science and if I have to pick between reading about string theory and the Big Bang . . . and a novel, string theory will win out every time.

BUT, I know people who are seriously embarassed for reading romance, like they have to apologize. Or feel embaraased that a certain book or author is on their shelves. It's their guilty pleasure.

I don't know if I have one. I would guess the closest I ever came was devouring every single Fletch book by Gregory McDonald. Actually, I just visited his website. This guy is seriously political, so maybe he's not such a guilty pleasure after all.

But how about you? Anything you would term a guilty pleasure in your life?Chocolate counts. (In that regard, the amount of sushi I eat would be a guilty pleasure . . . because I have otherwise sworn off animal flesh--no more chicken for moi--and it's so expensive for a food habit.)

Chatty Bad Guys

Real bad guys don't talk much. They really don't. Professional killers don't feel much remorse. They don't hop on an analyst's couch and utilize talk therapy to purge their guilt.

Which brings me to one of my pet peeves in books. Chatty bad guys.

A real bad guy who is going to kill someone will simply do it. No fuss, no muss. I once chatted with a family friend who did some hard time, I think for manslaughter, though no one's quite sure. He talked about committing a murder. "We'll just pull an O.J." he told me over a beer. "Simple, in and out." I declined the offer to solve my particular problem that way, though I knew he had his heart in the right place--as odd as that sounds. But real bad guys think that way. In and out, get it done. End of story. You talk, you get caught. That's how things work.

So it always amazes me to meet bad guys in fiction who, as they hold the gun to someone's head, chat on and on in a virtual SERMON of why they are going to do what they are going to do. It's a tricky thing, in fiction, to tie up all your loose ends. But chatty bad guys are not a good way to do it, I don't think. I will sometimes give mine a paragraph to spout their motivation. The rest, frankly, has to fall into the way we react to real criminals. We don't know. Yes, there is a motive, but what really and truly propels someone to take another life falls into a category of human behavior we never can fully grasp.

Anyone else see this in fiction and be bothered by it? Any other peeves?

My New Boy Toy

When I worked on the It Girls miniseries, mine was the first book. One of the other writers, the wonderful Vicki Hinze, suggested we each email each other pictures of who our characters looked like so that if our characters cropped up in someone else's book, we'd all know exactly how they looked (for the record, my heroine looked like Sienna Miller, my hero like Benjamin Bratt). This seemed like a remarkably sensible suggestion, but it threw me into a panic. I had never, ever picked out what a character looked like. They were just in my head.

As I worked with these other writers (including fellow Nocturne author Michele Hauf), I soon discovered that a lot of writers do this. Karmela Johnson always is posting her new heroes and heroines. But not me.

Until today.

It was purely by accident, but I stumbled on this guy, Josh Stewart. And he has the faintly tough guy, pale boy from Hell's Kitchen look I need. So . . . he's my Jimmy in my new wip.

Never did this before, but now, I might like having a boy toy or two.

And you? Do you pick out someone in your mind, or is it all in your head? What about scenes, restaurants, apartments? Do you cut out pictures, remember someplace special, or is it all imagined from the vault inside your brain?

Trolling for Titles

About ninety percent of the time, I know my title before I even have a firm grip on the story. Spanish Disco was always Spanish Disco. I briefly, during the writing, thought of changing Roland's and Cassie's dance to the tango. But the title, like Gloria Gaynor, survived, a glittery, disco-ball salute to excess.

The Poker Diaries . . . always The Poker Diaries. It was that title even before I quite knew who my lead character was other than a poker-playing teen. It was that title as the book's plot morphed completely.

Luckily for me, titles pop into my head all the time. Maybe it's a form of insanity. I have dozens of titles for books that don't exist and may never exist. A line in a song . . . suddenly I have a partial book title.

When I am stuck, I become a title whore and go trolling about the Internet, looking for good quotes, hoping something inspires me. I will read quotes by famous dead people. Eleanor Roosevelt or Albert Einstein. I will go read a physics textbook. I will just open my mind to the fact that perhaps, somewhere, one or two words will spring into my head and voila . . . I'll have my title.

Thus yesterday. My new book title/wip is The Devil's Agents from this quote:

The devil's agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not?
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

I like it. Suits my characters. Totally fits the storyline.

So what do you do when stuck for a title? Or are they always there in your mind? And do you have to have the title before you begin? I do. I can MAYBE write a chapter or two, but beyond that, I NEED a title to ground my metaphors and to help me see the big picture.

Shadowlands

I am working on a new proposal for my darkest piece of fiction since The Roofer. And I already know how it's going to end, even though I am conceiving of this as a trilogy with hundreds and hundreds of pages. And I am also acutely aware that, like The Roofer, not everyone is getting a happy ending.

In fact, there would, like The Godfather trilogy, be no way to write this story and let it lead into light. It has to go into shadows. Two characters of the three main ones will possibly escape, but one--not so lucky. I know it from the first page. From his swagger. From the way, at 13, he declares he is afraid of nothing and no one. From the fact that he grows to a legend. As my girl narrator states . . . we all know what happens to legends. People delight in tearing them down. No, he is not so lucky to survive.

And maybe it's not luck anyway. Maybe he's the character who's always taunting death to come find him. Maybe he wants it in a way.

But either way, I am aware that there is what readers may hope for, and what will actually come to happen. I wonder, in a way, about J.K. Rowling, or any author with characters readers get very involved with . . . is your only obligation to be true to the story arc you envisioned? If she offs Harry . . . is that okay, even though she's lured in a generation of children? (For the record, I can only imagine Harry getting an Arthurian Isle of Avalon, Frodo in Valinor ending.)

Thoughts? Do your characters sometimes demand the shadows? And what obligation do you have to your readers?

This and That and a Word about the Journey

I wanted to let you know that the lovely Sara Hantz asked me to be part of the new Teen Fiction Cafe Blog. So come pay us a visit. I am blogging about bad boys.

And yes, my daughter did INDEED win the lunch with the school's custodian (see post below). Will surely blog about that when the lunch happens. She is thrilled.

And . . . for no other reason than to say this is what consumes me . . . my iPod is now over a full DAY of songs. A milestone. I can go 24+ hours with music.

And finally, TWO cyber friends I adore dearly, both, within 24 hours of each other, emailed and called me for advice about careers. It was about writing what you love versus getting a foot in the door. Market (what's hot) versus what speaks to you. And assorted stuff in between.

And in this SAME week, I also heard from two aspiring writers who were starting to have doubts. One . . . it was precipitated by reading one of my books, as in I can't write as well as you.

ALL writers are plagued with self-doubt I think.

And here's the thing . . . the longer I am in this biz, the more writers I know, the more I realize there is no career trajectory. It's a unique journey. And every writer's path is completely different, marked by periods of self-doubt, confusion, writer's block, inertia, ennui, and exuberant bursts of genius.

But I sincerely believe those journeys are unique and solitary. And only YOU know what to do. And even if you DON'T know what to do, wing it. Because it's all about the journey. There are few missteps in life. I believe that with all my heart. Even if you make a choice that seems to have been a wrong choice, it will educate you. So embrace your journey, enjoy the ride.

And when you hit the top of a hill? Close your eyes, take your hands off the handlebars, and fly down it and up the next one. Just live each day as if it's a gift. Love deeply and fully. Write with all you've got. And in the end, it all seems to work out for the best.

Peace,
E

Lunch Date

Yesterday, one of my kids' schools had a silent auction--you bid on baskets of books or gardening supplies, or toys. The ONLY thing my daughter wanted to win was a cafeteria lunch with the school custodian, a man who is so gentle, and once took her hand when she was lost in the halls, and kindly guided her to where she needed to be. He's been a custodian for something like 30 years. So while others were bidding $5 for lunch . . . I happily bid $50. I mean, there are a lot of cool questions she can ask him about school thirty years ago. About life. And she REALLY wants to have lunch with him, and that's certainly worth it.

Which got me thinking . . . who would you want to have lunch with? You can pick a couple of people--dead or alive--because it would be hard to narrow it down. And instead of a cafeteria lunch, I'll toss in a bottle of Cuervo, and some Mexican food (guess what I ate last night--being as my kids are half-Mexican, they all go through withdrawals if we don't head out for Mexican food every so often).


Well, you KNOW I am picking Anthony. Better pack two bottles of Cuervo. Then I am picking Albert. Then I'd like to invite the Dalai Lama. And then for the hell of it, I would like Lou Reed to attend and play some music so we could rock out. Then I would probably pick the school custodian, because anyone who has made such a remarkable impression on one of my kids has to be very special. I would also like to invite Michio Kaku. He's a pioneer of string theory, and I would think it quite fun to see him discuss this with Einstein because when Einstein died, string theory didn't exist--not that I am sure about string theory. It's not even a theory I don't think--more like a radical idea. Still . . . Kaku and Einstein at the same lunch? Priceless. I would of course, run away with Anthony after lunch and not turn up for at least a week. But . . . lunch would be fun.

So who would you invite?

The Couch

We sometimes joke on this blog about sitting down on the Couch for some analysis.

Well, the Couch is comfy tonight.

Most writers I know are, generally, more intense than the rest of the population. We live in other worlds. We are constantly thinking--off in some other place. And more than a fair share I've met are screwed up. Maybe more than the general population, maybe not. They are alcoholics. Potheads. Messing up marrige number four (you know who you are). They are, sometimes, working through trauma in their writing. It's a version of the Couch.

Lily's ex-husband in Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven? He generally goes by Spawn of Satan, or, affectionately, "Spawn" for short. Hmm . . . yeah, I get that one.

The drill sergeant run over by the the dad in the in The Roofer after hijacking a bus? Uh . . . I don't think Dad will mind me saying . . . true.

Now these little tidbits of real life are not to be confused with what I refer to, as an editor, as The Revenge Book. Those are books so dense with anger and hatred, in which the writer has gained no distance, so it's this toxic soup of dysfunctional crap. They REALLY need the Couch.

But yeah, I think it can be said that for a lot of us, there are tiny elements here and there of working things out on the pages.

So . . . you need a spot on the Couch?

Dr. Freud is in.

Home

I am on my third attempt to start the next book in my Nocturne trilogy.

The first attempt started with the POV of the lead character of the last book who is a minor character in this one. I think I did that because I'd spent 300 pages with him and knew him, and it felt familiar. I was seven pages in before I realized he's a minor character in this book . . . so he really shouldn't have a POV at all. The book opened in his home in British Columbia.

Attempt number two was the same scene--only from my main character's point of view. I was sort of getting into the head of New Guy. Still opened in British Columbia. Scene full of back story. I wanted to puke all over my pages. They sucked.

Attempt number three. Scene opens with New Guy. Only it opens in Alphabet City in Manhattan. Avenues A, B, and C. Bordered by Houston Street (note to non-New Yorkers . . . NOT pronounced Houston like the city, but HOW-ston.) In a gutter. In the rain. And . . . I felt my whole self relax. New Guy belongs in Alphabet City. It grounds the whole book.

Oh, New Guy will eventually travel, fish out of water, to British Columbia. He will marvel at the Pacific. But like all people who have New York as part of them, it won't feel like Home.

I never really thought much about setting before yesterday. I borrowed from places I'd been--Sanibel Island, Boca Raton, Washington D.C. I'd borrowed from places where people I loved had been--Prague and Paris, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos. I'd borrowed from places I'd only read about--like 19th century Shanghai, or Moscow.

But yesterday, I realized when I set my books in New York City, I'm Home. I get it, I know it, I love it. I love the Yankees. I love the Giants though they rip my heart and sometimes part of my lungs out each season. I love the pretzels sold on the sidewalk, the lions outside the library. I love the energy. I love St. Patrick's Cathedral. But most of all, I guess, when my characters call that Home, I know them. They're under my skin.

So how about you? Where do you set your books? Or what place is Home for you?