Salons and Rewrites

Tomorrow, I am guest blogging over at Magical Musings. Those women have a fantastic writers' blog, with interviews, guest bloggers, and some really thoughtful posts. So come visit . . . I'll be blogging about critique groups. And to give you some food for thought, I decided to talk about critiques here, based on . . .

Law & Order. You see, I am a HUGE fan of the Bobby Goren/Eames partnership on Law & Order Criminal Intent. And while I think Chris Noth is easy on the eyes . . . I cannot stomach his redhead b*tch of a partner's bad acting, generally unpleasant character, etc. So . . . I only watch Law & Order in re-runs. Given the well-documented state of my personal life and Fun with Demon Baby, the chance of me even getting to watch an episode once a month is slim. But since Law & Order is on TV 24/7 in any given time zone, thanks to syndication, I got to watch one last night, while Demon Baby decided to alternate between curling up on my lap and telling me he loved me (perhaps the only man who truly does) and bite me on the upper lip while kissing me (a technique I call the Shark Kiss).

Last night's re-run, in case you've seen it, was about a "salon" (a snooty way of saying a writers' group) run by a character played by Peter Coyote, and rampant plagiarism, murder of an aspiring novelist, sexually aggressive literary agents, and finally . . . the utter destruction of salon members' work when they would read for the omipotent Peter Coyote (who got hauled off to jail in the end . . . bet he'll have fun in Riker's).

When I watched the critiques he offered, they were more character assassination. The entire point of his critique was to publicly decimate the young writers and keep them eating out his hand, as if HE had the key to their becoming better writers. And because his character had some literary credentials, like many talented people, he was given a "free pass" on decency.

I have seen groups where the sole purpose is that kind of back-stabbing bitter critiques . . . and somehow, the members in it seem to think that there's more "honesty" with viciousness. I disagree. I can say the same thing . . . but without resorting to snark. It's how I choose to interact with my group . . . and it's what works for me. Honest, tough, but . . . supportive.

The other part of the Law & Order episode focused on a writer's unique "voice"--how it is theirs alone. And I relate this to another part of a critique group . . . the idea of what your critique partner should do for your work or to your work. In my mind, nothing.

Now, that can sound kind of crazy . . . isn't that the POINT of a CP? But if I got back a critique in which my unique word choices were excised with a CP's word choices put in their stead, I would scream. If you take two pages to tell your back story, for instance, and your CP cuts it so much you have fifty words, then he or she has effectively REWRITTEN your work--which impinges on voice. To me, a CP should say "this works, this doesn't." They might suggest words changes. They might even rework an awkward sentence here or there. But they shouldn't wholesale rewrite to the way THEY would write it because what, then, would be the point? It's a critique, not a rewrite. YOUR voice should be preserved. I have had 25+ books edited by four or five different editors in my career, and 25+ copy editors, and no one has ever rewritten a sentence. Did they circle a sentence and say "not clear" or some other comment that told me the sentence didn't work? Yeah. But it's my voice, my words. My job to fix it.

The whole show last night was pretty riveting . . . and it definitely got me thinking.

Thoughts?

And don't forget to visit me tomorrow at Magical Musings.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa:
Well, my God, but it's like . . . what . . . 26 shopping days until Christmas? I haven't so much as snapped my Christmas card picture--you know, the one with the four kids lined up looking like their mischievious, adorable, beautiful selves. I haven't bought a single present. I'm not ready. And the thought of the mall makes me want to throw up. So hopefully most of the people on my list can be bought for here or here or even here.



And if you've been watching through your magic snowball, you know life has been pretty insane these last couple of weeks. Baby Girl still has a fever. I am still without more than a couple of hours sleep . . . and don't even get me started on the laundry pile, Santa. Is that something your elves could handle?

Was I naughty or nice this year? I have to be honest . . . I TRIED to be nice this year. But most of the time, no matter how much volunteering I did or good deeds I tried to do, no matter how many kind words . . . I can't say I did near enough. And if you have to subtract the times I raised my voice, was impatient with Demon Baby, or said something snide just because that's my sense of humor, I'm probably batting . . . zero. I promise to try harder next year.



As for my wish list? Santa, I'm a writer. So pretty much EVERYTHING on my list is intangible. I don't want things. Not one thing. All right, yes, I might like this. But honestly, I can live without it. I'd love for a scholarship to end up in Older Daughter's stocking. College is looming. But I don't think even you can fit that on your sleigh.

So here's my writer's wish list:

• Time. It would be really, really helpful if you could somehow make each day about 28 hours long. I know . . . it's a tall order. But I just can't seem to get it all done. Those pesky deadlines . . . and that pesky Demon Baby. Do the math.


• Serenity. It would be so great if, like, for maybe those extra four hours, Demon Baby could behave. I know, that's a taller order than 28 hours in a day. But if I could write without him . . . letting the dogs loose, pouring salt all over the floor, emptying the maple syrup container all over the table, climbing into the air intake vent, dropping toys down the upstairs air vents, pouring his sister's foundation all over the pale beige carpet, trying to climb out the window, throwing sippy cups at my head, and generally looking for trouble, I am telling you Santa . . . I might actually get something done around here. Just a little serenity.


• Inspiration. Between no sleep, sick kids, Demon Baby, and all the stress on my plate, inspiration has been hard to come by. Can you wave a magic wand or something? I know . . . that's a fairy godmother thing, but there must be something you can do.


• Help. I basically do all this as a single parent . . . all the laundry (did I mention that laundry pile?), housework, kids' homework hour, ferrying to dentists and ninjitsu classes, making beds, cleaning (this one is huge!), childcare, bill paying (huger!!), etc. etc. etc. The list is daunting, and some days, it's all I can do to maintain a grateful heart. But the impact of all this on my WRITING. Oh, Santa . . . seems to me there must be something in your sack that can help me out.

Okay, so that's not too bad a list, is it? I mean, I have other things on my list. A date with Clive Owen (this is right at the top of the list). My dad to get his sight back (okay, put this at the top). World peace (well, I'd give it all up for peace on earth, goodwill toward men--and women). Things too personal to even give voice to most days, and nearly impossible to attain, but then again, isn't that what Christmas is all about? The season of hope?

Well, I better sign off now . . . I'll understand if none of this is under the tree Christmas morning. But, well, whatever you can do. I promise I'll leave cookies.

Erica

Sleepless Nights Redux

When I go days and days without solid sleep, I start to hallucinate. I'm only mildly kidding. After a while, I just get . . . in a word . . . nuts. I get weepy, my mind wanders, and strange thoughts and dreams pop into my head.

Welcome to my insanity. :-)

Demon Baby, as regular blog readers may know, had the croup. Thus I went a few days--maybe longer--without sleep more than in 30-minute snatches. He's over the croup, but not over the nighttime whimpering and crying. Then, last night, I just decided that I was getting so nuts that I would bunk in with my younger daughter (my parents are living with me for the month and have taken over my master bedroom). As luck would have it, Baby Girl felt sick all night long with an upset stomach, and moaned and cried, and needed, well . . . MOMMY.

And so, in the midst of yet another (!!!) sleepless night--Mom's Sleepless Insanity Part Deux--my writing became the focus of these strange hallucinatory thoughts. Plot points drifted in. Pieces of sentences I have yet to write. Characters' faces. Snippets of dialogue. Even when I would fall asleep, it wasn't R.E.M. sleep so the thoughts kept coming. Like a waking dream. And, in the oddest of thoughts, this strange sort of existential discussion arose in my head. Without me, they don't exist.

What do I mean? I look at my kids and think . . . well, Demon Baby wasn't even a twinkle in my eye four years ago. I didn't even know this little person was going to come along--at forty, no less--and change my life. He wasn't anything. Not a thought. Not a name, not a person, not even a few cells.

Same with my stories. Until I actually set them to paper, they don't exist. And as I am writing . . . it's this process of creation. If I died tomorrow and a story was unfinished, it would never come into being. It would cease right there.

BUT . . . my books live on. That's a theme in a book I am working on. At its center is an illuminated manuscript from the Middle Ages. When the heroine looks at it, she realizes she is seeing art from centuries and centuries ago. So someday, after I am long dead, if my grandkids or great-grandkids want to know who their wacky old Grandma was . . . they can read my books and try to find me in the pages.

So this is what I think about on sleepless nights.

Thoughts?

And feel free to say that yes, I have finally lost it.

The Tunnel

I would NEVER want to go through high school again. Or my twenties. Or any year, probably, though I loved being pregnant each time and might want to relive that. But, in general, if life is a journey, the lessons learned on mine have been hard-won. I learned resilience through pain. Learned patience through suffering. Learned grace through weary battles that went on and on. Laughter and good times have been generously sprinkled through my life, but the reality is, like most of us, there are good times . . . and really, really bad times. And so TODAY is the best day of my life because it's what I have RIGHT NOW. I don't find myself wishing I could live my life over. No regrets. No mourning. I'm good with where I am.

However, as a writer, I suppose there are some things I wish I knew. It just would have made the process easier. I wish I knew and really understood that there are one or two publicity persons for an entire publishing house. Or that for EVERY book you need to ask how many ARCs are going out. I wish I knew that I actually CAN speak in public, and pursued that a bit more early on just to get my name out there. Three practical business things I wish I knew.

Craft, on the other hand, probably isn't something about which I wish I knew anything earlier on. I have come to the conclusion there are no shortcuts. I thought I might use a wine analogy . . . you know, how your craft has to ferment? But I decided that's really not what it is at all. That seems to imply this passive process, this aging through time. But it's not that. It's really a day-to-day struggle. Pushing and seeking. I decided it reminds me much more of The Shawshank Redemption--in the movie, where Andy digs at that wall each night, and then drops the rocks in the prison yard as he walks. For nineteen years, Andy dug at that wall a little at a time, tunneling through, I'm sure wondering at times if it was futile. But eventually, he broke through.
I've been hacking away at my wall a LONG time . . . I don't know that I'll ever truly break through. Craft is a lifelong process. But I move along my tunnel, sweating, struggling like every other prisoner of the craft.

Thoughts?

Competent

Thanks to a little inspiration from Edie, who commented an entry or so ago that "Competent is not enough" . . . that is the theme of this post.

Competent, according to the dictionary, is adequate but not exceptional. Of course, exceptional is in the eye of the beholder. But I can tell you that sometimes exceptional amounts to passion, and competence to chasing publication but not through writing the book of your dreams. What do I mean?

By the time you have spotted a trend in publishing, the trend is nearly over. So, by the time three or four "Bridezilla" chick lit books have hit the market, deciding that you have an idea for a perfectly servicable novel about a runaway bride means you're a little late to the party. Worse, as has happened to me EVERY SINGLE TIME I have spoken to writers' groups (and I am not kidding here), if you think, "You know, I saw that Book X, which was about a woman who faked having a fiance so she wouldn't feel like a loser at her high school reunion, and I didn't really think the book was that original or that clever, so I figure I can EASILY write something like that, so I am writing Book Y about a high school reunion and a woman who has a fake fiance, but in mine, a murder happens at the reunion, and it's very comical--a chick lit mystery--so that's how my book is different."

Writers like that make me want to scream.

Seeing what's on the market and then plotting a book that you think you can sell, and--at that--not even being a big fan of the book you are trying to ride coattails on? Yes, chances are MANY fairly accomplished writers could whip up a novel about a private eye, about a runaway bride, about a vampire. They can write perfectly competent novels. But competent is not enough.

What makes your book exceptional--I hope--is that YOU are the only one who can tell it. Think about WHY you are the only one who can write it, what makes this YOUR book, why it is YOUR passion . . . write THAT book and my guess is you will be a lot closer to a sale.

I believe that I am the only person on the earth who could have written THE ROOFER. I mean, yes, the words are mine alone. But the passion for the story, combined with the people in my life who were bits and pieces of the characters, combined with my belief in its story arc, in the narrative structure of the funeral, in the pain on the pages . . . it is MY book and only I could tell it. Anyone else could read about Hell's Kitchen and maybe construct that world. But they would never have been in those bars in the years I was. They wouldn't have known those men. They wouldn't know The Amazing Coaster Trick or any of the bar tricks I was taught when I was seven. It's my book as sure as I breathe. I think anyone else would be faking it.

Find your passion . . . tell THAT story. That will take you beyond adequate into exceptional.

Thoughts?

Loving Your Synopsis

Ahh, the poor synopsis. The word itself is enough to make the most seasoned writer lose their lunch. But I've always loved writing them. In fact, I usually write the synopsis before I finish chapter one. It gives me a general, cinematic idea of where the book is going. It reminds me of how punchy the plot is, how different my character is . . . and if it doesn't, I know I need to do something before I get in too deep.

I have coached more than my fair share of both aspiring and published writers through composing the synopsis. And most first attempts, I have to say, are . . . well, not so good. It's as if these writers have forgotten what makes their book sing. They bog the synopsis down in plodding plot details and by page 6 or 8 or 12 (way too long) I'm bored out of my skull. Think of the synopsis as a sales presentation. You want to have the board room eating out of your hand. You want to rivet the room. You want a verbal Powerpoint. You do not want to recite "and then this happens . . . then this." You want personality and punch.

Okay . . . so I pulled out a synopsis of mine. It sold on proposal. Here are some highlights.

First . . . a tag line.

Freudian Slip . . . A romantic-comedy between heaven and hell.

This is something my agent puts on page one. It grounds the book, it's pithy, sales-oriented.

Then the synopsis itself . . . in this case, the set-up for the novel:

Julian Shaw expected a long tunnel. Then a white light. Or at least his dearly departed grandmother.

What he got, instead, was Gus.

This is the premise. In four sentences. The minute an editor reads this, she deduces this is about someone who has died . . . sort of.

Moving on, I need to describe my main character in 25 words or less--everything you need to know about him to get through the rest of the proposal.

Julian Shaw, former heroin addict, long-haired, raspy-voiced, sexy DJ, is rich, famous, and hated. His radio show is famous for inviting lesbians and porn stars on air, and raising the ire of every conservative pundit in the United States.

Note you do not need (nor does it appear anywhere else in the synopsis) Julian's life story, his past, his back story, anything about his parents or life other than this. That's ALL you need.

Now . . . major plot point. How did Julian wind up sort of dead?

One morning, Julian is shot in the back by a crazed fanatic and awakes in a place where nothing makes sense.

There you go. I do not need to explain my entire world-building of this place. The editor needs to accept this on face value, and because I present it as a sentence in a synopsis, the editor will just go with it. If they want to know more, they'll read the chapters. Move on. Keep the synopsis moving.

I'm skipping a little bit, but we meet Julian's spirit guide, Gus, and continue:

Julian, in a panic, tries to absorb what he’s told. But there’s more. Gus, a Frenchman from the 1800s, soon informs him that he has a job to do. He’s been assigned as a sort of celestial social worker, to Kate Darby, who walked in on her boyfriend, and love of her life, in bed with her best friend. Coupled with the death of her fireman father on September 11th, her mother’s hasty remarriage to a creep, and the fact that she has to work in the very next office from her supposed best friend, Kate is seriously depressed.

Kate is very depressed. In fact, the first time we meet her, she's halfway through a bottle of wine, lying on her living room floor with a box of Kleenex, listening to the same sad song on her CD player over and over. But it's enough in the synopsis to know this much. We don't need to know what she does for a living (she's an editor but it's not a central plot point), what she looks like, or anything more to get the set-up and how these two characters will interact.

Unfortunately for Julian, he is in Neither Here Nor There, which means he is not as powerful as either angels or devils.

Along the way, Julian will meet both angels and devils, but the fact that this strange place in the book has a name (Neither Here Nor There) means it's obviously aiming for a bit of humor; it's quirky. And the editor will soon find out that Julian CAN talk to Kate. A little bit later, we get to the crux of the book.

If the connection is particularly strong, she might even find herself blurting out Julian’s words as her own—a Freudian slip.

I added the italics. And there you go. THAT'S the book. The most important aspect of it. What follows are three or four pages of plot twists . . . which I don't want to reveal. And then the end. Voila. A synopsis.

What is NOT there? Any more physical description than what I gave, subplots, secondary characters beyond the main four or five . . . endless details about the plot twists--it's enough to know they're there. I don't try to justify the world, I don't explain how it works or why it works. It just IS.

And most of all . . . it's breezy and fast-paced, it has the "feel" of the book. I'm trying to sell it (indeed, it did sell). I try to imagine a person who just wants to hear a good story, who just wants to "cut to the chase." Give me the highlights. Like recapping a movie or book for a dear friend. Make them smile. Make them want to read the book.

Anyone else? What's the hardest--or easiest--thing about your synopsis?

Thankful

Oh, about the fourth load of laundry for the day, and the third load in the dishwasher, about the two a.m. Demon Baby wake-up call, I start to feel less than thankful. Things have been so stressful around here, I haven't been able to even get a haircut in three or four months . . . I always seem to have more bills than checks each month. My bathroom shower is leaking into the ceiling of my kitchen . . . and Demon Baby's NEW trick is opening the intake area of the heating system and pulling out the air filter and then trying to hide in there. My Dad is here, and he's blind . . . and that makes me incredibly sad.

But actually . . . I am thankful my parents are visiting for a month and they are both HERE, still with me physically. As for the rest of my exhausting life, I am thankful. I wish I could say I was evolved enough as a person to be thankful with each and every sleepless step and moment. Each and every time I have to race out at night because someone forgot to tell me they need posterboard for a school project. Each and every time the mail comes and it's . . . bills. I'm not, though. As a writer, I have to find ways to juggle it all from home, mostly by myself, with four kids. I gave up coffee a year ago, but I've been hitting the caffeine this month just to get it all done.

But thankful I am. I have four wonderful children who make each day an adventure. I can't even describe what being a mother means to me. My children make me laugh, smile, and sometimes cry; they each have qualities I admire and talents that are unique. We are all healthy. I've been winning my battle with Crohn's disease many more days than not, thanks to Traditional Chinese Medicine, a long remission, and sheer will. I have a beautiful home that's usually filled with a lot of noise and children and pets. I have a completely fat incorrigible corgi who thinks he's a lap dog and two pups, one of whom can make a flying leap and land on the table--talented! But they give unconditional love. I have a best friend--not just ANY best friend, but the most talented, giving, funny person . . . and (bonus!) she bakes the best cookies in North America and possibly the globe. I have a guy who still thinks I'm the hottest babe in the room--and will tell me that after the third consecutive sleepless night, with no shower, no makeup, and wearing a T-shirt from a concert I attended 10 years ago. Obviously, he's been smoking crack, but you get the idea.

I have a job I love. No matter how tired I am, sitting in my home office working my own hours, writing for a living is better than any career I could have dreamed up for myself. I get to make stuff up for a living. I get to tell stories.

And last but not least . . . I have a community of writer pals who mean a lot to me--both in person and online. Thank you to all the regulars on this blog for making my lonely writer's existence a little less lonely and more like an online office. Thank you to the lurkers out there--you know who you are. Thank you to my readers . . . I appreciate all the emails I get . . . thank you, thank you, thank you.

Happy Holiday!

Peace,
E

Casting On

I've been having a knitting crisis. You see, I've got nice, neat little stitches, but somehow, the second row after casting on is always a mess. So I jury-rigged a system whereby I was fixing the second row, but my jury-rigged system was a pain--and I had this extreme sense of frustration, like, "What am I doing wrong?"

Mom to the rescue. We sit together at night and knit now that she's staying here for a month, so I had her watch me cast on last night--and "Ah-ha!" I was doing something wrong. My casting-on system--actually my FIRST row--was incorrect. Oddly enough, MOM has a jury-rigged casting-on system that she has been using for 50 years because it was the way HER mother taught her (which thus makes the system 100 years old). But her system works. So . . . problem solved.

Which brings me to writing. Every writer gets frustrated over something. Maybe it's the 100th query that gets no response from an agent, and the writer knows SOMETHING must be wrong, but what the hell is it? Maybe it's the proposal they can't sell from--some writers can nail a proposal that wows editors . . . others just can't. Maybe it synopses. Whatever it is, we all have that one area we know, deep down, we are not doing correctly because damn, that row is sloppy.

And then . . . the "Ah-ha!" moment. Whatever jury-rigged system we have . . . we suddenly have an eye-opening moment. Maybe we get to look at someone else's jury-rigged system. Maybe an editor points it out to us. Maybe our agent does or our critique partner. But finally, we get it.

My "sloppy second row" was passive voice. I can thank my friend Joyce for knocking me upside the head on that one. I was in a writers' group--a large one--and routinely got glowing responses to my short stories. But one day, this woman Joyce said to me, "I heard a lot of 'was' and 'is and passive voice in your story. Let me see it." (We read aloud.) And she circled a SLEW of them in pencil. I was 23 or 24, and as far as I was concerned, how the heck could you write without was and is? I didn't even UNDERSTAND the concept of passive voice. Well, it took me a little bit, but after she SHOWED me how to choose more active verbs, I had a lightbulb moment. How had I not SEEN it before? After that, I was vigilant about it. And as an editor moving on in my career, it helped me evolve . . . I edited the passive out of other writers along the way (at least I wasn't the ONLY one casting on improperly!).

So how about you? Do you have a moment of casting-on illumination?

Evolution

The first novel I ever attempted was an historical. I quit by about page 80. I just didn't "feel" the storyline from another century, and I felt romance seemed, as a genre 20+ years ago, to have a lot of pre-conceived notions about sex scenes and characters. My second attempt, a fairly serviceable psychological mystery novel, was told in linear fashion over the course of a month of storyline, with flashbacks. I sent a single query to St. Martin's and got a request for the full--I'm talking when I was 24 or 25. In the end, the editor was impressed, she said, but the book was a little too psychological and not enough of the mystery part for her imprint. I didn't even TRY to write or submit a novel again for years. And years. I wasn't devastated by the rejection . . . I knew I had a million to one shot. I just didn't feel capable enough as a writer to write 300 pages. I didn't have enough story. So I worked on short stories and poems, which I got published with regularity.

Then I decided to try my hand at a novel again. I attempted a complicated contemporary women's fiction piece about 10 years ago, but a key component involved a man from the I.R.A. and the history of Ireland, and he had built bombs in his lifetime and had been part of a subway attack in London. And he was my hero. And then 9/11 happened and I knew what was already a story about redemption would become a thousand times more difficult to sell. So I abandoned it around page 200 for Spanish Disco. I wrote Spanish Disco in four months, edited it, stuck it in a drawer, went to the Book Expo as a consultant to a publishing house, met an agent, shared the novel, and it was sold less than 3 months later to Red Dress Ink. That book is completely linear and takes place over the course of 14 days. No flashbacks in time. First-person narrative. Seven characters--five of them with significant "face time" in the book. Writing it wasn't painful. It flew out of me, a total "zone" book with almost no rewrites requested by my publisher.

That was the last "easy" book I ever wrote.

Since then, not that I haven't written whole books in 3 months' time . . . or had a book just fairly effortlessly spill out of me . . . but I have EVOLVED. There was a time in my writing career when I never would have attempted a book in which God is a woman--and a character. In which Albert Einstein had a role. Or one that was a triology spanning 250 years and a hundred characters. Or one that wove the story of an African-American drag queen's love story with the heroine's search for love while living in a haunted house. Or one that wove a conspiracy from the Vietnam war with a present-day Vietnamese-American's search for understanding of her mother's suicide. Even if I had thought of the storyline, I wasn't far enough along on my journey as a writer to even try writing something so complicated. Linear and first-person was about a complicated as I could get.

I look at Spanish Disco and think, as much as I adore it and it remains one of my three or four favorites of my books. that it's very much like an adolescent. As Cassie narrates, it's all about HER. How SHE is impacted by the inconveniences of dealing with the secondary characters, how SHE hates having to work with Roland in a small beach town, how SHE hates her mother. How SHE feels about everything. If you've ever parented a teen, this is how they tend to view the world. It revolves around them. As a writer, I hadn't, I don't think, evolved enough to understand how the secondary characters could have their own full lives and yet not--importantly--hone in too much on the main plot. When I look at The Roofer now, I see, for example, how Tom is just as important as Ava, how the father's story, Uncle Two's, and Ava's mother's storylines are complex in their own right and intersect with the heroine's. I see how, just off of Uncle Two's story, there is his son's death from a drug overdose--years ago and off-stage--and yet it colors how he deals with Tom's drug abuse. I see how Hell's Kitchen itself is a character. How the Westies' history and the RICO Acts affect the storyline. If I wrote that book 20 years ago, it would have been about how Ava felt about her father's death. One long, linear story of her life. I would never have thought to tell the story over the three nights and a day of an Irish funeral. I would never have given in an actual narrative structure that way.

So we evolve as writers. Each book I write, I become more ambitious. It never occurs to me, now that I've written about 20 of them, to just follow a pattern, stick to something I've tried and done before. It's a process of growing with each book. Sometimes that makes readers angry . . . they like knowing, sometimes, that an author will write the same sort of book. But it's my journey as a writer to want to do different things, to keep evolving.

How about you? Can you now see the evolution of your work?

Head, Meet Desk

Some days, the words just don't come. Demon Baby is finally over the worst of the croup. I actually have had two (count 'em) nights with more than five hours of sleep. But Oldest Daughter is filling out piles of college applications (each costing between $30 and $100--EACH) and requires my help with them ("What is our income range, Mom?" "Am I the dependent of a military veteran?"--why do they need to know all this?!?). And my father, as mentioned recently, requires a long list of things to make his stay a happy one--bologna (Oscar Mayer ONLY--all fat, all beef . . . this TOTALLY grosses me out), tomato juice, apple crumb pie, ice cream, sherbert, ice cream bars, and beer. So the grocery store it was. The Staurday before Thanksgiving. Why not just line me up at a firing range?

And, in words that are striking mortal terror in both MY heart and mind AND the hearts and minds of family . . . I am cooking a sit-down dinner for 18 for Thanksgiving. Me. Cooking. You can pick yourselves up off the floor now. Thank God that in actuality, my mom will do most of it. I am the sous chef. Plus everyone is asking me "Where are you going to FIT 18 people for a sit-down dinner?" My answer? I have no effing idea.

So this is a head meet desk week. I just want to bang it. Repeatedly. I am reworking a much overdue proposal . . . and I have come to the conclusion for the thousandth time . . . .

It is easier to start from scratch than to seriously reimagine something.

I hate going in and cutting and splicing, versus the free-flow of sitting and typing as it comes out of my brain. It's like cooking. If you taste a soup and it's totally ruined with too much salt . . . you're not going to be able to fix it--at least not to perfection. You have to toss out the soup and start from scratch.

This is different from rewrites and different from edits. Reimagining something requires, at times, excising entire characters. Altering characters in profound ways. I feel like I am in a bog.

Head . . . meet desk.

Anyone else?

Fatboy

I have a new obsession. And his name is Fatboy Slim. A bigbeat musician, I've got my iPod loaded to death with his stuff. I comb iTunes looking for new songs, hunting for EPs of cool remixes (like his Rolling Stones remix--Sympathy for the Devil). What is it about Fatboy Slim I love so much? Maybe that I get lost in his music. It's a body happening, taking me, even if I'm walking in pitch darkness in the icy cold (like last night--I walked two miles), with my iPod on, into a club. I just feel it through my whole body, and if you were ever a club kid, if you ever spent time haunting major dance clubs in NYC (like me), then you know what I mean. The music is in you and through you, and you can dance like nobody else is there.

Which brings me to reading. And writing.

First reading. I tend to find new obsessions the way I do music. I never download something on my iPod that I "sort of" like. My iPod, all thousand-plus songs of it, is a friggin' work of art. I have a "club music" playlist, a jazz one, a bigbeat one. To make the cut, the music has to rock--or it has to haunt (like Howard Shore's Eastern Promises soundtrack). But if it's club music, it has to be awesome. As my significant other said, "You should be a gay club DJ." (I once did a DJ stint in the roughest bar in town, where they put me on a platform, with a ladder, and then told me to pull up the ladder so no one could start a fight with me over the music--but that's another story.) I take that as the HIGHEST compliment because everyone knows gay dance clubs are the hottest in town. So when I find a new author I like, just like a new artist, I want their backlist, their frontlist. I want to know what inspired them. I want to read everything I can get my hands on that they ever wrote--I'll read their 7th-grade term papers if that's available.

Now, just like my iPod, it's tough to make the cut. I mean Fatboy is the king. Oakenfold--he's got ONE good song. But Fatboy has depth. I have an Oakenfold song, but not a LIBRARY of his greatest work. Same with books. Everything ever written by Margaret Atwood. I went on a Neil Gaiman kick. Have been toying with a graphic novel obsession thanks to my best friend, Pammie, who got me into it. Unfortunately, for me, I have never liked some of the people with the thickest backlists. I don't like being scared, so I don't tend to read Stephen King. Don't like James Patterson, though he can do what he does well. As far as reading, it mostly applies to nonfiction subjects. I have piles of astronomy texts, as well as physics. And I adore that my oldest daughter loves physics as well, since we go to B&N's science section and buy out almost everything they have there. And no matter how many books I read on physics, I don't get bored of it. At least not yet. Just as Fatboy continues to amaze me so much I'd like to have his baby.

And writing. I don't think I ever have a day where I write a page and go do something else. It's either "the zone" or nothing. I write in bursts--10 pages of it just flying . . . or nothing. It's an obsession that day--like, I have this flash of what passes for genius in my world, and I must get it down on paper. I can't let it go.

Or . . . as often happens. I have the flash of what I want to do. But then Demon Baby wreaks havoc in my office, and Older Boy needs to be picked up from martial arts, and Younger Daughter needs help with math. But . . . like all good obsessions, it's there, percolating. Until I can sit down and let it burst out of me. Just because Fatboy Slim isn't playing right now (because my parents are still sleeping, and I don't want to wake them . . . and let me tell you, my dad's new thing is needing DESSERT every night, so now I have to go out to the grocery store and stock up on pies and ice cream!) . . . but just because Fatboy isn't playing doesn't mean his beats aren't on my mind.

So I read, write, and listen to music all the same way. With passion, intensity, obsessive streaks . . .

And you?

Where's the Bathroom?

There probably isn't an author alive who has done more than a few signings, who hasn't had one turn out to be a bust. Or humiliating. A lot of authors tell of sitting at a table, laden with books, waiting for their legions of fans--who they know are out there somewhere--to find them, and then being asked by wandering patrons of the bookstore, "Do you know where the bathroom is?" I have never been asked this, but I decided long ago my stock answer would be, wink and smile and say, "Buy one of my books, and I'll tell ya."

I have also met a LOT of writers along the way who this writing thing is more about dreams of fame (delusions of fame?) than the craft. For me, the business of promoting has been taking stock of my reality and deciding where to spend my time (because I still have to WRITE . . .).

Fact: I have 24 hours in the day. Much as I try to bend the laws of time and space, the fact is I get allotted 24 hours--the same as everybody else. There is a tipping point in my life--always precarious. At some point, I can't do it all. That is my reality. So let's start there.

Fact: I have four kids. Yeah, they tell high school girls how to prevent that, but no, apparently I skipped that class in health. The reality is also that I cannot do it all AND be a full-time mother to four very busy, very creative children, each with interests and needs. So I PICK and CHOOSE what outside-the-house promo to do.

Fact: I have a Demon Baby. Yes, this last one was apparently spawned by Satan. I cannot bring him with me to a bookstore to do signings. Period. The others I might be able to bribe ("Sit quietly and I'll buy you ALL the books you want"; or "Go tell that woman over there that your mother has written a wonderful book, and if she buys one I'll give you a dollar."). Demon Baby will not be bribed. Not even by the promise of Sweet Tarts. So any book signings require childcare.

Fact: As I wrote in the comments sections yesterday, people like me adore the advent of the blog tour. We love the internet. I don't see a huge pay-out for bookstore signings. I have had some packed ones, and I have had some ghost-town ones. I agree that it's a great opportunity to meet the people who work there, to leave an impression. I love the indie chains like this one, which is definitely, to my mind, the nicest owner/bookstore I have ever dealt with. Actually, though I had brought a dozen or so family members to my signing, there was some kind of block-off-the-road thing going on, so my signing was rather quiet there. BUT, she had requests via telephone from some regulars to her store for signed copies of my books, and I signed maybe 40 books that day. This store has been great to me in my new town, and manned the signing at a speaking engagement I did. Thank you to them! So I will do signings, but man, I love being able to promo at blogs and not leave the house.

Fact: There's one of me. Yup. Can't clone myself. Not yet anyway. So to me, there's also the fact that driving to bookstores to meet a set amount of people (probably small number) isn't, given the facts above, the best use of my time. This might not be true if I had a different life--older children, no kids, etc. And again, I don't see a huge return for signings. But . . . see the next paragraph.

Fact: I can blab. What DOES pay for me in terms of in-person promo are speaking engagements. I did one earlier this year with, give or take, 75 people for wine and cheese for a library function. They had an indie bookstore there to do a signing afterwards. We sold out of every copy, of every book--20 of this one, 20 of that one, 20 of another. You get the idea. I used to hate public speaking. But once I honed an interactive, fun presentation that works for my personality, it's actually become a good time. Plus there was wine. I think that's part of the key. No, not the wine. Finding a talk I can give comfortably. There is nothing, to me anyway, worse than listening to an author read (often in monotone) a book for pages and pages. I want to be engaged. I found a presentation that works with my speaking style, which is to interact with the audience and think on my feet versus a canned speech. I spoke to the library group I mentioned (75 people), and that led to two more (including one paid speaking engagement and one with a lovely lunch and a great time!), and then one of those led to another. You get the idea. Everyone I've done this year led to a couple of more--all with a nice turnout so far. Also, versus a book signing, I have a more captive audience.

Fact: Sometimes, it's a crapshoot. I have had some amazing press. Magazines I've gotten mentions in include: US Weekly (twice my book was the Hot Book Pick), American Girl (feature with photos), Women's World (feature with photos), Kiplinger's, FORTUNE, Cosmopolitan, Romantic Times (feature), and a few others. I've consistently gotten full stories and spreads in my hometown newspapers--last time with beautiful four-color photos (the one with this post is from one shoot). But the fact is sometimes I can correlate sales with a good placement--and sometimes it didn't make a blip. My best sales were for this book, and to be totally honest, some promo that my agent had been told the book was going to get did not happen. It was a word of mouth happening--and it won "Book of the Year" at one online site . . . got some great reviews, etc. It also benefited from a nice following in the gay community--and at one point was one of Amazon's "top ten gay romances"--even though that was a subplot. I was gratified by all the fan emails I got from gay men who treasured the book . . . so word of mouth helped there, aside from the chick lit/romance community.

Fact: I like people. Truly. So if people comment on my blog, I respond. If they write to me, I write back. I get emails every day from readers and I try to write back to every single one. Maybe someday that will be impossible, but for now, it's managable--and given the Demon Baby/four kids thing, writing back online is doable for me--more so, right now, than signings.

Fact: Get 'em to read. There was recently a discussion about royalty rates being lower for certain online outlets than others on a loop I am on. My take on it is I just want people to get my books in their hands. If I make less for audiobooks . . . that's OK. I just want them to listen to my novel (Invisible Girl is an audiobook, for instance, as well as trade paper). We're talking small amounts of money, in my opinion, versus readers discovering you. For now, I am OK with whatever avenue they find me. To that end, too, I would rather spend my time going to a speaking engagement, selling 50 books, GIVING away 5 for prizes, and know I have, potentially, 55 new readers, than spending my money on bookmarks and things I know that I throw away or give my kids. I am not in this for ego. I am in this to earn a living and pursue my craft . . . so it's a business decision. I also, so far, haven't gone to a lot of conferences. Childcare, three days away, spending thousands (potentially) getting there (even when I am a speaker, not everything is covered) . . . I am OK, right now, with the path I take.

Bottom line: I try to write the best books possible.

Thoughts?

Croup

The FUN never stops around here. Demon Baby has croup. So, if you take his already wild child edge, and ADD to it the croup, think of how exponentially difficult he is now. Not to mention he didn't sleep at all last night. Meaning I did not sleep at all last night. However, I DID sleep in a vaporized room with him on my chest, so now I feel like a soggy blanket. My hair? Don't even ask. Plastered to my head.

Which brings me to writing. When I was 21 and best friends with a guy in my creative writing classes in college (and still one of my dearest loves), I think we thought we'd be the next Woodward and Bernstein. Now HE is actually in such lofty circles, and I decided I was just too damn polite to be a reporter. I have respect for the media (at times), and I still do the occasional magazine piece (have a cover story for one coming up). But the bottom line is I just didn't have it in me to call up people in the midst of tragedy and ask for a quote.

So then I moved on to writing fiction while toiling as an editor. I met an absolutely brilliant writer who was, quite literally, in the midst of a nervous breakdown. And in his brilliance, I found myself charmed by the idea (call me crazy) of the writer on the verge. Look at F. Scott Fitzgerald. Look at that guy who wrote The Old Man and the Sea! These were men's men who lived on the edge and wrote about it. I thought writers drank too much, smoked too much, bedded a lot of women, played a lot of cards, traveled to interesting locales and drank with the locals, and talked to their cats. Don't ask me why the cat thing but Hemingway had cats, and I had a cat at the time.

Now, cut to a number of years later, and I have decided that writing with four children trumps the guy who wrote The Old Man and the Sea. I'd like to see him TRY to write through croup. Just try. Or through tantrums, stomach flus, homework hour, and two of the four in adolescence. HA! This is not for the faint-hearted. And STILL the deadlines come.

I have also decided that it's near impossible to write decently on no sleep, too much alcohol, eating crappy food out of take-out boxes, and smoking (actually, I have never smoked in my life). This is one writer who writes best on some sleep, some rest, some serenity, a little music. I talk to my fish, Blossom, and occasionally the dogs (son allergic, so no cats). I talk to myself, and to my Grandma, who is deceased, so perhaps it's a bit like talking to myself, but I don't think so.

But my old "model" of the wild writer has been abandoned. Honest to God, I told my friend Janet last night that I would pay a THOUSAND DOLLARS for two decent night's sleep. I'll write the check. Just tell me who to make it out to. Right now The Croup Fairy is making that impossible.

So how about you? Has your image of how a writer lives changed as you do this strange career of ours?

How Soon to Tell?

I brought my new trilogy--at least the prologue and two chapters--to my writers' group last night. I was relieved that all the changes were a sentence here, a word choice there . . . a couple of spots where, thanks to having a guy in my group, I apparently made the boy in the story a little too sentimental for a 12-year-old smarta**. But the other consistent item pointed out were little snippets of information about the boy's mother (who died when he was two) that my group felt I could have waited to tell.

Conincidentally, I spoke to my editor of my Nocturne trilogy yesterday (so yes, that's SIX books all total I am working on over the two years or so). SLOW DOWN was her advice for the first three chapters of the new proposal. Let it unfold a little slower.

This is, honest to God, one of my biggest struggles as a writer. Because I know my editor and my group are right. I have 300-friggin' pages to let it all unfold, but this battle is one with ME. Why?

In my real life, I am a totally open book. While I find it vaguely creepy when someone I just met tells me WAY TOO MUCH INFORMATION about themselves, I also don't feel a particular need to hold back. If someone asks me x or y, I don't ever feel a need to lie, or white lie. I'll tell you if you ask. If someone I just met, for instance, noticed that there are three different last names in my family and asked about whatever complicated story it was regarding the names and the parentage of my kids, I'd tell them. If that prompted a question about why it was I left my ex-husband all those ages ago, I'd tell them. If they wanted to know what I thought about a particular subject or political stance, I'd say so. I might think, by this point, that they were being nosy, but I just don't feel I have anything to hide. It's frankly a very freeing way to go through life. I don't have this bit of artifice for the Barbie moms down the street, and this bit for the country club set (not that I would ever belong to a country club), and this bit for the reunion of my college where people are out to impress with their lives, and this bit of artifice for church, and this one for speaking to my kids' teachers. You get the idea. I like being ONE person, in essence, the same ME except maybe more raucous when playing poker. :-)

My emotions are the same way. I am not embarassed to cry--even in front of people I don't know well. I laugh loudly. If I have my feelings hurt, I will tell someone. If I have been deeply hurt or betrayed, I have to say something.

I think of the scene in the movie Adaptation from Charlie Kaufman's brilliant script. Nic Cage is aghast that his twin brother would have TOLD a woman he loved her when she didn't love him back. He considered that act humiliating. But his brother tells him it was HIS love to give to whomever he wanted, whether they loved him back or not. It was his love, and her not loving him didn't change that. How beautiful! Think of the dance most people go through when dating. Who will break down and say "I love you" first? Imagine if that was gone and you could just say it when YOU felt it?

So when I write . . . I tend to want to put it all out there up front. I also definitely worry that the reader may get impatient waiting for details. I have to fight that natural inclination.

How about you? Do you struggle with revealing too much up front? Do you struggle with your internal nature when it's opposite to what makes for the best book?

Faith

In my 2008 Red Dress Ink release, Freudian Slip, God is a woman, Albert Einstein is a cosmic social worker, and every mortal is struggling in their human journey. My main characters, Kate and Julian, each face the greatest challenges of their lives. Kate must overcome grief and the collapse of the world as she once knew it after 9/11; Julian must confront the fact that, in reviewing his life, he now sees he was a total a**hole. And considering his life is in the balance, and he could travel to either heaven or hell, he has very little time to contemplate just which direction he's headed--he's been shot and is dying.

And in looking at the manuscript of this book today, I realized this theme is in every book I've ever written--and possibly every book ever written by anyone:

Hebrews 11:1 Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

I don't mean in a God-sense, though that is sometimes there. I don't mean in a Bible sense. I don't mean in a Buddhist sense (and most Buddhist are not theists so . . .). I mean in a sense of FAITH, the very irrational decision to believe in something you cannot see. I mean in terms of this definition of the word:

Belief that is not based on proof.

I can go back to every book I have ever written and the actual heart of the book is that moment when the main character presses forward despite all evidence to the contrary that they should give up. They proceed in blind fath, on hope, on the evidence of things not seen.

In Spanish Disco, Cassie Hayes knows she is likely never to get her hands on the sequel to the American literature classic Simple Simon, written by the very unbalanced Roland Riggs, but she proceeds on faith that perhaps within him, the sequel lies, unwritten but ready to emerge if only the right editor can coax it out of him.

In Diary of a Blues Goddess, the character of Nan sums up the journey of the heartbroken characters in the book: If God takes you to it, he'll take you through it. When I think of Dominique, the drag queen, whose journey from gay boy to trannie was frought with being disowned, with his father punching him in the face and breaking his nose, it was still a journey of faith. Of the unrealistic hope that despite his "differentness," compounded by race and loss, that he could evolve into a beautiful queen and win a prince.

In The Roofer, Ava must find within her the faith to believe that there is life away from the Westies in Hell's Kitchen, that there is something beyond the concrete playground of violence where she grew up. That faith is symbolized by the painting on her wall--found at a flea market. She and Tom hung this horse painting as a sign of what they each believed was possible--a farm, a world away from the spector of their father and murder. Somewhere inside Ava, that faith remained even if it was barely a glimmer throughout most of the book.

My desk is a vertiable altar of faith in something. Buddha statues mingle with Catholic candles to St. Jude, the patron saint of hopeless causes. And that, as I look at the candle flickering, is the ultimate statement. A Patron of Hopeless Causes. And yet . . . we hope.

Thoughts? Is the theme of faith part of your work? Your life?

Hopping

I like to blog hop. I will leap from writer to writer, enjoying the way each blogger develops a style, humor, political voice, whatever. And, I have come to the conclusion, I am basically a hopper in real life too.

What do I mean? Well, my writer pal Sara Hantz has written about taking up knitting again. My mom is visiting, and I have already spent $150 on yarn. Note that it would be cheaper to go and BUY a blanket, but I am knitting one, along with a scarf for my friend Bruce, a hat for younger daughter, a sweater for Demon Baby, and another scarf for charity. Note that I did not say first I am going to knit an afghan and THEN I am going to knit a scarf, and so on. I have all these projects going on at once. That way, whatever I am in the mood for, I can pick up (some projects require more concentration than others).

Which is how I write. On my computer right now, I have three books in progress, plus one I am waiting for editing notes from my editor so I can tackle the next draft and then give her the final manuscript. That's four that I consider actually in progress (i.e., under contract). BUT, I also have one book that is nearly done that I haven't shopped to my agent yet, one that is just a loose series of ideas, and probably twenty that are "someday" books when I get around to them.

Now . . . this may seem an insane way to work. But . . . I READ this way, too. I have four different books of prayer or philosophy on my nightstand, one physics text I am making my way through, one thriller, one atronomy textbook, and a coffeetable book on the Soviet Union I am now reading, plus a half-dozen magazines. Plus I read the NY Times online each day and hop over to CNN fairly often.

You get the idea. I have a NY Times crossword puzzle book. I NEVER finish a puzzle in order. I work on one, get bored with it, work on another, come back to the first, go to a third.

So I don't know what it is, but I am a hopper in real life. I don't think I have A.D.D. or anything clinical that can be defined in any way . . . because if I NEED to concentrate for 12 hours straight to finish something, I will. Without an ounce of problem. I don't feel scattered at all. But my brain seems to like being challenged and so I hop along to something that interests said brain as soon as I get bored.

So tell me, do you hop?

The Long Good-Bye

Life is really a long series of good-byes. As I wrote in Spanish Disco, people leave. One way or the other, they leave. They die or they move away or they leave you, or you do the same. If you live your life well, you will love people so intensely, with such devotion and passion and without holding back, so that when they leave, you will grieve. So to me, life is a series of bursts of tremendous joy, tempered with the moments of good-bye. If you are very lucky, the good-byes don't happen often, or they are more bittersweet than mournful.

Last night, my daughter got home around 1:00 a.m. after two solid days of violin from 8:00 a.m. until, like last night, midnight. She proudly displayed her "violin hicky"--the mark on her neck where the violin rests. She never gets them too bad, but after this weekend of non-stop violin, she had one dark red mark--a sign of LOTS of playing. I went into her room and flopped on her bed, and we talked for about 40 minutes. There are lots of "lasts" about this last year before college. Last year she'll have this bedroom (younger sister gets it--and she says she's carrying a sign for graduation, which she'll raise as sister walks across the stage: CONGRATS! NOW I GET YOUR ROOM!"). Last year she'll be in the family Christmas picture unless we Photoshop her in. You get the idea.

And last night, I said, "I'll really miss you." I want her to know that, to REALLY know that. And if truth be told I will. The other half of me will be kicking her out the door--she's really messy and always is moving at the speed of sound, and is a pain about what she wants from the grocery store, and I look at her and she costs me money (yesterday, she called to say her bow needs rehairing and she wants to put on a gold E-string--kaching!). So I'm ready for her to go, SHE'S ready to go and live a life of adventures, but we have this whole year to have moments like last night, and say the long good-bye. To process how life is changing. For me, to grieve a little bit and to rejoice at how far she's come as a person already on this journey.

Which got me thinking about writing. I, like many people, have been watching J.K. Rowling make post-Potter statements about what happened to this character or that. And I know she also wrote and hand-illustrated a fairytale from her Potter world that will be auctioned off for charity. And she has made no secret of the fact, that after ten years of writing, it's all a process of saying good-bye to that world and those characters and it has been difficult.

I know for me, when I start a book, I am so full of Shiny New Idea Syndrome that I can't imagine the end. And in about 25% of my books, by the end, I've been so put through the grinder by the difficult middle section, or by tying up the loose ends at the conclusion, that I am ready to write "The End" (or, actually, as you do in publishing, type: ###). But most of the time, once I hit about page 200, I get this sinking feeling, like, "It's the start of the long good-bye." I know I will have to say good-bye to the characters and their lives. Working on my new trilogy, my pub schedule will run through at least--you sitting down?--2011. Even writing that number feels strangely futuristic for me. But because the world is so involved (it's fantasy), I am already more invested in the characters and the world than anything I have ever written before. I already get weepy over certain parts, already ache for this one or that one and their looming losses, already sigh a little as I know what genuine happiness awaits another. I can't imagine saying good-bye to them, but the writing process will be that . . . a long goodbye.

There are moments--just brief moments here or there--when I think of Tom from The Roofer. I wish he could have had a different story arc, but he couldn't have . . . and saying good-bye to him was hard. So much so that he pops into my head, almost like a real person. I'll wonder how he's doing, just for a second, before I realize he isn't real and he's doing exactly how I left him in Hell's Kitchen. Suspended animation. He and I seem to have a very, very long good-bye. It's still not quite over. Maybe, like the very best of relationships with those you love, it will never be over. Because that's the other part of a life lived well . . . you love so passionately that even after the good-bye you are left with the relics of love in your life.

Thoughts? Are there some good-byes with your characters that are harder than others? With people?

Know Thyself and Do It Anyway

I used to lie about my age. It was more a schtick that anything else. But that's changed. Now I often don't SAY how old I am, and if you ask I might not tell you, but I no longer do that "I'm 29" thing (mostly because I can no longer pass for 29)--or the "I'm 35" thing. Or the "I'm 39" thing. And the reason I no longer lie is threefold. One, I don't smoke and have never smoked, and I don't sun and except for a little bit in my teen years, never did. And thanks to great genes on Dad's side, I inherited his wrinke-free skin. The man is in his seventies, and he may be blind--but he doesn't have a single wrinkle. My Gram on that side died in her 90s, and she had frown furrows--but not a single wrinkle. She aged like those people on the old Dannon commercials from Soviet Georgia--and she looked like that, too. The other reason I no longer lie about my age is I had a baby in my 40s. And I'm damn delighted with that baby and did it without any fertility help (first try!) . . . so I guess that sort of defies the odds or something, and so I think that's neat. And the third? The biggest reason? Is what's the point of getting old if you don't gain wisdom. I really like my own skin--and not just because I don't have wrinkles. I like my own skin and am comfortable in it. I know myself really well.

Or maybe I don't. Or maybe, like this post's title, I know myself and do it anyway.

You see, we all construct, like this blog's regular, Ewoh, says, "stories." If you want to read some wisdom from a philosopher, go through any of my old posts and see his contributions in the comments section. And he's right. We construct these stories about ourselves. The mind is powerful. And sometimes it's powerful in its resistance. And I have learned over the years to "do it anyway."

An example? I spent three years as a mentor through an orphange and foster care program as a mentor to unwed teen mothers. The idea was that if these teen moms felt someone loved and cared for them, AND committed to be in their lives every week for a couple of hours,for a year or two at a time, both they and the babies they had would benefit. We (the mentors) were also supposed to teach some parenting skills, meal planning, etc. Make sure the babies were getting their shots and seeing a doctor, all that. I did this for a year or two, then the federal government stopped funding the program. And I kept doing it anyway because I thought there was great value in loving these young girls--some as young as 12. And in the course of my work, I saw things that I would have told myself I couldn't handle (one of those false stories). Protitution and projects, and crack-addicted families. I also had somehow convinced myself that maybe I could not be a foster mother. My significant other and people around me said they thought I would fall apart when I had to give the children back. And they said that out of love for me. And so I guess that became part of my "story." But then I met a little boy, and I instantly loved him--we just connected. He was the most special child and he was my teen's baby brother. And when he was four or five, he came to stay with me for a bit. If I had wondered if I could love a child of a different race, that had long been settled. I loved him fiercely, just as I loved my teen and her baby. And the whole time this little boy stayed with me, and I took care of him, my significant other kept saying, "You know you can't run away with this child. You can't KEEP him. Even if you don't like the things you see, even if there is a drug problem or even violence, you cannot keep him because it's not your place to keep him. He already has a mom." And I "heard" that, but with one ear. But at the end of the time I had him, I sent him home. He loved his mom a LOT. And I decided it would be better if I was HER friend than if I had this whole invented story in my head that somehow I could take this child and rescue him. I was very, very sad when he went home. But I didn't fall apart. I didn't even cry. I did take a LONG shower by myself. I did go to bed early that night. But I didn't cry. In fact, in my years doing this work, I don't think I ever cried no matter how awful some of the things I saw were. Somehow I developed a steely resolve that I didn't know I had. So the lesson I learned was you can know yourself. But do it anyway. "Can't" should be removed from your vocabulary. You have more resolve than you think you do. It's there inside.

What does this have to do with writintg? I meet a lot of people who want to write a novel. But they think they "can't" finish one. They can. Whatever story you have told yourself about your writing, defy it. You can know yourself. But then you can go beyond. We all have that capacity. The thing you think you fear the most? It won't break you. It won't. I used to think sometimes, that if I forgave people--and I am talking people who did really egregious wrongs to me--that somehow that meant they got away with it. I used to think that holding on to pain was rather noble. It's not. What I found was when I forgave, it just freed up a lot more space for other, far better stuff.

Know yourself. But do it anway. You might be surprised by the results.

Thoughts?

This Is Hard, Mom

My older son decided to read HIGH SCHOOL BITES by Mom for his English class reading journal. This was actually very nerve-wracking for me, because I most definitely would not want my kid thinking I was a hack. I would hate it if he thought all those hours I've sat with my a** glued to a desk chair and typing away, I was really writing something he thought was dreck. However, he loved it--he could recount the entire book in such detail, from the Holy Water in the squirt guns to Vic's penchant for raw meat that I knew he wasn't lying when he said he liked it. In fact, he wrote in his journal, "This was a really amazing book. And I'm not just saying that because my mom wrote it!"

But what was even more interesting to me through this whole process of him reading it and writing about it, was when he sat at the computer, cursor blinking, and tried to think of what, exactly, he wanted to write about the book he was reading. He said, "Mom, this is really hard. Now I know how hard it is to be a writer. How can you think of something to write all the time? I mean, I'm just writing ABOUT your book, I'm not making it all up."

And I never really thought about it quite like that. You see, for me the hardest part of this job ISN'T making it all up. THAT part comes really easily. It's not even choosing words or finding the voice for a book. Most of the time that comes easily, too. For me, the hardest part of this gig is real life wreaking havoc with my writing time.

For example . . . my father has been here twelve hours. In that time, we had to take him to Cingular to get a new cellphone, show him how to use it . . . and he lost his glasses--the only ones with special magnifying things on them that let him see a little. My daughter left for an all-day concert 35 minutes from home this morning . . . and promptly tracked me down on my cellphone to tell me she locked her keys in her car when she spilled an entire thing of Starbucks in it, ran inside the school to get paper towels . . . locking the door . . . with keys on the seat. So this means getting over there to get her the keys. I also need to take Dad and Baby for haircuts. Make dinner for everyone. Do three loads of laundry. Um . . . oh, and Baby has a bad case of diaper rash because all of a sudden his medical issues are giving him some trouble again. You get the idea. Real life sucks. My FAKE world is easy.

Of course, I wouldn't trade my real life for anything. It's full and most of the time happy. If sleep-deprived. But the cursor generally doesn't taunt me the way it taunts my son. Making stuff up is really, really easy for me. Which may make me a compulsive liar. Or storyteller.

So tell me, what's the hardest part of this thing you do? This writing gig?

Kissing Pretty Words Bye-Bye

I have been stuck on a particular work in progress for a bit now. I kept chalking it up to sheer exhaustion and a really bad year. Yes, year. Seems like every time I turned around this year, some immense stress came gunning for me--and these weren't little things . . . they were things like my dad going blind, my baby needing medical procedures down at Children's Hospital, deaths in the extended family, and so on. So, I reasoned, it made sense that when I sat down, and was so bone-weary from 16-hours days of stress and four kids and bills to pay and emergencies and sickness and sh*tty health insurance and so on, that I would get stuck. That my brain would be so exhausted it would just be uninspired. I even toyed with the idea that perhaps I was depressed. But deep down, I didn't think I was. It's not in me to be down. I was simply TIRED. And with good reason.

But as far as writing went . . . I realized exhaustion played a role. But even more so, I had gotten attached to some words. More precisely, to a beautiful and poetic paragraph or two that I was using as my prologue. And every time I would pick the book back up and work, I was trying to shoe-horn in a beginning around those damn pretty words. And nothing was holding a candle to those words, so that LAST thing I wanted to do was lose the good, pretty words and stick with a pile of crap.

But . . . .

I realized the words were what were holding me back. I was too darn attached to them and they were crippling my beginning. The words were pretty enough to be poetry . . . but they really weren't a great way to start the book. They were passive and philosophical. Okay for a diary but not for fiction. Or at least this piece of fiction. So I kissed them bye-bye yesterday. It was very freeing. And I started--though I had 30+ pages written--"from scratch," as they say. And suddenly, the mystery and suspense came to the surface, the whispers and hints of obsession that were always there in the characters were allowed to come out of hiding. Suddenly, I wasn't so exhausted. My brain not so mushy. And I could write.

Have you ever had to do that? Did you ever kiss some pretty words bye-bye?

The Day Job

I've been watching my daughter agonize over career paths. At 17, she thinks she would someday like to be a working violinist in a symphony, but as symphonies close across the country, those spots become harder and harder to come by. Me? I tend to tell her to go for it anyway, as job security has never been very important to me. (And for those of you pulling for her . . . she was accepted into the music program at the university she auditioned at . . . and they will put her name in for a scholarship. I am beyond delighted and she is thrilled. Thank you for your well wishes.)

Job security. Hmmm . . . . I once was fired from a day job. A little background. I was making a ridiculously low salary in publishing as an editor and left, briefly, for greener pastures in human resources. I got a job at a bank in H.R., and made a very, very nice salary--well more than double what I had made in publishing with bank holidays, great benefits, and I was out the door by 4:30 every day. All was well and good. I thought, "I have a day job, and when I go home, I can write." But the bank where I worked was a veritable Peyton Place. This was the free-wheeling 1980s, when money seemed to grow on trees at financial institutions. The bank president arrived around 10:00 and left for lunch every day--by limo--never to return. The VP of my department did pretty much the same (minimum three-hour lunch each day). His right-hand woman was single-handedly one of the most trecherous people I have ever encountered. Ever. She disappeared for hours-long lunches with a gaggle of secretaries each day--they'd go for massages and manicures on the bank's dime, and their being gone for so long thus meant the H.R. people (a.k.a. me, the corporate recruiter) had to cover the phones--in a manner such that I and the other two recruiters couldn't have lunch except at our desks. She and her secretaries all smoked . . . and apparently, it would take them an hour or more to smoke one cigarette TOGETHER. So they would be gone for an hour, pop back in for a few minutes . . . and leave again. Departments were full of employees sleeping with each other, and not a few bottles of vodka were stored in top right-hand drawers. Add to that whiffs of racism and classicism in who they wanted hired as tellers . . . and I knew I wouldn't last in such an ugly place. And I was right. My bad attitude got me fired . . . and I have to say, when the bank folded two or three years later, when the president was fired and the whole house of cards fell down, a victim of the era's excesses, I was delighted. Karmically, I know it's not nice to delight in others' failure, but I was a weaker person then. And the fact is, the firing bothered me a LOT for years afterwards. I was always a success--from scholarships to GPAs, always did well. I did my job well. So how could I be fired by such dishonest people?

And it was my father who set me straight. "Who gives a cr*p about a bank job? My God, take it as a COMPLIMENT that you are honest enough and bright enough that you annoy the sh*t out of them."

And when, years later, I realized I couldn't--just couldn't--put my kids in daycare . . . and I am NOT denigrating the people who do . . . I just didn't have it in me to do so after my second child was born, and I decided to try to freelance edit full time from home and leave my publishing job, I was terrified. But my father told me, "Jobs? They're a dime a dozen. There IS NO JOB SECURITY anywhere. So if you don't make enough editing, you can bartend again. And if you have to one day take a day job again, you'll find a new day job. Go for it." So I leaped in with both feet, tripled my salary as an editor at that time, and have never looked back.

Do I work more hours than most people who have an outside-the-home job? Yeah. But have I ever regretted it? Nope. The lack of a safety net makes me work harder. I'm not rich by a long shot . . . but I have been the primary breadwinner for 10 years. Solely from fiction for 5. So it can be done.

And for me, not having that safety net pushed me harder. And I didn't have the safety net of a spouse who could support us either. And there's SIX of us. So . . . yeah, it's not the choice for everyone, but it was for me. And I've always had editing and freelance writing to fall back on if I needed . . .

And I've also decided that I don't know if I would have the ENERGY to pursue fiction after a long day at the office. I just don't think I would.

So tell me? Work a day job? Made the leap? Don't want to make the leap because you like the day gig? Afraid? Working up courage? Long-term goal? Do tell.

Proust Was Right

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes

but in having new eyes.--Marcel Proust

I find this quote utterly brilliant. I thought of this particular Proust quote this morning, as I read the NY Times . . . specifically, this article on self-delusion in humans . . . and monkeys. Seems we're not the only ones who deceive ourselves, who need to see things with new, honest eyes.

And I thought of this quote as it relates to writing. When I think back over the years and all the authors I worked with, critiqued, edited, and coached, I think the ones who were successful had this ability. Most of the time, when someone hires an editor, they can construct a sentence, and hopefully it won't have too many errors in it. Sometimes, you may encounter a writer with a certain gap of knowledge--perhaps they don't use the comma in a compound sentence correctly, or maybe they have an abundance of dangling participles. And most of the time, that can be taught and corrected rather simply. What they need, with an editor, is a fresh eye.

And the writer who cannot look at their journey with fresh eyes? Often doomed. I can think of one author whose beautiful hardcover book I edited for months prior to its splashy publication. She was a very well-known old-time romance writer. And I can tell you that even though it was the year 2000, she was not going to budge at all--one iota--in her use of cliches, those heaving bosoms and swelling male organs, those sinewy thighs, and flashing eyes. And she has since disappeared from the landscape of publishing, I think pushed out by new writers who were willing to look at historicals in fresh ways with new plots and exciting language. I was sorry to see what happened to her, but it didn't surprise me, and when I met her in person out on the West Coast, I met someone who was very caught up in her status as author and famous person and who had forgotten the joy of the journey as a writer. She had lost whatever fresh eyes she had brought to her career twenty years before.

Having fresh eyes sometimes means parting with a work in progress. Literally tossing it. We've all met aspiring authors carting around a version of their first novel now ten years later. They tweak it--change the heroine's profession to one that is now hot in the romance biz, or the detective's quirks to something that seems new--but underneath it is the SAME novel just packaged slightly differently. They rail against the "system" and the "New York houses and agents" who won't give them a chance. But they don't take fresh eyes and look at the landscape--like the monkeys in the NY Times article, they can find a reason for their situation, and the reason has nothing to do with the novel at hand.

To me, fresh eyes means always learning. Every day. I restrict my blog-hopping mostly to the ones at right on my blog, but I will hop along to other writer blogs. When I find one that has a fresh angle, I add a link or visit it for a while. I visit the blogs I do because not a day goes by that I don't want an "ah ha" moment and some of the writers I visit have provided me with them. Edie Ramer's blog had given me some great moments . . . so has her other blog, Magical Musings. Spy Scribbler . . . where do I begin? In fact, because I will surely exclude someone, just link away . . . they're all great.

Fresh eyes means living passionately. I want to die of exhaustion. Not really, but you know, I want to be 80 or 90, in good health, still doing yoga and walking . . . and STILL volunteering and still writing, and maybe even with a half-dozen foster kids around. Or on a farm with horses and sheep, and my grandkids visiting me. Or living with my best friend in Tuscany for a year, drinking wine and eating good cheese. For right now, it means I want each day to count, to meet great and interesting people, to love with all I've got, so I have something to write about. Rather than just imagin