Time Management 101 and Nyquil

Well, I'm back again. Slept a LOT this weekend. Thanks to Nyquil. Shots and shots of Nyquil since the immune system is really gonzo and I am fighting off a cold. I had strange assorted psychodelic dreams from said Nyquil. Forget hallucinogenic drugs. Not necessary. Just give me Nyquil.

But I digress.

Today I sort of cleaned my desk. Then I filled in my Daytimer. To all of you with fancy Palm Pilots, yes, I am the last of those dinosaurs who still fills out my to-do list and calendar on old-fashioned PAPER. Since my to-do list each week is far, far, FAR longer and more panic-inducing than the week in which to accomplish it, I end up rewriting the list each Monday and trying to fathom just HOW on God's green earth I am going to accomplish even a tenth of the things on my list.

About 80% of my list is family stuff. Four kids. One an aspiring concert violinist in one professional quartet and two orchestras, plus she works three nights a week to save for college. Plus she is a senior, meaning we are filling out college applications and writing a LOT of checks. One child into Ninjitsu twice a week and playing the horn. One a rock and roll drummer (at age 9). One age 2 and just Demolition Man. If you read this blog regularly, no need to say anymore about him. Add confirmation classes for one son, church services each Sunday at which I prepare coffee and get donuts for everyone. Laundry for a family of six. Housework. Dogs (three). Birds (two). Python (thank GOD, only one of those). Beta fish (one, and hey, she needs clean water and fish food). Meals. Homework. Mine is the story of nearly every American mom. Well, maybe except for the python. I don't allow my kids to do too many activities. But even ONE activity per kid times four kids . . . and one of ME. Do the math. I have NO idea how my mother did it. At all.

About 20% of my list is work-related. I take freelance editing this year because I have to pay for college next year (the last three years, I hadn't taken any). I write articles freelance for a glossy. I write three books a year and a couple of proposals. Now, my list, professionally, should be closer to 50-50 in my life when I look at my Daytimer, just in terms of how much work I do, but that's just as hallucinogenic as Nyquil. The family stuff trumps.

NOW . . . . . add to this the fact that TWO people this weekend asked me if I started CHRISTMAS SHOPPING?!?!?!?! And you have full-blown, all-out panic. My GOD, but Christmas is less than . . . well, calculate the shopping days. I have 7 nieces and nephews, four kids of my own, two parents, two sisters, a significant other, a best friend, and assorted other shopping to do.

Okay, let me take a shot of Nyquil and make it all go away. LOL!

So tell me, writers and mothers and fathers and friends . . . . fitting in writing in all of your lives . . . what do you do?

I've shared before my number-one secret to time management is eliminating things that don't matter to me. If I make plans, I REALLY want to do it (VERY much looking forward to dinner tomorrow with my friend G.L.). If I volunteer, it is something PERSONALLY meaningful to me. I don't watch a lot of TV unless it's something that brings me enjoyment--not a lot of mindless TV watching just because. I try to maximize my time by doing that which matters most today. With the exception of chauffeuring duties (my least favorite thing), I generally accomplish that goal. Even laundry I try to do mindfully, thinking, "I do this for my family so they feel cared for." Silly, but it works to keep me from feeling resentful about housework. Fresh-smelling clothes means Mom loves you. Even you, adolescent boy with WAY too many T-shirts, and YOU, nine-year-old fashion-minded girl who changes her clothes twice a day.

So, writers, friends, share your best time-saving secret.

Meanwhile, I need some more Nyquil.

Recharging

I haven't blogged about it, but it's not been a stellar week. I've been burning the candle at both ends with my kids, life in general, deadlines. And about five days ago, I started with severe Crohn's disease pain in my joints (one of the extraordinarily sucky things about having Crohn's--and how do you like THAT word from a writer--"sucky"). If you don't have serious arthritis, it's hard to describe other than to say even sleeping on my luxurious pillow-top mattress is killer because it's like a princess and the pea thing--every joint aches with such a throbbing, God-awful pain that I feel like I have slept on rocks. Sharp rocks. Add to this that since Crohn's disease is an immune disorder, all my glands are swollen . . . and so . . . I know that if I don't want to end up really sick, it is time to recharge.

Recharging with four kids is NOT an easy task. Baby #4 does not know the word, "Stillness." There is no little Buddha in him. Yet. If he is awake, he is destroying something. Demolition Man last night decided to hide keys. (Significant Other woke me at 4:00 a.m. on the way to work to ask me where they were . . . and we commenced a major search and rescue mission for said keys before dawn.) Junior Terminator then decided this morning, while Mommy was brushing her teeth and washing up, to empty every shoe from the master bedroom closet, and THEN set out in search of real trouble. So you get the idea.

So . . . back to the topic of recharging. Sitting and typing for hours and hours is killin' me, so I am going to sketch and write in my notebook for my Top Secret new project. The good news is after two days of phone calls and hours of discussions, the contract negotiations are complete (and for anyone who wonders what it is an agent does--I'm talking about HIS work of hours and hours and negotiating . . . thank you to him, and thank you to my new editor who is a dream). But anyway, I can sit in bed and write in my notebook--which is fun and fanciful. I can also print out some research pages and work that way.

And I have--count 'em--THREE movies starring him. I plan to curl up and watch DVDs tonight . . . Happy sigh.

I think I will also try to sleep in tomorrow (as I type this laughing hysterically), and when that fails because of Child Who Cannot Be Still, I will turn on this channel, and hope I can stand Barney for long enough to be a little lazy in bed with my little pal snuggled next to me (I can hope, can't I?).

I will knit at some point when I can be certain Wild Man will not unravel my stitches, like when he's sleeping. I will read. Right now, I am reading this. And I should finish it this weekend. At which time I will start this. When my brain hurts from too much science (generally, I can read this stuff for about four hours . . . before needing a break to ponder), I will flip on TV and look for re-reuns of this. That is a simple task since it seems to be in re-runs somewhere 24/7.

And then after all of that recharging (which no, does not sound like a weekend at a spa, but is as close to rest as I can get around here), I will hope that my joints will give me a break, my glands will stop being the size of large walnuts, and I can exist without any pain . . . AND will feel, generally, happier and at peace.

Note . . . NONE of these options--except writing in my notebook--involve writing/work. But I know I will at least be THINKING about my works in progress. Which is actually a form of fun.

So tell me . . . how do YOU recharge???

Peace,
E

Melancholy

I cannot rave enough over the David Cronenberg's EASTERN PROMISES. I'd read the hype--a masterpiece. And yes, it is in EVERY sense of the word. It was--and I don't use this lightly--perfect. Every performance. Every plot twist. And most of all, the air of melancholy.

You see, part of what made this film brilliant was its mood. The Russian mob was ruthless, but much of the picture takes place in a restaurant called Trans-Siberia, frequented by Russians living in London. The old women visiting it, the Russian families, reminded me of my father's family. In fact, one character reminded me SO much of my late uncle that it was difficult to pay attention to anything else. From how they combed their hair, to what they ate, to how they carried themselves. (Americans are very "open" in their body movements; Russians very spare and closed.) I saw bits of my family on the screen--the old family. The way they carried grudges to their GRAVE. One uncle in my family didn't forgive another because there was an "incident" with stolen gold coins. Who knows it it was ever even true. That one went to the grave. Viggo Mortensen's character spent time in Siberian prisons, and I still remember my grandmother taking out a photo of my cousin and his wife, both almost classically Russian--black turtlenecks, black hair, stoic faces. "What became of them?" I asked. "Exiled to Siberia," was the response. Like out of a movie. THIS movie. Viggo played with worry beads. My grandmother had worry beads, and I was given a set as a child (which much to my angst, have long been lost).

But above all, it was the MOOD. Violins in the saddest and most melancholy of tunes drifts over EVERY scene, casting a pall. And THAT was very familiar. Which brings me back to writing. First, I have blogged here before about clans. Stereotypes abound about every single ethnic group. And yet, within each ethnic group, you will find people that perfectly fit the stereotype. The Russians in this movie were as real as any I have ever seen, and yet there were elements of stereotype--the ever-present vodka, the boisterousness and face-slapping when drunk, the kisses on both cheeks. In order to use things like this in writing, I think you have to get the details just so. An INSIDER can use them. A person who researches extraordinarily well can use them. But the details have to be just right. The vodka coupled with the stance. The knuckle-slapping grandma in The Roofer. But slapping out of impatience and love. (I wasn't learning my Russian well enough.) And by the way, I can't WAIT for my father to see this flick.

And then the mood. The air of melancholy drfiting over this group. It is a Russian trait. You need only look at the landscape of Siberia to "get" it. But how as a writer can you capture it? It's the subtlety of dialogue. The glass is ALWAYS half-empty to a Russian (in my world, at least) ,and it comes through in EVERY single statement. Every one. There is NO optimism. None. Zippo. God only exists to punish--if he exists at all. He created a fallen world, emphasis on fallen and corrupt and evil as the Communists in the Revolution. There is no room for a "Happy" birthday. No occasion that cannot be ruined by a comment of doom. That sound? The other shoe dropping--ALWAYS. You see? The mood and pallor of The Roofer was relentless. There is no let-up unless you leave the clan. None. You don't get a respite. If you want to create melancholy, every slice of dialogue must carry it through. The same can be said for ANY mood. Anger. Angst. Depression. You must be faithful to the world you are creating. It't not, as some writers and films do, to set a scene and then it's forgotten. Be faithful all the way through. Let the violins weep through every scene.

Thoughts?

Bad to the Bone

None of us likes being around mean people. One of my kids is saddled with a bully for a teacher--it's only every other day, only for one period (well, actually a double-block period). But it wrecks my kid's day. Which sucks. I wish I could tell him people like that are a rarity, but I know they're not. He's an Everday Villain. In my little world, I have the Mean Mom in the neighborhood. I actually have come to the conclusion--call it a hunch--that she is Mean Morning Drunk Mom. Which is sad. But she's not the first Mean Mom I have met--not by a long shot. Nor will she be the last. And Mean Morning Drunk is a "type." So is "bully." As writers, we are probably better than some at analyzing traits. Pull together a series of traits, and voila . . . you have a character. So when I see Mean Morning Drunk Mom and she has her coffee cup, I secretly, as writer, wonder what's in it? Is it vodka? Is it a shot of Bailey's in her coffee? Baileys AND vodka? Then I wonder . . . does she go back to the house and sit and watch soap operas all day in a sleazy negligee? (Yup, writer's imagination!) Actually, I know she is in sales, so THEN I wonder what she is like to her customers. Maybe she stores a fifth of vodka in her top desk drawer and slurs while making calls. And suddenly, I have a character. I can't help but think all sorts of things about Bully Teacher, NONE of which is appropriate for a PG-13 blog. But . . . that's the writer in me. I invent stories about bad guys and Everyday Villains . . . and invent stories about the good guys, too. But . . . all of this got me thinking this a.m. about bad guys and types. The Bully. The Nasty Drunk. Snippets of "bad" that get to go into books. But there are as many different bad guys as there are people, and we color them with nuances and their own particualr brand of crazy. However, I started trying to compile a little list.

TREACHEROUS TYPE. In the dictionary, this one is characterized by faithlessness or readiness to betray trust; traitorous, or deceptive, untrustworthy, or unreliable. Now, in romantic comedies, I would say you use this type one a lot if you have a nemesis for your heroine. The treacherous friend who betrays the main character and sleeps with her boyfriend. In darker work, it's the person on the team who's ready to double-cross. They have their reasons, sometimes for money, sometimes for jealousy, maybe for fame or for ego. This type of bad guy is less overt, usually.

EVIL. Actually, in the dictionary, this one is wicked or immoral. WICKED . . . makes me think of Dorothy's nemesis. It can also mean arising from the NATURE of evil, specifically, "the force in nature that gives rise to wickedness or sin." That's the devil, folks. Or the belief in a force of good versus a force of evil. To me, this category includes the Hitlers of the world. It strikes me as more of a force. In BLOOD SON, the leader of the vampires had actually survived the genocide in Hungary, witnessed mass slaughter, and it colored his world. The force of evil gave rise to genocide then created this monster who then became a force unto himself.

SOCIOPATH. Here we go with Hannibal Lector. "Someone whose behavior is antisocial and who lacks a sense of moral responsibility or social conscience." These are the bad guys who can do extreme wrong and feel no guilt. They are NOT conflicted. So if you have a conflicted bad guy, he's not a sociopath.

NARCISSIST. Oh, I know one of these. Unfortunately. "A psychological condition characterized by self-preoccupation, lack of empathy, and unconscious deficits in self-esteem." Self-preoccupied, yes, most of us know that part of the definition. BUT see that lack of self-esteem thing? That drives it. God, these people are difficult to be involved with. They make interesting characters--again, paying attention to the second part. The unconcious that throws a curveball of self-loathing.

GANGSTER. Guess what? In the dictionary, this is just a "member of a gang" or a member of organized crime. So the reason in many of my books that these guys are family men and have a gentle side as well as a dark side is gangster is more of a profession. Now, what leads a person into this line of work varies, but it does not have to be one of the categories above it.

Okay, so you get the idea. Right now, in my current work in progress, I have EVIL as my bad guy. He split the clan, and he is motivated by an almost animalistic hatred. He is a force.

However, I am doing a proposal with a narcissist in it--a mother who never was able to love her child because that would have interfered with her life's work. And am playing with a romantic comedy in which there is a treacherous enemy who wants to undermine my heroine's business by any method.

What about you? Got any other bad guy types? There are plenty. Plus there are some that pick and choose from different types. And add to that there's an entire host of psychological disorders that form the basis for bad behavior--everything from borderline personality disorder, to alcoholism, to drug addiction, to . . .

So? How do you serve up your bad guys this morning?

Serendipity

I love the word serendipity. Because in my writing life, I am fortunate enough to have it happen all the time. Definition?

Serendipity is the effect by which one accidentally discovers something fortunate, especially while looking for something else entirely.

It is usually atrributed in word origin to a Persian fairytale about the Princes of Serendip, and I know that because when I was first training as an editor when I was 20, one of the people you "interned" with for a two-week period was an old-time, ancient proofreader named Bill, who seemed to know the origin of every word there ever was--and always had a story about it. And cookies in his file cabinets. So I liked visting him.

Anyway, I have had a character I want to use in a book--all her own. But I have enough things in the works that I felt it was unlikely I could get to it for a while. And while talking to my new editor, he suggested a "really strong" female character for a mentor for my main character in my trilogy. I said I'd think about it. A month later, here I am, saying my prayers this morning (side note, especially prayers for patience as Monster Child was in RARE form this a.m. and had been "painting" with his peanut-butter sandwich on the coffee table and walls). And my iPod was playing. I have DAYS of songs in my iPod and I always hit shuffle. The first song that came on today was Benny Goodman's "Sing, Sing, Sing." This, inevitably, made me smile because that's my daddy's song. So I was contemplating calling him and saying, "Guess what, I'm thinking of you," but it was 8:00 a.m. and he sleeps until 9:30 most days. So . . . I just smiled and lit my candles and continued my prayers. But then I started thinking about weaving jazz into the storyline of this trilogy. But I knew Benny Goodman wouldn't fit, so NATURALLY, I started thinking of my all-time jazz love, Django Reinhart, and I thought Django, a noted gambler, could win the item of the title of the book in a card game. And then--out of nowhere--the female character who I wanted to have in her own book popped into my head--because Django was a gypsy, and she reminds me of one--and suddenly, I knew not only would she be in the triology, she would have a MAIN and HUGE role.

Okay, so this wacky story of the inner workings of my nutty brain is really to show you that serendipity works all the time in writing. I wasn't "forcing" it. I wasn't looking for how to fit her in the trilogy. Had I done so . . . I would have probably failed. I didn't even yet connect that I could use her in someone else's book. But I just let it roll around in my brain and sooner or later, it eased, serendipitously, into being because of just the right combination of thoughts, music, life.

And that is why it's nearly impossible for me to describe my process. To teach my process. Because so much of writing is happy accident.

Or am I the only one?

Alas, Poor Theo

My new work in progress is a trilogy. And I am right now introducing my favorite character . . . (or one of them). His name is Theo, and he kind of looks like the guy at left, except my Theo has blue-gray eyes. And unfortunately . . . Theo . . . meets a grim end. I know this, so every scene with him just makes me ache. The more I like him, the more I know I will cry when the time comes.

Yes . . . my characters are that real to me. I love Theo. In a very real way. And oddly enough, I can't simply decide to spare him. You would THINK . . . "She's the author, so she can make whatever she wants happen." But to me, the process is much more "real" than that. I can no more undo what is going to happen to poor Theo, than I can suddenly snap my fingers and make my toddler stop his habit of taking off all his clothes and running around "nakie." You know, it just is. And just as my world is real, so is Theo's, and there are aspects of it that seem, in many ways, pre-ordained. Just as J.K. Rowling knew what was going to happen in the last book . . . I am very clear as to what happens to all the members of this particular clan. It is their destiny.

So . . . does anyone else relate? Do your characters have destinies that you cannot control?

Rock and a Hard Place

Random thought: You know you have an obscene amount of music on your iPod when a new song by Beck comes on and you didn't even realize you downloaded it.

Moving on . . . I had a migraine last night for the first time in a year. After it started to mildly subside, I watched an old Law & Order because knitting or reading were out of the question. It was about a child sociopath. A scary, creepy child sociopath who murdered another child. Because Law & Order is always so happy. But it got me thinking.

So much of the best of fiction is about your main character's rock meeting the hard place. Like the episode of Law & Order. You could imagine being a mother, totally loving and adoring her child. I've given birth four times, and each moment of birth, there is this unexplainable breaking of your heart as its capacity for love is expanded beyond what you thought you were capable of to make room for this child you would die for. . . . When I gave birth to baby #3, it was with a catheter in my heart, and a cardiologist in the room (and yes, I did do the insane and have a 4th)--and I said to the baby's dad . . . "If it's between ME and the BABY, choose the baby and don't ever regret it." You love your baby--even UNMET--THAT much. So now you can imagine being the mother of a child in this episode. A mother's love. But then the unspeakable happens and the kid starts killing the family pets and catching and dismembering little mice, on his way to a real murder. And the D.A. has the intention of trying the 12-year-old as an adult. And there is no way you can imagine your CHILD going away for LIFE with no possibility of parole at age 12. So what do you do? Hide your child? Run away? Go on the lam? Turn him in? Rock . . . meet hard place. [As an aside, in my own little birth drama, imagine being the father having to make that call? Baby or mother? Real life is FULL of these dramas.]

This is what editors mean when they say raise the stakes. So that the squeeze in on. The soul is tortured . . . and the main character must come to discover what he or she is made of. Morality is all well and good--when you don't have to LIVE your moral code under the worst of circumstances.

Clicking through channels last night, I saw the last 15 minutes of 8MM with Nicholas Cage and James Gandolfini. Same thing. Cage discovers the underground snuff film culture and he turns vigilante. It was all well and good to be moral until he faced TRUE depravity, then executioner seemed like the better option.

In The Roofer, Tom has two choices when he discovers Ava's secret. She has two choices when he does what he does. In a completely unscientific sense, judging from the reader emails I got after that book's release, 98% supported the choices made. But there was a percentage that felt Ava was morally bankrupt. That she made the wrong choice.

Pull it into less life or death . . . take a comedy . . . when I wrote Spanish Disco, Cassie Hayes was content to walk away from the fiasco of Roland Riggs's sequel. UNTIL she found out her boss and best friend, Lou, bet the farm so to speak. Got himself into hock, risked his small publishing company, just to get his hands on the sequel. Which meant she needed that sequel. No matter what. Rock, meet hard place.

Thoughts? Does this dilemma drive your fiction? In my thinking, comedy or drama, it should.

It's All About the Details

The picture at left is not my dad, but it is my dad's apartment when he was a kid. That couch was his bed. Yes, take a good look at those cushions.

Now here's the thing, we used to go visit my grandmother in the city when I was little, and she was still in the same coldwater tenemant flat. And so when I wrote scenes in The Roofer, set in apartments like that, or bars like John's, the details were dead on. My father used to make fun of a certain writer who I don't want to defame here, who interviewed my dad's friends for a certain book about the Westies. And they all told him lies. On purpose. To see which ones would make it in his book. Said book is now being made into a movie. He's the screenwriter. He THINKS he knows these guys, but guess what?

You see, whether it's the underbelly of New York, or writing about diving off the coast of Costa Rica, or performing brain surgery . . . you have to get the details right. And that's more than just research. When I wrote Mafia Chic, I heard from a lot of restaurant workers who loved the details of the kitchen crew. Guys missing fingers, guys with dredlocks and blasting music as they prepped, whatever. It was born out of my working in restaurants. But it wasn't about the recipes, or the "front of house" details. That crew in the kitchen was what made that book real. I KNOW those guys.

On the flip side, I've edited manuscripts for aspiring authors with plot holes . . . but honest to God, a plothole is often fixable. You might need to adjust said plot, but you can often fix it with an inserted chapter, or finessing a scene. But there is NO fix, other than completely rewriting, someone who doesn't get the flavor right. Who can't describe gritty in a way that is really gritty. Who gives mobbed-up guys dialogue that sounds either like college-educated former choir boys, or so Joe Pesci as to be a cariacature. Research can only take you so far. THAT'S what they don't tell you about writing . . . that's what classes on writing don't reveal. That's, I might opine, the difference between writing talent and just being able to write. You can research until you have notebooks full of it. But if you don't get the street language just so, if you can't get the cadence of the dialogue right, you're just not re-creating that world. You can bog a scene down with all the details you want, but if you can't BE in that world and that scene in a more visceral sense, I think you're just reporting.

Thoughts?

The Path to I Do

I read this every single Sunday.

I get my cup of coffee before church, and sit down and read it while it's quiet around here (if such a thing even exists . . . quiet in this house is relative). If I go on vacation and miss a week of it, because it's archived at the NY Times, I go back and read the week I missed.

So why? Why do I read it? If you met me, I doubt you would say I am a hopeless romantic, though I am hopelessly, impossibly sentimental. I cry at Kodak commericals. I cry reading this every Sunday. I cry when my kids write me goofy notes like "I luv U, U R the best mom, don't be crabby" (I get said notes once a month if you get my drift, and if any of my kids are reading this, that explains my homicidal mood this a.m.--but I digress). In general, I cry at anything sentimental--and I don't even have to KNOW the people involved. My kids once made me watch that show Extreme Home Makeover, and I had to go get a BOX of tissues I was crying so hard. I can go to a total stranger's wedding and weep all the way through it. People are so full of hope at weddings, it's contagious.

But as a writer, what I love is that the stories in the Times each Sunday capture two things. One is that there is someone for everyone. That all our foibles and neuroses and the delicious things and not-so-wonderful things that make us human somehow find a match in someone else. And two, as a fiction writer, I love the stories, the way the Fates conspire to bring two souls together. The "how we met" stories. Two people each on their own path who somehow manage to meet and survive to become a couple. When I look at The Roofer, which isn't a romance by any stretch, it's a miracle that Ava can even try to form a relationship. Yet people seem to have it in themselves to try for love. Or the Fates seem to insist on it.

Fate? Maybe. When I met my significant other, I hurled a steak at his head through the window of a kitchen pass-thru because his sous chef had burned my best customer's steak. In my defense, I wasn't a Buddhist then. I was a single mother who had been so broken by one man's possessive streak that I thought I would suffocate. But somehow, this guy I hit with a steak made me laugh. From there, we went on a date, at which he said he wanted to marry me. Which was enough to make me run the other way. It took a couple of years, multiple proposals, three rings, and a dress for me to finally agree. I found a VERY nice wedding dress in a formal dress shop, off the rack, sample sale, and thought, "If I ever was going to be so utterly INSANE as to CONTEMPLATE getting married again, I would wear THIS dress." I came home with the dress. I called him at work and said, "If we're going to do this, let's do it in a month before I change my mind." We found a preacher, an inn to have it at, and a place to do pronto invitations. All within one week, which is insane. The inn had a cancellation. The cakemaker said he could do it. The preacher was a relative who offered to drive up and hitch us. And right until I actually walked in the inn, it was never a sure thing. Had my best friend from high school not physically gotten me into a cab, I would probably not have four children right now. In fact, I was so unsure I could go through with it, I didn't even have flowers for my hair and bought some on the way, pinning them into my hair in the rearview mirror of the cab (with a very nice cabbie, whom we tipped well for putting up with me doing my hair in his cab).

You don't have to write romance or romantic comedies to appreciate the stories of people's lives. That's what makes most of us writers. So, do you collect stories of people and the fates like I do? Do people and their stories fascinate you? Do you think the Fates intervene?

The Drawer and the Mattress

When I finished my first novel, Spanish Disco, I shoved it in a drawer. I can even tell you which drawer. My grandmother's hutch, which I inherited, in the bottom drawer. I never told my parents I wrote a book. I never even told the father of my children I wrote a book. In fact, though I was in a writers' group, I think most everyone thought that was a little hobby or an excuse to drink wine and eat chocolate cake once every two weeks.

But I realize that my instinct to shove it in the drawer was rather like hiding my stories under my mattress--because that's what I used to do when I was a kid. I loved writing. I would write volumes of stories, and I can still remember sitting with a legal pad, writing my stuff out in longhand, LOVING the blank page that I was getting to fill up with something new (even then I had Shiny New Idea Syndrome). If I didn't like what I did, I'd crumple it in a ball and toss it across the room. And I would take it as some badge of honor, some fictional medal of angst, if there were dozens of wads of paper strewn around my room like snowballs after a snowball fight.

At first, I wanted to show people (parents, grandparents, aunts, cousins) what I wrote. I showed teachers. Everyone said I was a wonderful writer. But really, who are we kidding here? Aren't they supposed to say that? So after a while, I stopped showing my writing, feeling it was better left under the mattress, where it belonged to only me. Where no critics could reject it. Where it was safe.

But really? It was the Inner Critic I was probably hiding it from. If I showed it to someone and they hated it, then I might have to admit all this energy I was putting toward writing was for nothing. I'd have to admit I was a talentless hack and was doing nothing more than filling up paper. With stuff. None of it publishable. All of it better left in wads of papers in the circular file.

And then, I met my agent. And he asked about my writing in conversation, and I said I had a book in a drawer, and he said send me the book in a drawer, and it STILL took me a bit to send it, and he pestered me to send him the book in a drawer, and I did and he LOVED it, and it sold in a couple of months, and that was four years ago. Yup. Only four years ago from drawer to book. Well, actually, it sold almost six years ago, but was in production in while--and during that time I wrote my next and my next one.

And it still provokes anxiety, taking my stuff out from the mattress and the drawer. But it's part of my journey. I had to risk showing things to people other than the other two I drank wine and ate chocolate cake with. Though God knows I learned most of what I know about writing from that group. Still . . . risk? It was like jumping off a high wire not knowing if there was a net.

And it still hurts when things get rejected, or an editor doesn't like something or I find a snarky comment somewhere. Almost enough to make me go back to the drawer or the mattress. But I guess, with each book, it gets easier.

So tell me . . . do you hide your things in a drawer? Under the mattress? Do you hide from your inner critic or those ones out there somewhere? What are you hiding from?

Peace,
E

Chicken

From the Dictionary:

5. Slang. a. A cowardly or fearful person.
b. Erica

Yup. That's the word for the day. Chicken. Me.

I've made no secret of the fact--if you've read all nearly 400 blog entries here--that I fear the following: clowns, cops, the dark, cockroaches (but not spiders), enclosed places, flying, and I'm not too keen on crowds. But last night, I was chicken about writing a scene.

You see, I brought two chapters of one of my works in progress to my writers' group. The book is literary fiction, or women's fiction, and it's about gender roles and sexual redemption, in the matter of themes. In one of the chapters, Cate, my main character, who gave birth to a stillborn baby and had five miscarriages, finally sleeps with Anton, the grandson of an African-American preacher, and a decent but broken man. And a cop, actually. And I took it right to the bedroom. And then it was the next morning. In between, because the book is told in horicultural chapters, we learned about evening primrose and the chapter ended, as they usually do, with a flower.

I got very positive feedback. I could have cut and run. In fact, I thought, leave well enough alone, Orloff. He likes it. But I just HAD to bring up what I considered the big pink elephant in the room. I asked my partner, So, I don't mean to be crass here, but do I have to . . . SHOW it?

To keep this blog relatively PG, I will say that there are some feminists (and there are extreme gender politics in this book) who believe all sex is rape. Even if invited, it involves the woman being demeaned because she is entered. Enough said. So, I asked the big $64,000 question. Do I have to SHOW it in a book like this?

Depends, said my critique partner. I think you have to deconstruct how Cate feels about the act, and what her sexual identity is as a sexual being and then you'll know how to rework the scene.

My response? I knew that. But I'm chicken.

Now, I can tell you that ANYTIME you don't feel you are UP TO writing a scene on a deeper and more intense and honest level . . . you must. Because to do less is to be dishonest as a writer. I am chicken to write it as brutally honest as it needs to be because, like some (most?) people, sexuality is a complicated topic for me. In my circle of, say, ten close friends (intimate enough to share on a deeper level), five were raped at some point. A couple knew their attacker. But they didn't even HAVE the term "date rape" or "acquaintance rape" back when they were raped. So it was one of those things these women just forgot. Or tried to. One more piece about trust or lack of in gender relations. And really, sexuality is ENORMOUS. It's an essential part of our identity (which is why the idea of condemning someone for being gay is ludicrous to me, as if people have choice about these roles). In that same circle, two women were victims of sexual abuse as children. The enormity of sexuality casts its shadow or its light over all our lives. My sexuality is as vast as my lifespan. There is much more to my main character than just this moment in time with Anton; she brings a great deal of baggage to their bed. And "going there" in fiction is really scary. Can I do the topic justice? Can't I just avoid it? Who would know? I would, for one. The story demands it.

So . . . I know I have to go forward and rip apart the scene yet again. No chicken for me today.

Thoughts? Anything in your current or past works you are chicken about? A book you've been avoiding writing because it's too difficult?

Have a seat on the Couch today.

Peace.
Erica Freud

Practical Matters

Today's blog, by request, is on purely practical matters. Websites . . . and also pen names.

I'll do pen names first. I have three. One is my real name. One is for YA so kids don't go and buy THIS. One is for darker fiction. I am adding a fourth for my top-secret project. TOTALLY different genre.

On the one hand, having pen names for different genres makes sense. On the other . . . it gets burdensome after a while maintaining all that--email addresses, websites, even just keeping it all straight. However, taking a pen name when starting out altogether has some pros and cons.

The cons first . . . come on . . . MOST writers want to see their name on a cover. Not some fake name. They want everyone who ever knew them to walk into a bookstore, see their name on the front table, and go "Holy sh*t, she always said she was going to write a book!" In fact, I have had numerous friends from high school track me down because of that. (Hi, Dee!) So if it's NOT your real name, face it, the experience just isn't the same. Your parents don't get quite the same bragging rights. Everyone doesn't know.

The pros? Well, read the above paragraph. That's the pro. There is something to be said for bad reviews, jealous writers, back-stabbing PTA moms, and sneering colleagues who may wonder why you write about sex, say, if you write erotica, not being able to put YOU with a NAME.

Another pro? Suffice to say, more than one fan has "found" me. I have gotten gifts in the mail (extravagent and strange gifts--unasked for--including one delivered from Fed Ex, on a Saturday, so big it needed a handtruck, packed on dry ice--now there's a story). There ARE odd people out there. In my case, two overzealous male fans tracked me down--one living all the way in Portugual. Yes, you read that right. Pen names give you a measure of privacy. This may not seem like a big deal now, but if you become huge (and think about it . . . I am not a household name and I've been through this), who knows, it might. On the other hand, if you become huge, once again, do you want everyone who ever knew you to know? Only you can answer that. I can tell you it bugs my parents sometimes that some books don't have my real name. Then my dear father has to go to the trouble of telling his friends who I really am.

Can you choose any old pen name? Well, I chose names that had a little meaning to me. In hindsight, I wish they had more of a familial connection, and my new one will have a direct relation to me. However, I have to "run four names up the flagpole," so to speak for my new editor. So it's not ALWAYS a matter of simply saying, "This is my pen name." If you don't pick anything too weird, you should be OK. However, sometimes simpler names are, frankly, taken. Or are too similar to someone else writing in your genre. So sometimes it's literally not possible to buy up all the websites for all the pen names you might be thinking about.

Which leads me to websites.

In the last three months, as things have been going on behind the scenes sales wise, the first thing new editors did was plug in my website. The FIRST thing. Twice I was on the phone with editors while they did so. I have editors who read my blog. A web presence is important.

That said, my website is done at home by Significant Other. In between raising four kids and all the rest of it. It doesn't have a thousand fancy features. It's servicable, not totally ugly, it does the job, and it's fine for me. I have seen new writers spend a lot of money on amazing websites--for books that didn't sell. So you really have to consider that. Buy your name, maybe a pen name or two, park it, and if you feel inclined, add a page or two while waiting to sell. However, I have to be honest in that, I think an editor, if they were thinking of buying you as brand-new author would ASSUME you would buy a website, and NOT having one PRIOR to selling isn't the kiss of death. Better to have NOTHING than something unprofessional. Better still to have a nice page or two, maybe something about yourself and the book, contact information, and leave it at that. Editors I know are insanely swamped. They are not hunting down the website of every new writer they MIGHT buy. That's like people who, crazily, come close to a deal and then tell the editor they have fifteen unsold projects. No one is thinking you are a one-book wonder and every contract has an OPTION clause, so touting all these books only makes an editor wonder, "Why hasn't anyone bought you before?" Every editor knows you will get a website and promote your books.

And that said, I recently came across an author's advice for websites for newbies. The list of things this woman was saying you should have on your site was terrifyingly huge. The basics is enough for now. Worry about writing the best book you can.

And THAT said, I have to tell you . . . I think e-books are great. They are a wave of publishing that will come into their own eventually. But I know for me, if I go to a writer's site and see 50 e-books of dubious quality and hideous covers, I wonder. Just HOW polished is this book that Editor A is getting? Why not concentrate of doing one break-out book rather than 50 novellas? I think if you are going to do e-books, be picky about the company/publisher, picky about the cover art, and promote the hell out of a couple of them that showcase your BEST work, but don't think that all 50 of those are just brilliant gems that publishers in NYC should have bought. It looks frenzied, and that isn't ME talking, that's an editor I had lunch with who was very derisive about some trrends she was seeing and an author she thought about buying whose site was overloaded with e-books (I am not talking 5--I am talking really, really big numbers here, lest I get angry emails about my position on this). Be PICKY and showcase your VERY BEST if you are going to have a web presence. Just as I blog about writing, but do NOT post my grocery list. (For the record, yesterday I bought apples, granola bars, Diet Coke for oldest daughter, frozen veggies, bread, and a lot of yogurt. Oh, and non-dairy creamer for church, where I make the coffee and bring coffeecake or donuts for 75 people every Sunday.)

See. You didn't need to read that.

Thoughts on practical matters?

Dichotomy

I think, for the most compelling fiction, it's important to get some dichotomy in your character. In fact, it's essential. According to Dictionary.com, dichotomy means:

division into two mutually exclusive, opposed, or contradictory groups: a dichotomy between thought and action.

And that, folks, is how most of us are.

Along my "path," I try to live my thoughts as action. But I fail. In thought, I am a loving mother who wants to be patient and mentally present and in the moment. In action? My toddler can now open the freezer, and he just came to me at 8:30 a.m. eating his second Dora the Explorer popsicle. And I let him, because I have a deadline.

But popsicles aside, I actually mean something more complex. In my new top-secret book project the clan is Russian. And as I am writing, I am reminded of my grandmother on my father's side, who was, briefly, written into The Roofer. And as I am writing about the clan--who are vehemently anti-Communist, I laugh as I remember things about my grandmother. She hated the Communists. And she believed everything you read in Americna newspapers--even this one--was true. Because it was the American press, not the Communist press. If it was printed, it MUST be true. She also trusted pretty much no one--and who could blame her after escaping during the Revolution. Which meant she was FAIRLY certain the minister next door was involved in a scheme to sell crack, and he left BAGS of money in his trash can and the sanitation company took the cash and delivered crack. I can't make this stuff up. And yet . . . she told the most beautiful stories, like one time she said she was down at the river in Russia and she found diamonds--REAL diamonds--in the stones there. But of course, I am sure they were crystals, and yet her naive belief that they were diamonds was very sweet. She told the story of a 14-year-old opera singer, who used to sing for the aristocracy (of which my grandmother was part of) who was taken to the town square and shot during the Revolution because her voice was too expressive. And when my grandmother was alone, she played piano beautifully--gracefully. Yet she could yell at you as soon as look at you--all four feet something of her.

I get irritated sometimes, in fiction, when people write about old people as all spunky--with no depth of sorrow or loss or strange dichotomies. We ALL have them. The clan in my book is tight--but they are ruthless against the enemy. They are brilliant and funny--unless they get talking about the Communists, in which case, if they've had too much vodka, they may cry--or vow to go and take Putin's head.

You get the idea. When I write over to the right on my profile that I am a bundle of contradictions, that's what I mean. And to paint characters with too broad a stroke, without getting into the strangeness in which our beliefs and actions don't match, or the odd little beliefs that make us up yet make no sense to the outside world, does your fiction a disservice. At least that's my perception.

Thoughts? Have a dichotomies of your own?

Clearly I Was Bored Today

Ripping Out Stitches

I love to knit. This is somewhat of a revelation to me, since I am the LEAST crafty person I know. My mother is this utterly amazing knitter, and she has helped me to learn. Now, I find myself wandering the aisles of Ben Franklin, and one entire wall of my walk-in closet is yarn. One WALL! I get Yarn Lust. I hate to shop, yet a trip to Ben Franklin can take me two hours. My clothes? Order them online. My makeup? I order it online. I mean, I SERIOUSLY hate shopping. Except for yarn.

When I started knitting, I HATED to rip anything out. I was just so happy I had stitches on my knitting needles, that if I made a mistake, I'd kind of doctor it so you wouldn't notice. My scarves were lopsided. Not so anymore. The better I get (better being a relative term), the neater my stitches are. I've graduated to cute hats for my baby, and he will have a hat for every day of winter, I am sure.

Which brings me to writing.

You see, there was a time when I was just happy to have the words and the pages. The first time I wrote a novel, the very IDEA that I could write 300 pages was astonishing to me. Because I had only written poetry and short stories before I wrote Spanish Disco, when I started hitting 80 pages on my novel, I was amazed. And then I kept going. When I hit 200 pages . . . I couldn't believe it. Then I kept going. My writing was lean and spare, and I was writing 50,000 words. It was an adventure.

Since that book, my critique group added a member who can easily toss out 50 pages--just delete them as if they had never existed. The thought made me want to throw up. DELETE whole chapters? MULTIPLE chapters? But if they didn't move the plot along, or they were deeply flawed . . . they went bye-bye. The knitter in me who didn't like to rip out stitches wanted to choke.

But I've since learned. I am working on my next comedy proposal. There is a whole homage to The Wizard of Oz in it. And it's funny. But I realized the set-up was taking too long. As fast as you can say "Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore" I deleted three chapters.

I am working on a YA proposal. Same thing. I am suddenly less attached to my words and more attached to the art of it--to the finished product. If it's not working, I need to mercilessly rip the stitches out. I may save it on my hard drive in case there's something in there--some turn of a phrase I can use later. But most of the time, I don't look back, just as my finished scarf banishes the memory of the lopsided one.

Thoughts?

Scout

So last night, I met Older Son's teachers at back-to-school night. All very nice this year. But . . . his English teacher? Not only is he lucky to be in this woman's class . . . but she is the type of teacher you would be blessed to get once in a lifetime. Yeah. That good.

First, aside from her clear enthusiasm for teaching, she actually has already assessed all the kids in the class for their learning styles. Do they learn best by hearing? Seeing? Touching? What? As an aside . . . I've blogged before that I only learned to use the coffeemaker a year ago. Yup. One year ago. Prior to that, I would drive to McDonald's, buy six jumbo coffees, and reheat them in the microwave as necessary. READING how to run the coffeemaker would be pointless for me. No maps or diagrams or steb-by-step instructions for me, in life (odd, since I am a writer). I have to HEAR it (near-perfect recall for anything I hear once), and then I have to DO it once or twice. As a further aside . . . I can HEAR it, but then will STILL call Significant Other to ask again. Because I have to DO it. At least once. Which is why I get lost. All the time. If I go someplace new, in general Oldest Daughter or Significant Other must be home to Mapquest me and tell me what to do and where I am. Yet I read physics and mathematical texts for "fun" and light reading. (Reading about Gauss right now.) And I've written 25+ books. So I'm not totally dumb. Just can't run a coffeemaker without instructional training. So, that little digression is to say I was very impressed that this woman gets to know each child individually and embraces that, and then teaches them how to learn on their plane of knowledge and skills.

Which brings me to teachers in general. I have blogged before about Mrs. Ruthless. The REAL Mrs. Ruthless from High School Bites. How she seemed to thrive on humiliating students. Burned out, unkind, condescending. Even with the wisdom and distance of hindsight and adulthood, she was THAT bad and worse. And it, in some sense, stayed with me for a long, long time. Because being in her class meant being BULLIED day after day for an ENTIRE year, and I am only gratified that she surely has retired by now and is no longer interacting with middle school students on a regular basis. And after her class, I hated math, and it was only when I started reading about numbers theory that I learned math was beautiful. It was elegant. Magical, even.

The polar opposite of Mrs. Ruthless was the English teacher who introduced me to To Kill a Mockingbird. Symbolism . . . [nodding to SpyScribbler] and just the powerful story and the way in which this teacher made it come alive cemented a lifelong love of reading that had been started by my parents, and I can honestly say that hers was the class I decided, for sure, I wanted to be a writer. The gift this woman gave me is hard to put into words. I wanted to write. More, I wanted to be Scout. Don't get me wrong, I love my dad, and all the lessons he's taught me ("A day without larceny is like a day without sunshine.") but Scout's dad was someone so different from my own experience. He was wise in a near Biblical sense, and decent and honorable. My dad was streetsmart--and then some. My dad was polically astute. But Scout's dad was sort of like my English teacher. Wise enough to think carefully before speaking. An air of humanity and compassion about him. I got lost in that book. And I guess, in some ways, I found myself in that class.

Many, many teachers are excellent. But once in a while, you get one that has the ability to affect your life, to open windows and doors in your mind that hopefully never shut again. I think my son has that chance this year. And it may be, because he actually prefers mathematics, that it's his math teacher that lights up his mind (she was a great, funny teacher last night, too). And that's okay. But it warms my heart to know there are committed educators out there.

So do you have a teacher that opened up the world of books and writing to you?

Peace,
E

All Right . . . You Didn't Believe Me

In response to the comments in the last post . . . here it is. EXACTLY as my desk looks today. You didn't believe me when I said it was messy. Well, I am not one to go "There . . . I showed you." But there . . . I showed you.

Note the overflowing trash can. The galleys. The overflowing basket of receipts. The roll of wrapping paper to the right that has been there six months. You get the idea.

Unedited. Unvarnished. The real deal.

My desk.

The Mess Inside My Brain

Here's a picture of my office. Lots of light. Lots of clutter on the shelves. And Buddha statues. I'll have to post a close-up. See the head to the right of the desk? And right now, I can't see my desk.
It happens. Often. I clean it off and out . . . and swear I will not let it reach critical mass again.

But it does.

I buy books on organizing. I read magazines on organizing. But what I really seem to need is someone to come in once a week and organize me. Which I really am not going to do. Because I am an intelligent woman and I should be able to handle this.

And today . . . in one of the endless magazine articles I read on decluttering . . . I had an epiphany. It's not my OFFICE that needs decluttering.

It's my mind.

I realize that when I am creating, I am messy about it. I have notebooks and computer files, I bop on the Internet, I stare out the window. I don't do it in a neat way. I don't use outlines. I use little clouds of ideas that I doodle on paper. And while I am creating, and in the process, as mail comes in or I find things in research, I toss it somewhere on my desk, knowing I'll find it later.
Then . . . then I reach this quantum physics collision of mess versus creativity, after which things are WAY TOO MESSY to create and I am distracted by mess. Usually by then, I am too busy or under a deadline, so I don't have TIME to tackle this now-massive project of decluttering or clearing off my desk. So I put it off. Until . . . like today, there is literally NOWHERE to put a mug of coffee or a glass of water. Then the trashbag comes into the office and I start.

So it's my MIND, not my clutter.

Which doesn't mean I see a way out of this. It's my process of creating and I don't want to screw with it.

Please tell me I am not alone.

Nightmares

I had my first nightmare in a couple of months last night. It was God awful--one of the worst I have ever had in a life plagued by them. I woke up this morning unable to shake it. I read and whispered aloud some prayers. The nightmare is still there, hanging on me, wafting through my office now.

But of course, I cannot have a nightmare and not think of writing. I suppose that's the writer's curse. Nothing occurs that you won't mine for fiction. Everything goes into the brain and is filtered.

Now . . . I "get" my nightmare in a "Paging Dr. Freud" sense. I had a dream I found the PERFECT yoga studio, run by a Buddhist from Hawaii. Okay, I have no idea about the Hawaii part since I am afraid to fly and would never go there and don't have an interest in going there, but there you go. And for SOME reason, the yoga studio was across the street from both a bank and a bar. Okay--so I would like to make more money since I have a kid going to college next year . . . and I like to go out with my friends and socialize. But here's where it gets strange (what? It's not already strange?). I was assualted in the bank (just punched a few times, but still, not the usual bank experience) and when I reported it to the police I was interviewed by a male cop and a female cop--and they drove me home and the male cop assaulted me so horrifically, I had to stab him to death. Okay, so there's a sneak peak into my mind.

But here's the thing. I am not a violent person. I really strongly dislike cops and break out in a sweat at the sight of a police cruiser . . . but that is more because they TERRIFY me (lest I now get a ton of emails about hating law enforcement--I know there are many, many fine men and women in blue . . . . but frankly, they scare me, plus my dad hates 'em and so there you go; I am cop phobic--but yes, I DO really understand they exist to serve and protect us . . . this is a DREAM--as an aside, they had a"cop tent" at the county fair and I couldn't even walk in it--LOL!). So the idea of going to someone in authority for protection? And then they betray and hurt you and it's so horrific? GREAT MATERIAL FOR A NOVEL!

So as I sift through this dream (and I am watering down the details here for a public blog) . . . and how terrifying it was . . . I am equally intrigued by both its subject matter, AND . . . here's the big thing . . . the RAWNESS of the emotions. Because they are very fresh, and now it's something I can draw on.

Now I have to go upstairs and wake my kids up. I will kiss them and (in the baby's case) put my face down to him and simply inhale baby scent . . . and that will chase the rest of this away. I will have my tea. I will get them all off to school. The turmoil will be gone. But the material? Now part of the Vault that is my Writing Brain.

So you don't have to (unless you wanna) share your dreams and nightmares . . . but do you USE them or am I the only one on the Couch today?

Peace,
E

Editing for Word Choice

If you're not a writer, it might seem as if writers simply spill a sentence out onto their keyboard, hit the period key. Sentence done.

Okay, I've stopped laughing. No, wait . . . still chuckling. All right. Now I'm done.

Word choice is such an essential choice of editing. While writers might--and it depends on the writer--simply bang out a sentence, you can bet they will go back and substitute words. Here's a look at how I edit for word choice.

Daddy waltzes in smelling of his sins.

Nope. "Smelling" isn't really what these sins do. And waltz isn't the right feel for this. Edited version?

Daddy breezes in stinking of his sins.

Better.

Moving on . . .

Around the meal I can't eat for the lump in my throat, we bow our heads and speak our grace. Amen.

Nope. CLICHE! Writer prison for me. And "grace" as you'll see, it too obvious a word.

Around the meal I can't eat for the pebble in my throat, we bow our heads and speak our peace. Amen.

And if you haven't guessed, this is from one of my published poems, called Grace. And poetry taught me much of what I've learned about editing word choice. And yes, I still go through all this picky trouble with prose. The good news is I self-edit in my brain, so I don't have to do as much of it as I used to.

As for "lump in my throat," I have had writers argue with me--argue!--as an editor or writing coach, that there's "no other way" to describe certain things. Tough. Find another one anyway.

Thoughts? Your editing process?

A View Up Close

My last post was about going wide--expanding the themes while digging deeper. This one is about going in tight, small, close, claustrophobic.

I first learned about writing close when observing my kids. I could tell you one of my son's marches to his own drummer, is unique in a wonderful, day-dreaming, yet math-intensive way, BUT . . . it's still hard to describe him. However, one time when we were in a rush to get to school--he was a preschooler, I think, and I may or may not have been pregnant again. With four kids, seems like I spent a lot of time pregnant. But I do remember rushing along, and one second he was behind me on the way to car from the front door. The next second he wasn't. When I turned around he was completely stopped, backpack on the ground. Then he seemed to walk like a drunken man. And when I, exasperated, went back to collect him, I realized he had stopped to watch a line of ants. He squatted down to them, putting his finger down, watching them march around him. THAT is my son. Stopping for ants or butterflies, rain, babies, cats, dogs, a cool cloud, the moon. Pretty much anything. And that, describing him, is going in for the tight shot. I tell you more about him with the ants, than I do with big sweeping generalizations.

In THE ROOFER, Ava collects the stuff of childhood--a parasol from a drink, smooth rocks, subway tokens--in a cigar box. She has to hide it because of the abuse in her life, and when her treasures are found, they are taken and destroyed. It's not a huge moment of abuse. It's a small microcosm of abuse--of the way in which a tiny soul is destroyed in a small moment.

In Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven, Lily's small "huge" yet small moment is when she has sex and reveals her mastectomy to her lover. I don't pan back--in fact at no point prior has Lily talked about what the scars look like. I don't discuss how she feels about losing a breast. I don't even let the reader SEE it. It's the small moment when her new lover kisses the scar, licking along its edges. It's small and tight and intimate.

You can go wide . . . you can go really small. Each is for revealing what you want as writer.

Thoughts?

Peace,

E

The Shot

I often think of writing in film terms. I don't have outlines, I have story arcs. I don't do character sketches, I have "back stories." And this week, I learned a valuable lesson about going wide.

What do I mean? You know in movies where you have a camera shot--and it's narrow and focused Maybe it's the main character seeing a dead body. And then the shot goes wide or pulls back and becomes a more panaramic view--and now the viewer realizes the dead body is just one of thousands upon thousands in The Killing Fields.

I learned something this week in one of my scenes, thanks to one of my critique partners. I wrote a scene in which a preacher gave a sermon and sitting in the pews is my main character, a woman who has literally never known the meaning of compassion in a religious sense. The sermon is an OK one. My preacher is ninety-two, and he's basically conveying that God knows what you want to pray about before you ever pray it--but still likes the conversation. And in a small shot, a small sense, it's a perfectly servicable sermon.

But my CP told me that I missed the boat entirely. The scene failed because I missed the opportunity to go wide with it--to use the sermon to basically offer up a larger thematic scene in which the entire story arc of my character and the theme of redemption is explored. I missed a chance to, as he put it, "lay out the entire book" in the subtext of the sermon.

And I had one of those "A-ha" moments. Man, did I. I was keeping it small and missing the opportunity to go wide, to take the vision to a panoramic place in terms of themes.

Sometimes, it can seem like a scene is just moving the plot along--but embedded in each scene is the opportunity to go deeper, go wider, to explore the landscape of the novel as a whole.

My daughter can't believe novelists really think about the symbolism, the actual point of view or the "shot" or written camera angle, if you will, of what we write about. But to me, all this is digging deeper.

Thoughts?

Show and Tell . . .

When I was in second grade, one of the regulars of a NYC dive bar my dad took me to on Sundays taught me a trick you do with coasters--beer-soaked Schlitz coasters, if memory serves me (could only find Miller ones online for the picture, but you get the idea). I took them to Show and Tell to show my class what I learned--the Amazing Coaster Trick. And my mom promptly got a phone call about the "appropriateness" of my Show and Tell selection. Yes, that story made it into THE ROOFER. And yes, it's true. But that's not the Show and Tell I'm talking about.

You are always hearing about "Show, don't tell." But what's the practicality of it?

Yesterday, I blogged about single word choices that take you OUT of a story. Today . . . I'm posting about one word choice that drove readers of The Roofer insane. And it was precisely what I wanted to happen.

There's a scene when Tom is in the bar with Ava early on, and they are talking about his least favorite subject--that being their father. And Tom is jittery, since he is a drug addict, and he calls Ava, "Baby." As in "Please, Baby." Yeah, baby, baby, baby. As in, yeah, there is definitely something odd about this brother and sister.

It isn't long before you realize an aura of a love affair hangs over Ava and Tom. Something is "off," but you don't know what, yet. But I can't SAY that. I can't TELL you, "Here, reader . . . something's wrong here." I have to SHOW you. And so that one word does it. And I heard about it in my critique group. And I heard about it from squeamish readers.

In my Billie Quinn mysteries, they are told in first person. And Billie is a genius. But in first person, it would have been clunky to come right out and have her say, "My name is Billie Quinn, and I am a genius." And it would have been OBVIOUS to have it come up in conversation. To have someone else bring it up. But it's important to know. So . . . how to show it?

Billie best friend is Lewis LeBarge. He is an eccentric among eccentrics. Head of the crime lab, he collects blood spatter photos and frames them as art. He has a pet tarantula--that he perpetually loses. He has a collection of brains in formaldehyde. And he is a genius of the kind that are 1 in a million--if that. And he is impatient with anyone who is not as smart as he is. Even "high average" people annoy him. He, in fact, mostly plays chess online until the wee hours since most human beings irritate the sh*t out of him. Who is Lewis's best friend? Billie. She's beyond his best friend. They are as close as two people can be without sleeping together. Thus what does that SHOW you about Billie? If he puts up with her, she must be a genius who is his equal or nearly so.

Showing, not telling, for me, is about making PRECISE choices. VERY carefully choosing what you reveal, sometimes even single word choices, that show what you need to know.

Thoughts? How do you show, not tell?

An Affront!

Well . . . here's post #2 for the day because it really got me thinking!

By following blog links today, I stumbled on a writer who posted part of her book on her blog. And it got me thinking about word choice.

Because the character felt she was "affronted." And the word gave me pause.

Because, I have learned, you can distance your readers by word choice. When I am angry, I will say I am p*ssed, angry, furious, upset, distraught even. But I am never affronted.

If you want to know why single word choices are important--why every word is important . . . it boils down to what each word accomplishes. Choose a word that is too lofty and it pulls you out of the writing and into your head as reader. Get too passive when an active verb choice is better, and you load the prose down with unnecessary clutter--five words to say what two can do.

I believe it's better to be direct. Even better, I'd rather SHOW you how mad my character is. So angry she shakes? I don't know, when I am really, really mad and need to gain control, my voice shakes and my head hurts until I go and walk it off.

So . . . what do you think about word choices? Are there certain words that pull you out of the story?

What They Bring

It is one of those lessons of life that you can't make people like you. You can be as kind as you know how, but the very essence of who you are may butt up against the very essence of who someone else is and they may not like you, no matter how hard you try. My mother-in-law despises me--in fact hasn't spoken a word to me in 10 years, despite my writing letters and cards asking for her to get to know my children. So about a year ago, after being rebuffed again, I gave up. Lesson learned. What I brought to the table of the relationship wasn't enough in her mind--or more precisely, it wasn't the "right" stuff.

Recently--this week, in fact--another mother did something I consider horrendous. She attempted to really and truly embarass me in front of a group of other mothers by demeaning my child. And she had a five-minute riff on it. I have spoken two words to this woman my entire life and I really had nothing to say to her little comic (in her mind) rude (in my mind) schtick. However, what she "brings" to this passing nod of a relationhip is irritating to me. I move on, I move past . . . maybe what she brings is the best she can do--and I spent about ten minutes speculating on that before deciding I was wasting brain space on this woman.

Which brings me to the very big lesson this teaches about writing.

I was once visiting a blog in which someone decided she HATED this book I wrote. Not just a little dislike but full-on hate. And someone else wrote in and said I was one of her favorite authors and maybe this reader should try a different book. And the hater of my work said, "Nope. I never give authors second chances."

Moving on to another . . . someone once posted a LONG diatribe on why she hated a book of mine because she didn't believe in love at first sight. Or a passionate encounter of intensity after a brief meeting. "It's never happened to me, and I frankly don't believe it exists."

So there's the thing. When you are creating, it's a living process. It may not FEEL fluid and living when you are struggling to find just the right word. Your book may be dormant for a week or two when life intervenes, but it is a living process to create your art. You POUR yourself into it. You sweat it, breathe it, sleep it, dream it. It fills your head 24/7 a lot of the time. You CREATE (a verb).

Then it simply is.

The book--or manuscript--is printed on paper and it exists on a shelf until someone picks it up. You may not know this person or it may be your critique partner. And then it becomes ALIVE again because they BRING something TO it. What they bring is out of your control. They can hate it for reasons that have nothing to do with your writing and more to do with WHAT THEY BRING. They may ADORE it for exactly the same reasons. Of course I love the hundreds of happy reader emails I get for any given release. They brought something that meshed with what I brought.

An editor may decide your work is wrong for them. They can hang their hat on "it didn't grab me" or any one of dozens of common reasons for rejection. And you can try to address those things that nag at you as "Hmm, I think they're right." But there will always be an element of WHAT THEY BRING. Always.

So . . . what does any of this mean? I suppose it means, which is obvious, develop a thick skin. Hone your craft, get better at it . . . but know what they bring is not something you have any power over. You only have power over what you bring.

It also--importantly--means don't DILUTE your work to appeal to the broadest cross section. Know sometimes people are simply not going to like you . . . and are not going to like your book (which, like the story of Horror Mother, is like not liking your child). And that's okay. Don't let your internal editor become an editor for the whole world at large.

Thoughts?

Hello, Sweetheart