Moments

You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave,

find your eternity in each moment.

~Henry David Thoreau

Not only is this a great quote for how to live your life, but for how to write dialogue.

Last night, Oldest Daughter wanted help procrastinating. This basically means she comes in and flops on my king-size bed and insists on talking to me, even though I am clearly just a few deep breaths away from falling asleep. When I point out the obvious to her, she says, "No. Hang out with me." Note this was 11:00 p.m. Did I mention I rise at 5:30 a.m. and SHE is a night owl/musician?

Anyway, TV got flicked on and she breezed through channels, and all I got to see was ONE minute of the Movie Independence Day. But . . . it was a great moment of dialogue, in an otherwise popcorn flick.

In the scene, Jeff Goldblum (and can I tell you, I think he's sexy?) is riding his bike into the office--into the actual office, amongst the cubicles and so on. Riding bike must mean he takes his dedication to the environment seriously, folks. That's "movie speak" for "hippie." His assistant, played by my adored Harvey Fierstein, follows him around with that VOICE of his, telling him how the entire world is about to blow up or whatever. And in the midst of it, Jeff Goldblum notices someone didn't stick a can in the recycling bin. He makes a decent wisecrack, puts it in the bins, and the conversation keeps rolling without missing a beat. And on we go to find out that YES, MY GOD, aliens are about to eat us all alive, and YES, MY GOD, this brainy fellow is the one to save us all. But now, in the span of 30 seconds or so, we know his "type."

It was a moment. A non-writer wouldn't even notice. Hell, had I been SLEEPING and not forced to watch it, I wouldn't have noticed.

But the point is . . . so often when I am critiquing manuscripts (and right now I am doing the "contest judge" thing), I see HUGE back story dumps. If I was going to say what gets axed with my red pen more than anything else? Back story dumps. And writers hate parting with them. "But NOOOOOOOOOOO, I MUST tell the reader about his childhood on the banks of Lake Huron. It's important to the story later, on page 349."

Um. No.

Here's the thing, like our pal Thoreau, like the B-movie popcorn spectacle, look for MOMENTS. Drop the hint, move on. A line of dialogue could tell you more than an entire page of back story if done right.

I've used before as an example that I had to, in each book, tell the reader that Billie Quinn was a genius. It IS important, and while you might discern that after reading 300 pages, I, as author, don't have time for you all to get up to speed. I need you to know that early on. So it's her BEST FRIEND who tells us that. Billie, who narrates, tells the reader that Lewis LeBarge is a genius. She just flat out tells us he is the smartest man she's ever met, than most human beings will ever meet. He's the lab director, so even from a non-partisan viewpoint, he must not be dumb. And then at SOME point early on in the books, he says, in a throwaway line, something like, "Just because you're the ONLY human being who can keep up with my brain doesn't mean . . . " or "Shut up, I know your IQ is that high but it doesn't mean . . ." A moment of dialogue. I don't have to tell you her test scores, the scholarship she got, her academic background. None of it. A line. A moment.

Back to life. Find your eternity in a moment this weekend. I often find them in sticky kisses from Demon Baby. But wherever you find it . . . peace and joy, my friends.

Thoughts? What are your "eternity moments"? And how do you put in single moments in your writing?

A Deal . . . and What They Don't Tell You

First, I'll get it out of the way. Yes . . . my agent was finally able to post the deal I have:

The Magickeepers, by Erica Orloff, a middle-grade fantasy series about a rogue clan of Russian magicians who escaped Tsarist Russia, and who now hide their true identities in modern-day Las Vegas, and their battle against dark enemies to reclaim relics stolen from them by Harry Houdini and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, sold by Jay Poynor to Lyron Bennett, at Jabberwocky, in a three-book deal.

This is the "fantasy trilogy" I have been vaguely referencing. If you came to the online "chat" we had, I told the small group then about it. But I had to wait until counter-signed contracts arrived before I really spilled. Consider the cat out of the bag--it's on Publishers Marketplace (I actually didn't know that, but two people dropped by my Comments section last night and told me it was).

And here's the thing . . . I love writing for a living. But sometimes contracts take a LONG time. I actually had this deal last September. But things dragged on--clauses and so on. Then signing. Countersigning. Signing an addendum. This is the part they DON'T tell you about in Author School. Either that, or I missed that class. Slept right through it.

And you want to know why I am more excited about this than almost any deal? Because it's one I've wanted for a long while. To write something my kids could REALLY be a part of. The younger kids, that is. They get to be on the ride with me. And considering the writing biz is usually solitary . . . that's the sweetest perk of all.

So there you go. Is there anything else you wished they told you at Author School?

Six Words and One Photo

First, Merry tagged me to write a six-word memoir. These are the rules:

1. Write your own six word memoir.

2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like.

3. Link to the person who tagged you in your post .

4. Tag five more blogs with links.

5. And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play!

Well . . . frankly, this was too hard to play so early in the morning when I blog. But . . . I knew she tagged me yesterday. And sometime last night, my six-word memoir came to me.

Writer through motherhood, suffering, joy, completeness.

I'm tagging anyone who reads this and wants to play. Let me know so I can go visit you. And here's the funny thing . . . when it first came to me, I thought, MOM writes through pain, joy, suffering . . . and so on. But then I decided to change my subject to "WRITER" because I have written since I could hold a pencil. It pre-dates mothering four children. So there you go. What DOES that say about being a writer? It's a more meaningful memoir than I thought.

And . . . the picture is not mine. It was released worldwide today. It is a picture of a thousand words. Belonging to the life of another memorist. It is the picture of Anne Frank's love:

Frank's entry for Friday 7 January 1944 states: "I'm such an idiot. I forgot that I haven't yet told you the story of my one true love. . . . . I can still see us walking hand in hand through our neighbourhood."

His name was Lutz Peter Schiff. He died in Auschwitz.

I can't say anything else, except when I see the picture, I cry.

Be aware, writers . . . we can spread love with words or we can spread hate.

Spread some love today. If you have a blog . . . post something loving. If you see someone in need today, do something nice for them. If you haven't talked to an old friend in a while, call them. Write an email of love. Of kindness. Say you are sorry if it is long overdue. Check on an elderly neighbor. Speak out against hatred. Use your words wisely.

Thoughts?

P.S. Thank to Mark Terry's eagle eye and my lack of coffee, my ORIGINAL memoir (which had one extra word, has now been edited properly. And who says authors don't need editors!!!!)

In the Company of Greatness

Well, I always knew you guys were a great bunch. But last week I heard from a dedicated lurker, who has left a few comments here and there. We know her as "MicheleL." And that Michele L. turned out to be . . . Michele Lang. And she sent me a wonderful email that arrived in my in-box on one of "those days." And for not the first time, I was reminded that the universe sends you angels on days you need them.

Then I KNEW Michele was really a dedicated lurker, because she wrote me, "I know you don't read fiction, but would you like a copy of my first release, Netherwood?" (If you're a regular reader, you know I mostly read physics texts, though last night at 11:30 p.m., I was trying to wrap my mind around quasar splitting and got a headache.) Anyway, I accepted--mostly because, I told her, it sounded like the kind of book Oldest Son would read, and for this once I wanted him to think I was a "cool" mom for knowing a sci fi writer. THEN she sent me the ARC.

Can I tell you this book totally and completely ROCKS? I mean, from page one, rocks. It's for the new Shomi line. And this isn't what I usually read (even if I was going to read fiction), but ladies and gentlemen . . . it's got this WHOLE other level going on, discussions of the soul, of what makes us human, a love story, all wrapped up in a sci fi book with avatars and "Netherwood."

So I asked Michele to visit us today, THE DAY OF ITS RELEASE!!!!!!!!! And she agreed to share her call story. Here it is.

All in Good Time

Yesterday at dinner, my sons were in an inexplicably angelic mood. As I rushed around, spilling soup on my shoes, burning my thumb on the toaster oven, my oldest one, like a Zen master, murmured, “Take your time, Mom. Take all the time you need.”

My oldest kid is intense, off in his own world most of the time, but he often channels wisdom far beyond his seven years. I took a deep breath, served up his fish sticks with a flourish, and my personal Yoda rewarded me with a smile. “That’s better. Slow down, and you’ll get done in good time.”

The little guy is right. I am not exactly known for my patience and stoicism. Though I console myself with the personal belief that I have the temperament of a racehorse – nervy and full of heart – I have to admit my son knows my weaknesses. Despite my belief in a higher purpose, I usually try too hard to make things happen that were going to happen anyway, sooner or later.

I got the call for NETHERWOOD on June 7th, 2007 – it was a Thursday morning. Despite the fact that I’ve gotten e-books published before, even despite the fact that I had polished the partial to a high gleam before sending it in, I was completely caught off guard by Chris Keeslar’s voice on the phone. I sat on the saggy green sofa in my writing room, held my head in my hands as we spoke, and I tried to sound like a rational human being instead of somebody knocked off her feet by the vision of a dream coming true.

I love the motto of Shomi: Where anything is possible. I love that celebration of exploring new worlds, re-envisioning new ways of looking at this one. And l love the idea of change exploding your old world apart, bringing something new to life.

You might know that Aerosmith song: “It’s amazing…in the blink of an eye, you finally see the light…” It’s good to take your time, take a deep breath – because you never know when you will actually break through. And you want to be ready. Despite all my fussing and scheming and furious scribbling, when the moment of change came, I was caught unprotected, supremely vulnerable. Vulnerable is good. But knowing you’re ready is also good. Because, honestly, anything is possible.

Thank you Erica for celebrating with me!

So, gang, ask her anything you want about the book, Shomi, or the wild ride of selling your first book. And . . . is that not the most Zen, cool "call" story?

AND . . . I have to say, Michele wrote me on a day I felt so low. And here she has shared about those moments of "breakthrough." Being a writer is really a tough gig. I don't have to tell you that. Published authors have their share of "those days." (Add a Demon Baby and . . . well, I don't have to describe what bird seed dumped into a keyboard results in.) And unpubbed authors are often bravest of all. You're waiting, often for events you can't control. And so we each take those bits of encouragement where we find it. So what encourages you on your journey?

Finally, visit www.michelelang.com. And please, talk to her here today. Everybody only has one "first book," one "first call." I'm so honored she's sharing her release day with us. And the book is AWESOME! I can't wait for my son to read it.

My Life as a Movie

In honor of the Oscars last night . . . (go Cohen brothers!) . . . If my life was a movie, it would kind of look like Cheaper by the Dozen, less a half-dozen or so of those kids. But Demon Baby (who turns THREE TODAY!) is like six children rolled into one ball of hyperactive dynamite, so . . . it all works out that yes, it would be like that movie. There are side-splitting moments of chaos. Punctuated by long bouts of stress. There's drama. Tension. Pathos. Laughter. And just like the Bonnie Hunt character, I am a writer.

BUT . . . the writing part? I don't know. It doesn't translate to film. I just look a little crazy when I write. I sometimes move my lips to "say," silently, bits of dialogue. I am vaguely aware that I am raising my eyebrows sometimes, or cocking my head, to sort of ponder things. My desk is a mess. I have gone back to the Dark Side since November of drinking coffee instead of green tea (I had one kid with rheumatic fever, two with strep, I had strep, add one Demon Baby and one sick dad . . . and six people with the stomach flu, plus an incredible bout of Demon Baby/Mommy tandem insomina, and I went crawling back to coffee like an obsessed lover . . . I have to kick it all over again . . . hello acupuncturist). Yes, my writing life . . . is . . . mildly cinematic. I get dark circles under my eyes from deadlines . . . they could do that with makeup on screen.

But no . . . ON-SCREEN writers just . . . are hysterically UNTRUE. I have never seen an on-screen writer depicted anything CLOSE to how I and any of my writers pals write. Here are what I personally see as the most ridiculous on-screen writerly depictions:

1. That writers, even with the advent of the Mac and every gadget known to mankind, still prefer the typewriter. WTF?!?!?!?! I don't know ANY writer who isn't friends with cut and paste.
2. That writers have their agents and editors VISIT them to cajole a book out of them. Now, my agent, much as I adore him, has been known to harangue me over the phone. To nag me. He takes me out for fabulous dinners when I visit NYC. My editor takes me out for fabulous lunches. She has indeed visited me when I lived in Florida. But none of that is to cajole a book out of me. They're too busy. I'm too much of a professional.
3. All writers have writer's block. Often. And go to absurd lengths to cure themselves. I have NEVER had writer's block. And I have friend who HAVE had it. And none of them did anything weird, took any strange writer's block trips, or locked themselves in a cabin. None of it. They sort of waited until it passed.
4. That writers all go to glittering parties with other writers. I play poker with other writers on occasion. I do attend "writer-ish" parties. But they don't look like the ones in the movies.
5. That writers write the Great American Novel and the first editor who reads it buys it for an absurd amount. In fact, writers in the movies are often VERY, VERY rich and live in apartments in Manhattan that would rent for about $30,000/month. With a great view. A wonderful doorman. Where ARE these apartments? And where ARE these advances?

So . . . any other writer cliches in the movies? Things that resemble your writer life? Things that don't?

It's My World; Now Live in It

The world we live in has rules. There's gravity, for instance. Much as I might like a free-floating space walk, the world I live in means my feet stay planted to the ground.

So the first time I wrote a paranormal or fantasy book, I was like a kid in a candy shop. I could make up all these rules. I could create a whole world the way I wanted it. My story was about vampires. I'd always loved vampire stories. I would have to check, but I am pretty sure I dedicated the book to my dad, because in NYC, they used to have this thing on WPIX, the "Creature Feature" on Sundays. And he got me hooked on Dracula and Frankenstein. I was terrified of both of them (my sister was even MORE terrified--she used to have major nightmares until she was forbade to even watch the Creature Feature). But I also knew, even then, the poor guys were kind of misunderstood.

Anyway, I had a modern-day vampire story. My vampire had gadgets that helped her. For example, she had this totally awesome security system and a windowless room. No coffin-sleeping for her. She slept on Egyptian cotton-thread sheets. And my vampire was a Buddhist. Yeah . . . I know. How did I pull THAT one off? But I did. My vampire could also enter churches without any problem, and even prayed in a cathedral one time. Because in my world--and I am not the first to think this up--it's all about belief. If a vampire believed in holy ground, then he or she wouldn't enter a church. But my vampire wasn't frightened by holy water or relics. She was okay with living, at least partially, in the proverbial light. But then, like my very own God with my very own rules, I ran into some problems. It was trickier than I thought. For instance, beheading, in my vampire world, killed them. And modern-day Manhattan (story setting) is a pretty wild place, but walking around with a samurai sword (her weapon of choice) MIGHT get noticed. Suddenly, the world had its own difficulties.

My November release for MIRA, is a fanasty, I guess. It's a world with angels and demons--and the guys in between who can go either way. The devil has contracts and hiring bonuses. The angels like a nice cocktail. There are rules. There is a No Man's Land, a bar where both demons and angels hang out. The bartender is an angel. And the jukebox only plays ABBA. Because in my world, God is well aware of the demons, and SHE (my world, God is a woman) has angels to do her bidding. But God's "kryptonite" is ABBA. She can't hear a thing when they are playing (finds their harmonies distracting). Anyway, I just got my revision letter and a four-week deadline from hell. And in one scene, Albert Einstein (works for the good side) inhabits a body as disguise--the body of a lithe, gorgeous, faintly porn-star-looking woman. And my editor posed the question: If God know all, doesn't she KNOW Albert is that woman in disguise?

CRAP! My world. Broke one of my own rules. God knows all.

Now, the fix is easy. Because God DOES have kryptonite. So that night, at the sushi place where Albert, as porn star, is spying on my heroine and her date, the manager will put on the endless loop tape restaurants play, and it will be busy and crowded (it's a hotspot), and it will be well into the night before the manager notices he's been playing ABBA all night. Fixed.

But the thing is . . . world building is a helluva lot trickier than one might think.

I am writing a children's fantasy trilogy, the first book of which is due to my editor in March sometime. I have a story bible with my "rules." But, before I even write down a rule, I find myself pondering it like a philosopher. Can I live with all its ramifications?

Playing God in a book is sometimes a lot more complicated than I would have thought.

So . . . anyone run into this problem? Anyone write paranormal or fantasy and find themselves smack up against one of their own rules? And if you don't, and you COULD play God, what rule would you institute?

Writer Resource: Bank of Weirdness

I thought of this last night.

You know how they have those Random Facts About Me memes? I love them, but fun though they are, what good are they but to tell us oddities about each other? Occasionally we find connections--"Oh, I didn't know that so-and-so had a sixth toe--so do I!" (Not really.) But you know what I mean.

So I decided . . . what writers REALLY need is a "Bank of Weirdness," as in a databank of some sort that stores all the weird facts about each other we MIGHT one day need . . . when researching a book. Then Writer A would know, "Hey, Writer B once served time in Leavenworth, let me ask him about chow there."

So what I really want is for everyone who visits today . . . to list FIVE completely off-the-wall facts about themselves . . . that another writer might one day need to use in a book . . . some "resource"-oriented thing, some job, some something . . . that if another writer needed in a plot or character, he or she would know . . . "Ah ha! Email Writer Y because she once worked as a callgirl." If you feel like putting this meme on your own blog, yell, and I'll make note of it and mention it here tomorrow or Monday . . .

All right, I will go first, all in the name of the Bank of Weirdness.

1) I was once lost at sea in a dinghy, in the Bermuda Triangle. Yup. You're writing a book about being lost at sea, I'm your woman. Now, in fairness, I was lost for only 12 hours--but it was dark, and we did drift into the shipping lanes, and I was stung by jellyfish, and had swollen lips and bad sunburn. So email me should you need to know the sheer terror this brought about. Special aside . . . I was 12.
2) I have bred Australian shafttail finches, and pretty much, if you need to know about raising finches, doves, lovebirds, canaries, or cockatoos, just email me. What they eat, how many eggs they lay, etc.
3) I am mother to the world's naughtiest baby. If you need to know, for authenticity, what a two-year-old is capable of, you just let me know. I have stories.
4) I can tapdance. Twelve years of lessons. You have a dancer in your book, give me a yell. Shuffle, shuffle, ball change.
5) I have worked as a blackjack dealer. I know how to "wash" chips, put decks in the shoe, and do all those fancy things the dealers do with chips.

So there you go. You can play here, or play on your blog. Please . . . add to the Bank of Weirdness.

Out of Left Field

This has less to do with writing and more to do with . . . being different.

But here goes.

All my life, I did amazingly well in school but was totally unhappy there. I aced every test (most of them), didn't have to work that hard because writing came easily, which meant like dominoes, most subjects then were a breeze (i.e., you can write a history essay, an English essay, a social studies paper off the top of your head). I skipped grades, including my senior year of high school. I had three majors and one minor in college. Yeah--three of them. Ridiculous. I had an academic scholarship here. I got into grad school here. But . . . I always felt like the outsider.

And now . . . I am butting up against a school system, in the case of one of my kids, that doesn't seem to be a "fit." He tests gifted, and that's great, but his interests don't perfectly mesh with what's taught. And worse, he's got two teachers who seem to be a horrific "emotional" or EQ (emotional quotient) match for him. In one case, stern. In the other, imperious and disinterested in him.

So I sit here, sobbing, seriously thinking perhaps what I need to do is homeschool. As IF I need that on my plate. But private school tuition for the school I want is $10,000--and I already have double that bill when Oldest goes off to college this fall.

Part of me thinks homeschooling would be cool. A chance to re-learn subjects. A chance to light a fire in my kid, to visit museums. And part of me just wonders how I could possibly add that to my day. I think if I cut out ALL sleep, it might work. And if I found one more day in the week. And if . . .

You get the idea. So my question, writers . . . is I wonder, just asking my blog pals here, how many of you felt out of sync in school? Is school just about taking every round peg and beating it into submission into a square hole? I wonder if I even . . . AGREE . . . with educational principles in this country. But every writer, just about, that I have ever known . . . was a little "different." We all have tales of teachers that inspired and teachers that ruled through terror and humiliation.

And part of me wonders, in all sincerity, and with complete honesty, if it's worth it staying in the system. If we should nurture our round pegs some other way.

So this is off-topic. But screw it. It's my blog. My son's teacher convinced me today that there are some people who should NOT be teachers. And I want to know. If you had it to do over again, would you stay in the system?

And does anyone have access to any drugs that would totally eliminate the need for sleep? Kidding there. Kind of. ;-)

Peace,
E

Make Them Care

Continuing our discussion, but in a different vein, from yesterday, I have three words.

Make them care.

And now, of course, I have more words. From the Dalai Lama:

We must recognise that the suffering of one person or one nation is the suffering of humanity. That the happiness of one person or nation is the happiness of humanity.
~Tenzin Gyatso

Someone recently asked me (and I am really paraphrasing here, for expediency), why I choose to feed one homeless person on Tuesday nights, instead of, perhaps, forming an organization to try to get at the root of the problem. That quote kind of sums it up for me. Not that I wouldn't choose to do things in an organized sense. But . . . I guess I just look at it in terms of individual people.

In any case, I can take that idea back to the writing. We have to make readers care. Even in a thriller, a race against time to save humanity, it will almost always, in a good book, boil down to the main character equating humanity with his or her family. If today was the end of the world. I would lament the loss of humanity's paintings and music, and the ocean and the trees. I would be panicking, along with all of the world as we ran screaming from the aliens or whatever it was that was ending the world. But in the end . . . I would gather my children in my big bed, and I would want to be with THEM. Quietly. They're the ones I would miss. If airplanes were still running ahead of this big collapse of civilization, I'd have my mom and dad come, my best friend. But it's still about the people. MY people.

Think of big problems. Global warming. Even scientists know to bring it down to the polar bars cubs, so cute and cuddly. Or the penguins. People CARE about that more than "how many degrees warmer" it's getting.

Even the Holocaust, horrific and overwhelming . . . is for many people brought to a person. A writer, actually. A young girl with a diary. Hidden. Anne Frank.

Yesterday, we discussed relevance. And maybe relevance is just another way of saying make them care. It doesn't matter if it's a comedy, women's fiction, a thriller, a mystery. Readers have got to FEEL the quest your main character is on.

Writers talk about "the black moment"--that big, dark moment. For me, I have to say, it often boils down to small moments. To make them care moments. I can rattle off the small moments, versus the climaxes of the books, because they are very real to me: when Ava's box of treasures was intentionally destroyed in The Roofer. When Cassie Hayes mourned with the little bunny on her chest, in bed, drinking tequila, in Spanish Disco (yes, I just wrote "bunny"--if you haven't read the book, suffice it to say it was a running gag). When Skye McNalley , in Double Down, told about the night the police raided her house when she was a little girl and she knew there was a stash, a gaping hole, inside her doll that her father used to hide stolen goods.

Thoughts? How do you make readers care?

Relevance

So last night, Baby Girl came into my room and wanted to watch American Idol. This despite the fact that I was 1) on the phone, and 2) hacking up a lung. So how she heard a thing, I have no idea. Anyway, it was something they call "60s Night" in which singers had to pick a song from the 60s to sing. And the judges--particularly the snarky Simon--kept criticizing these singers because they were not "relevant." At least that's what I got out of it in between talking to my best friend, then sister, then my mother . . . and hacking up said lung. It wasn't that the songs were old. It was that the singers couldn't make the audience relate to them.

Relevance.

I have a book which has an opening story arc in Darfur. Nearly every book I write mentions the main character praying. Mentions Buddhism. In ROCK MY WORLD, one of the rock groups even collects food for the homeless at its concerts. Mark Terry writes about a Homeland Security troubleshooter. Can't get much more relevant than that. Edie Ramer has written a book about women coming to grips with breast cancer. Relevant.

But there's more to relevance than politics or religion or health issues. There's EMOTIONAL relevance. At a book's heart, I think most readers want to relate to the main character. If the main character is so removed from the lives of nearly everyone else, then the book will lack relevance. In other words, I have critiqued books in which the heroine loses everything that has ever mattered to her in her entire life. And doesn't react. And the author will say, "Well, Susie Q is a very tough person. She just wouldn't react to it." And that may and well be true. But if you haven't drawn Susie Q well enough for us to even begin to fathom that, then she will cease to be relevant.

In Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven, when Lily has sex after losing her breast, the scar feels hideous to her, and her lover kisses it--every inch of it. I tried to invoke EVERY person, not just women, who has ever, in this appearance-oriented culture, made love with an enormous sense of insecurity--to invoke the relevance of a scar, or being "imperfect" and its relation to our sexuality.

There isn't a person alive who isn't touched by love, laughter, small moments and large moments of emotional beauty . . . and by loss, illness, pain, and eventually . . . death. We're all going out in a pine box, folks. Or, judging by my recent post on fears, a LOT of us are getting cremated. But the bottom line is this quote from the Dalai Lama:

Under the bright sun, many of us are gathered together with different languages, different styles of dress, even different faiths. However, all of us are the same in being humans, and we all uniquely have the thought of I, and we´re all the same in wanting happiness and in wanting to avoid suffering.
~Tenzin Gyatso

FIND that element in your stories and no matter what you write about, your words will be relevant.

Thoughts?

Line in the Sand

I had an interesting conference call with my writers' group last night, in between hacking up a lung (I have a nasty cold). About the line in the sand. The line between a character who is curious, and one who is Too Stupid To Live (TSTL). The line between sympathetic . . . and doormat. Between feisty and obnoxious. Writers all walk the line.

An example? I don't know if there are any devoted Law & Order fans who read this blog. But I watch them all in re-runs, sometimes when I am knitting, or too mentally exhausted to read. And my best friend watches them, too. And neither of us can abide the new redheaded partner of Chris Noth. In fact, I hate this character so much, that not only do I not know her name, but if I even SEE her obnoxious little freckled-face on my screen, I take it as a sign I really should be reading the physics book on my bedside table and not wasting time watching TV. I turn it off. The producers have seriously miscalculated, I think, and my friend and I both love the show.

In my current work in progress, I have a very inner character. She has been wounded by tragedy, by her childhood. And I know I walk the line between realisitcally representing someone hurt by life . . . and her being a doormat.

I have, in that same work in progress, a mean character, someone who does something so awful. And I walk the line between her just being horrid . . . and her being a cariacature. I was very relieved last night when one of my group members said, "I hate her, but I think I'm in her head enough to understand what her motivation is. Why she does this." And maybe, I decided, that's what we need to express as writers. The motivation.

In my second Billie Quinn book, Billie goes into a house where her father may or may not be trapped with a serial killer. Billie is not stupid. She HAD a cop with her, and they COULD have waited for backup, but I thought it was a completely realistic motivation for her to race in to save someone she loved. Versus, say, a slasher flick, where a TSTL character, usually in a low-cut shirt and no bra, or better yet, a nightie, will go exploring the house with the serial killer in it, USUALLY without turning on the lights.

As an editor, I expend a great deal of red ink writing "WHY?!?!?!?!" in the margins of manuscripts. Readers will forgive a lot for a motivation we understand. PLOT should not drive your characters' decisions, MOTIVATION should. Then we are willing to walk that line in the sand with you. There is a big difference between the two.

Going back to the redhead? Part of what I can't abide are characters who are uniformly nasty to everyone, who walk around with a chip on the shoulder. I won't abide it for 60 minutes of a TV show, for two hours of a movie, for 300 pages of a book. I might forgive it if I understand why. But just plunk her into a favorite show and have her behave that way? Nope.

So tell me . . . do you find yourself tweaking your characters to manipulate the motivation, to make their line in the sand clearer? Are there types of characters you can't abide? Thoughts on motivation versus plot? Do you walk a line in the sand?

Rule Breakers

A certain member of my writers' group, who shall remain nameless (but perhaps will drop by), and I almost came to blows over the issue of rules. Not really. First of all, I live in Virginia, and he lives in Florida, making actual blows impossible. But things did get a tiny bit heated.

All over rules. (At least how I saw the debate.)

Here's the thing . . . I hate authority figures and will ALWAYS (or most of the time) choose to break the rules. But it's more than that . . .

Over a year ago, I once got out to my van after a trip to the pet store to discover the clerk had not rung up 79-cent doggie bows. Now, lest anyone think pink doggie bows are ridiculous (doggie bows--with bells), they are. But I had two girls, two puppies, and one set of bows, plus an entire cart of dog stuff, and the bows were an item Baby Girl wanted for her puppy, Dreamer. But somehow, amongst all the stuff in the cart, they were missed and not rung up. So I took the two girls, two squirming puppies, and 79-cent bows and went back INTO the pet store, to the end of the now-long line . . . to pay for them. Could PetSmart AFFORD to "give" me the 79-cent bows? Yes, indeed. The markup alone for the doggie bows was probably 78-cents. When the clerk saw I had returned to pay for them, his mouth dropped open. And I said, "It's important that my child see me do the right thing." Had she not been there? I still would have done it. Maybe because it was important for the clerk to see me do the right thing, maybe someone else. In any case, in some karmic sense, I would rather pay the 79 cents and do what's right.

Now . . . different set of circumstances. I used to mentor unwed teen mothers in some of the worst of the worst 'hoods. Mothers as young as 12, girls as young as 13 pregnant with Baby #2. I did this as a volunteer for a couple of years. Ostensibly, the program got its funding from the government (and by funding, I mean I had one supervisor/case worker working with 20 mentors and a hundred girls and babies, and he had one crappy desk and a set of filing cabinets from the 1950s . . . and a low-paying salary, but that was it--no money for the girls, no nothing . . . so this wasn't some expensive program). Because of this, we were not technically "allowed" to discuss abortion or birth control. Think about that. Especially point #2. Now, had, at any point in time, a 12-year-old girl, pregnant by her stepfather, approached me and said, "I don't want to have this baby," or "I need to talk to you about birth control" I would likely have broken the rules. I wouldn't--and I mean WOULDN'T--have discussed what she "should" or shouldn't do. Because that's between her conscience and God or the universe or whatever. But I would have counseled her to search her heart. And I wouldn't have pretended that birth control was something imaginary. And--more to the point--if I had an opportunity, by fudging something a tiny bit, to help an impoverished, abused young girl and her baby to get out of an abusive home, even if it meant LYING, I would do it and not waste a fraction of a second of time feeling bad about it, even if ostensibly the housing allowance I got her was a LOT more than 79 cents.

I am the type of person that the very SIGHT of a cop makes me break out in hives. I don't break the law, so there is no reason I should be nervous . . . but I nonetheless freak out. Maybe because I KNOW I WOULD break the law for some internal scale of "greater good." What appoints me guardian of "greater good"? Nothing more than wanting to help people.

There is a federally funded group home nearby. I wanted to organize a food drive and a drive to give them used computers--nowadays people throw out and let gather dust perfectly good laptops and TVs and all sorts of things. I was told I couldn't. The government won't allow that. Only government-funded crappy computers can be there. "But what if I had a really great laptop to give them?" "Nope." So I am allowed to have an ink cartridge drive to put cartridges in the government's said-crappy computers. If it were up to me, I'd march in with a big-screen TV and a new iMac and screw Uncle Sam. But there I go again . . . breaking rules.

And so in ANY book, I will root for the person who breaks the law, like Robin Hood. The person who never follows the rules. The anti-hero. Even if he's not doing it for greater good but just to be a rebel.

My friend's character breaks all the rules. And he has a lesson to learn about that. And me? I argue that . . . I don't know . . . I don't feel he's doing anything too awful by running away, by getting into trouble, by . . . I root for this character. Part of that is my friend is an awesome writer, and it's a terrific book. Part of it is inherently, I think, the world is draw up into people who routinely break rules and people who routinely follow them. And this translates very clearly in fiction.

Thoughts?

Bad Clowns

On the way to the circus yesterday, Baby Girl suddenly confessed a mortal fear of clowns. She might have told me this BEFORE I spent $150 on third-row seats. I spun a tale of the difference between "evil clowns working for the Dark Side" and the "good clowns who only spread cheer." She didn't buy it. Nonetheless, she ended up meeting some very nice clowns--not the evil ones--and had a wonderful time. There is even photographic evidence she laughed at the clowns, and she got to do a tug 'o war with four of them in one of the rings.

Which got me thinking . . .

We've had discussions on the blog before about 1) fears, and 2) quirks. When I ask what do you fear most on this blog, I get a lot of very serious answers: death, a child dying, Alzheimer's, fire . . . . illness.

But I realize too, that a lot of us have completely nonsensical fears. I mean, they make sense to US, but . . . to the rest of the world, we perhaps look a little nuts. Which then is more like a quirk. And we've talked before how sometimes writers can go on quirk overload. I've been asked to critique things that get so cluttered with oddity, and my only reaction as editor is WHY? So I think as writers, when we ponder quirks, they should feel less tacked on, more organic. They can still be completely nonsensical. Can still enhance the story. But . . . somehow they are rooted in that sort of nonsensical neurosis, which makes sense in the character's universe. That they are not quirks of the writer's cleverness but of . . . the character's reality.

For example . . . Baby Girl wants a hamster. But she cannot abide gerbils because they have tails. The logic on this one escapes me. But there you go. It HAS a logic. It might not be YOUR logic. But there's an order to it. A rule of quirkiness.

Me? In a strange hotel room when I am on the road, I cannot even contemplate sleeping until I look under the bed, in the closet, and in the shower. Now . . . I am not sure what I would do, should I discover the boogeyman in any of these places, but there you go. I was a chronic "check-under-the-bed" kid. Still am.

Another fear-quirk? Jumping spiders. You see . . . spiders are fine. I actually usually capture them and put them outside. But once, after I got divorced, I went to kill (pre-Buddhism) a spider. And it jumped. High. I was utterly freaked out. And for the first time, I didn't have a man in the house to kill it for me. Frankly, that was about the only good thing about marriage. Having a handy spider-killer. So I did what any self-respecting fraidy-cat would do. I called my best guy friend on the phone and he TALKED ME THROUGH killing the jumping spider. And the entire time, I kept shrieking, "It's trying to kill me. It's jumping because it wants to get up to my neck and kill me." Jumping spiders? Still kind of freak me out. Daddy Longlegs? Not so much.

I always make sure, in my humorous novels, to include these oddities. But I would never just have a character sketch that said, "Afraid of jumping spiders." I might put, "Afraid of jumping spiders. Long story." Or "Afraid of evil clowns. Don't get her started on the topic."

Maybe it's just a difference in my mind. But I really think when you talk about organic writing, it helps to not just "tack on" oddities, but root them in real lives.

So here are mine:

1) WHATEVER is under that bed

2) JUMPING spiders (only . . . regular creepy crawl ones . . . fine)

3) Evil clowns (not the good ones)

4) Rats (but not mice)

5) The serial killer up the street (he may not REALLY be a serial killer, but the guy seriously freaks me out)

6) Close talkers. PLEASE respect my space when you talk to me. Hence number 5.

7) Confined spaces. Even after death. When really . . . will I care? But I think I will. Hence I will be cremated and PLEASE no pine boxes, family. (It's all spelled out in my will, along with my song selections for the party I want you all to have.)

I could go on. And on. I am a neurotic mess. But in my life . . . it's organic.

Thoughts? Anyone afraid of evil clowns? Does anyone else think about the difference between neuroses and tacked-on quirks?

If I Wasn't a Writer . . . .

I am taking Demon Baby to the circus today. He wants to fight the lions, he says.

I can remember seeing Ringling Brothers at Madison Square Garden with my father. He was never home when I was growing up, so outings like that were beyond special. I never got over loving the circus. And zoos.

And for a brief time, I wanted to BE in the circus. I didn't think I could do the trapeeze. I knew the tightrope was out. I thought, perhaps, riding the elephant might be my speed. Or . . . taming lions.

Along the way to becoming a writer, I wanted to be a lion tamer, then a hairstylist, a psychiatrist . . . a journalist.

I've waited tables, slung drinks behind a bar, and worked as a blackjack dealer. I've been an editor for years and years. I even had a short stint in a bank (worst job ever!).

But always, my true North was writing.

So today, I'll take Demon Baby. We'll eat some peanuts, watch the lions. And I am sure by the end he will tell me that's what he wants to be when he grows up.

And I'll be grateful this is what I am, now that I am not-quite-grown-up.

And maybe . . . maybe before my journey is through, I'll be something else. I'd love to get a Ph.D. in comparative religion. Maybe I'll teach. Maybe I'll fulfill my dream of starting a camp for disadvantaged children and have a place they can come every summer to ride horses and swim and BE a kid.

If I wasn't a writer, I no longer think I'd be a lion tamer. But I might do other things someday.

So . . .

What did you want to be when you grew up? And if you weren't a writer . . . .?

Defining Characters

Over at Anti-Wife's blog, she discussed her characters the other day and got me thinking. Really thinking. Which is dangerous.

And my thought is . . . that especially when you are making a pitch or writing a synopsis, the quirks and traits you choose to reveal are very important. In a larger work, you have more room to explore your characters--but to me, that doesn't give you any more leeway on how precise you must be. You just have to sustain that preciseness for more pages.

Think about it. Just because you have 350 pages to tell your story doesn't mean you can get sloppy. Every word counts. Every trait. Every quirk. Every action.

And what I decided, thinking about it, is that I boil my characters down to these words, "The kind of person who . . . "

I'll explain.

I could say that a grandmother is cruel. One word. One adjective. Tells me nothing.

Or I could say, "The kind of woman who would slap her 2-year-old grandson for sticking his finger in the icing of a birthday cake."

Which is clearer?

I could say, "She volunteers in the community."

Or . . . "The kind of woman who runs the PTA and Junior League."

Or . . . "The kind of woman who, pregnant, piles her three kids in the car and drives to the 'hood to deliver food to a family in need, occasionally wondering if she will accidentally stumble on a drive-by shooting."

Two different picture emerge from those "types." I have nothing but admiration for the Junior League. Those women raise a LOT of money that helps a LOT of people. Someone who RUNS one of those organizations has to be organized. Maybe even anal-retentive. I am neither. But then my desk has not one clear speck of bare desk once again. It's pathetic. I volunteer in the community, but I don't do fundraising work. I leave that for the people who do that well. I hate asking people for money. My volunteering is the second. It's personal and often dirty and dangerous. And that's both insane . . . and who I am.

I could say, "He was loved."

Or I could say, "My godfather was so loved, and so remembered for taking his nieces and nephews to the bakery for jelly donuts, that one of them had a flower arrangement made to look like a jelly donut sent to the funeral home."

Two different pictures.

And when I say "type," it's not that I mean a stereotype. I just mean that there are ways to embody a character in a sentence. Something vivid.

I decided to pull a paragraph from a synopsis for something being considered right now:

Gina Palermo, forty, elegantly beautiful and perfectly clothed in Chanel suits, is the proverbial fish-out-of-water. Make thatYankees fan out of the Bronx. A brutal opponent in the courtroom, she was a high-priced New York divorce attorney—the kind who handled cases with settlements in the tens of millions of dollars for the uber-rich who shed wives and husbands like last season’s fashions.

Rather than "well-dressed" . . . Chanel tells you a certain look. Yet she owns a signed game ball from the 1964 Yankees . . . so she's diehard . . . if you are a New Yorker, then you know the love we have for our teams borders on obsession--and a woman in Chanel who loves the Yanks tells you something. "Divorce attorney" tells you one thing. But "the kind who handled . . ." is a whole 'nother league.

So . . . when every word counts, we have to choose our examples wisely. Even more so in the tricky synopsis.

Thoughts? Can you say ONE thing, one snapshot about your main character . . . "the type of person who . . . "

Peace,
E

Agenda

If you are a long-time reader of this blog--I mean going back nearly three years . . . then you know once in a while I reference being slammed on a board associated with my publisher. The person who slammed me didn't denigrate my writing--just my "agenda." She felt my book The Roofer should have come with a "warning label." Like most things on the Internet, it kind of digressed, on the thread, into a free-for-all, at times nasty, about censorship, but at the heart of it, this woman didn't agree with writing about child abuse, didn't believe the statistics on child abuse . . . and felt writers like me had an agenda.

She didn't mean it as a compliment.

At the time, I disagreed. Vehemently. I was so outraged that someone felt I deserved a warning label, not for language but content. I was insulted. Hurt. Took it personally. We're all adults, I reasoned. And if you read the back cover or page one, you knew what you were getting. Not every plot twist, no. But murder. Now, I'd be a lot more likely to walk away.

And to agree. Oh, not with the warning label. But what she called an agenda, I call my themes.

I think a writer can make a BIG mistake in trying to be all things to all people. My characters are very imperfect and will remain so. No halos on their heads.

My "agenda" is that good people can make horrid decisions when backed into a corner. And "bad" people--even murderers and thieves--sometimes love their family with a ferocity that looks very much like how much I love my own kids. My agenda is that child abuse happens even in white-picket homes. That men in suits can be rapists. And that the alcoholic itinerant handyman could very well be a hero waiting to emerge. My agenda is that the world would be a better place if people stopped judging . . . particularly when they haul the Bible into it. The Bible is a beautiful piece of writing--and may well be how I choose to live my life--not that it's anyone's business and THAT is precisely the point. My agenda is that some things are unforgivable, but if you choose--CHOOSE--to forgive, and not just mouth the words, it can be freeing. But that's not the ONLY path to freedom--just one. My "agenda" is that, in the end, I believe God doesn't care WHO you love so much . . . as THAT you love. Michael and George in Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven are a BEAUTIFUL love story. My agenda is just because you contributed a sperm to a baby doesn't make you a father. Same goes with egg and mother. The words MEAN something.

I realize now that . . . all along I have had an agenda. It's there, in all my books. I don't think I am trying to "convert" people to my way of thinking. But I suppose if someone wrote me and said they thought of gay people differently because of Michael and George, that would be all right by me. In fact . . . I got several such emails after the book was released and each of them made me feel as if there was a tiny bit less hatred in the world because of something I wrote. Maybe THAT is my agenda.

So . .. do you have an agenda?

Book People

I spend so much time on this blog talking about the process of writing fiction. I love writing. Even when I appear to be daydreaming . . . I'm actually often thinking about writing. So it's kind of like I am working.

I "hang" with mostly writers. Writers, editors, artists . . . I always feel like other writers kind of get me. Not that I am particularly easy to understand, but at least with writers I don't ALSO have to explain why I like to comb the internet researching strychnine poisoning, or why I find people with unusual jobs--like funeral home workers--fascinating. Why I can't sleep when I am on a roll with a manuscript. Why I like to be alone most of the time. But love meeting new people.

But I forget that I am not only a writing person, I am a BOOK person.

Tonight, Baby Girl and I went to Barnes & Noble. I had a caramel macchiatto with soy milk; she had a hot chocolate. She went to HER book section (she's in 4th grade but reads on an 8th or 9th grade level, so she reads later YA, no longer middle-grade fiction, and then I peruse her choices to make sure they're not TOO racy--or don't have too much violence). I went to MY section (physics). I pulled one book after another down. Books on physics. Books on math. Books on the cosmos. Not cosmos as in vodka and pink stuff, but THE cosmos. I ended up buying THIS by THIS GUY. Other women like HIM (so do I) but I am, admittedly, a physics groupie.

I wandered from stack to stack. I went over to the comparative religion section. I checked out books by him. I looked at cool covers over in the sci-fi section. I went to the children's section. I looked at crossword puzzle books. (I am also a groupie of THIS MAN.) Are you seeing what a geek I am?

I went over to the coffee table books and looked at great photography. Then I checked out some memoirs. Baby Girl wanted three books. I whittled her down to one hardcover.

Oldest Daughter has a wardrobe Posh Spice would envy. She digs clothes shopping. I break out in hives at the thought. But send me to Barnes and Noble without Demon Baby, and I could literally spend all day. I don't have to speak to anyone. I don't have to do anything but browse.

There are all sorts of stats on how we're reading less as a nation. But I don't care. I am an unabashed book person.

So who else? And what are your trips to the bookstore like? Where do you browse? Let us peer over your shoulder at your bookstore life for a moment.

Aunt Gertrude

My agent has this pet peeve. A big one. He hates when he gets a query in which the writer says, "My friends/critique partners/writing class have read the book and love it." He says that's akin to saying your Great Aunt Gertrude read it. Your friends are SUPPOSED to tell you they like it. And even if critique partners like it, no agent, unless you have a "name" author or MFA professor in your group, can necessarily trust that. Nope. The proof is when it starts making the rounds to professionals.

And that's another point. Professionals.

Because one of the steps along the way is when you start to not "react" and defend your work from criticism. When you become a professional about your own work.

We should ALL believe in our story. We shouldn't be swayed every time we get a conflicting bit of advice. I have had writer friends ready to rewrite 350 pages from a SINGLE rejection. It's just one opinion. When you start accumulating them, all with the same general comment, THEN you worry.

So believe in our story, we must. But on the flip side? There are writers whose skin is so thin, they write lengthy soliloquies defending every aspect of their work from a critique. That's not the idea. A critique is an OPINION. But when you find a great editor, a great cirtique partner, that opinion is one honed by professionalism. So that's the time to take a deep breath. Don't react. BE with the critique or rejection for a bit. Discern what's of value.

Here's the thing. You want to play with the big boys? Really? You really think you're ready? Then Aunt Gertrude can't be the only one to read your work. At some point, it has to leave your circle. And that is just another step on your journey.

Thoughts? Have you moved beyond Great Aunt Gertrude yet?

Character on the Couch

And now . . . something new on the blog. (Drum roll and trumpets please.)

Characters. We're always talking about them. Booklist reviewed Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven and said, "Readers will recognize Orloff's trademark snappy dialogue and lovable characters . . ." I didn't realize I had a "trademark" but if I were going to have one, I would think that's what I would want.

My characters. Now, I wish I could tell you where they come from. Yesterday's post raised some interesting thoughts. Maybe they all come from me. Bits and pieces. I do know though, that finding a new voice for every book, finding new characters (lovable or unlovable) is a challenge. I can't tell you how many first chapters I have on my computer for unwritten books, as I "tried on" voices for size.

Kathy . . . a regular reader on the blog . . . and I have been discussing just how you get that voice, how you "connect" to your characters. And I offered to stick her work in progress, and her character, on our proverbial Couch. Analyze. Ask questions. Dissect.

So here's Kathy's "pitch":

Genre: Dark Paranormal Romance

During the Salem Witch Trials, a group of paranormally gifted women, to prevent their possible discovery, persecution, and destruction, encased a primary demon within an East Tennessee mountain. Aubrey Covington strives to prevent the release of the demon and the annihilation of the cornerstone of mankind.

Got it?

All right. Now for the character:

Aubrey is an intuitive healer. Her mere touch can give supreme pleasure or administer exquisite pain. At the risk of forfeiting her own, she is capable of granting life or ministering death. She has used all aspects of her abilities, even the forbidden giftings, and for doing so, the price she pays is steep. Her ancestors ingrained within her the responsibility of overseeing the imprisoned demon, but nothing could have prepared her for an encounter with a phantom warrior who is determined to destroy the demonic entity Aubrey must ensure remains trapped within the mountain.

So Kathy's going to drop by here today. She is struggling, fellow writers and readers. Not plot so much . . . but character. To relate to Aubrey, to write her.

So this may not be your character, but how do you approach this? What questions do you ask?

Oddly enough, my process is bizarre enough (or perhaps not, you tell me), that when a character springs to mind, they pretty much arrive with a full back story, life, friends. Spontaenously, or so it seems. The only thing I have to fill in is "voice." The specifics of how they talk, walk, tell their tale. Sometimes, like Booklist said, I go for "snappy"--and sometimes I know I have to pull back my natural tendency to write a little snarky. It doesn't fit the voice I'm aiming for.

My other "piece" is I worked as an editor. TRUST ME when I say other than acting, writers have the highest degree of propensity for insanity. So that job is part-editor/part-psychologist. Sometimes you babysit an author. And sometimes, like today, you babysit their characters. You have to pull out the details, the voice. As an editor, I would ask Kathy . . . .

What was Aubrey's childhood like?
Did she always know she had this gift?
Did it isolate her? Could she have any friends (or did her family isolate her intentionally)? Did she have to hide her gift?
How did the answers to those questions wound her?

So there you go. What questions do YOU have for our friend Kathy? AND . . . what questions do you ask when you're striving to get to know your characters? Note that I didn't ask what has become . . . almost routine on writing blogs. What's her motivation? When you're struggling with character, I think Jungian analysis is better. Motivation is too "big picture." It's too easy to summarize it in a throw-away sentence. I think, when you struggle with character, you have to start with intimacy . . . with the details.

But maybe I'm wrong.

Discuss. Ask questions. HI KATHY! Welcome to the blog.

And I'll run this feature from time to time, so if you want to be the next character "victim" on the Couch, email me at erica@ericaorloff.com.

Irene

Someone asked me recently whether I ever thought of my books living on after me. And my honest answer is no. I don't write to leave anything of me behind. I LOVE in order to leave something of me behind. I love my kids, my parents, my friends. I hope if I dropped dead tonight, people would miss me. That maybe you'd drop by the blog and toast my memory with a shot of whiskey in your coffee. I like to think that I am leaving the world a tiny bit better place for having been here.

But my books? I don't give that a thought.

Except . . .

For my grandmother.

My favorite story about my grandmother, Irene, was when she asked me to drive her to Yonkers to go to the bank. Stone deaf, speech impediment on top of it, anything having to do with communicating outside the family she left to her family--me, my mom, whomever. I don't think anyone ever made a decision as far as that was concerned. It was just the older she got, the harder it was for strangers, who hadn't grown up with her, to understand her, so life became a series of interpretations. What did she say . . . then what did they say back. I would face her, so she could read my lips. And I would shout. LOUD. And even at that, a lot of times she didn't understand. So she would fake it.

Anyway, off we went to Yonkers. Only she wanted me to drive the wrong-way down a one-way street. With cars coming. I argued with her. But she felt it was stupid to waste time going all the way around the block when we only had to go a hundred feet or so THAT way. The wrong way.

I argued.

She argued back.

The thing about Irene? Stubborn as a mule.

Finally, she slapped my arm. "Just do it. If a cop comes, they won't put YOU in jail because you're only 19. And they won't put ME in jail because I'll tell them I'm 80." (Which at that point was a lie, but I think she figured if she added a couple of years, it would help our case.) "We'll talk our way out of it. I'm an old lady. A cop will feel sorry for me."

So I did what any loyal granddaughter would do. I waited for a break in traffic and gunned the car the wrong way up the street, then made a sign of the cross and a whispered thank you that we made it.

That was just Irene. I could recount a thousand wonderful, maddening stories. And not a DAY goes by that I don't miss her desperately more than a decade after she's gone. Not one day.

And SHE is in my books. Bits of her. In dialogue. In the character of "Nan" in Diary of a Blues Goddess. Bits of her. And when I re-read those parts, that I know are about her, I smile and know she lives on.

So I wonder, does anyone else do the same?

Writing YA: What IS

I had a miserable adolescence. So much so I took my SATs as a freshman and skipped the last year of high school altogether. I hated every minute of it. I could list the reasons. And so you don't think I was friendless and dateless, I had a hunky boyfriend. I'll consider scanning the prom picture to prove it. If you ignore my hideous dress. It was a slinky peach spaghetti strap number, and I vaguely recall high heels in WHITE. White! The last time either color was on my body, I think.

There were drugs in my high school. The guy next door grew very tall pot plants on the property line between our house and his parents' house. My mom thought they were weeds. A kid hung himself my sophomore year. I saw a girl get slugged by her boyfriend.

But even at that, as I raise four kids, I know things are crazier for them. In my high school, the couples that had sex were a minority--usually people going steady. In high school now, the virgins are very much in the minority. Eating disorders are at a rampant level. Media images bombard young girls--and boys. Drugs are stronger. I knew ONE kid who shot up, and had a boyfriend later who dabbled in heroin. My oldest has known many who have tried it. I knew a handful of girls who had abusive boyfriends, a handful who were raped. The numbers stagger now. Binge drinking. Teen pregnancy. You get the idea.

And the thing is, I write YA. And I feel that it is my responsibility to show the world as it IS. Not as I WANT it to be.

And if I was going to say the biggest mistake I think I see in YA writers trying to break in, it's that difference. I cannot tell you how many times I have encountered writers at a conference who say, "Well, MY book has no premarital sex, no bad language. It's the high school I remember, not what's in the media today. It's not the Gossip Girls."

And that's fine. We don't need ten Gossip Girl series or TV shows. But if you are going to WRITE for this age group, you better have EMPATHY for them. My books are relatively tame, but they are always about outsider girls. "Different." Self-assured. But definitely the different girl. The lonely one. And I cannot tell you . . . every day, EVERY day, I hear from kids. And they tell me things. Some good, some bad. Some make me cry. Some make me laugh. I have a lot of empathy for them.

And in creating that world . . . it is fine if your hero or heroine makes bold choices, makes choices that are the "right" so-called choices. That's fine. But you had better, I feel, address what IS. As a YA writer you cannot, I don't think, create a pretty little world without any semblance of what kids face today because that's what YOU think those kids should be living. It doesn't have to be all grit and ugliness. But you have to at least pull that ostrich head out of the sand and acknowledge.

Every day my kid passes through a metal detector. She's in a top school--a "blue ribbon" school. And it's not near a city. And they've had a handful of suicides--one spectacularly AWFUL one two weeks ago (in the method this young man chose). They've had former students just a year out of school killed in Iraq. They've had multiple lock-downs for vague gun threats.

When you write for YOUR audience, it isn't your high school. Or your parents' high school days. It's today's teens. And you need to respect your audience enough that you give a nod to what is, even if you wish it were otherwise.

Thoughts?

What I Can't Live Without

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

After an Erica Orloff world record of six solid nights of insomnia . . . I, for the first time ever, took a teaspoon of Benadryl last night. Yes, other novelists, actors, creative types can get lured into the dark side of drugs. But me? A teaspoon of Benadrayl and sheer exhaustion gave me a whopping . . 7 hours of sleep, four of it uninterrupted by Demon Children, nightmares, slamming doors of teenagers (that was this morning) and thoughts of all the stress in my life.

It's amazing how my perspective on the world shifts after actually getting some sleep. You see, insomnia is a new phenomenon in my life. Four kids, one almost 18, one only 2, my father feeling unwell, advance checks delayed by a snowstorm in the Midwest (the joys of freelance life--checks NEVER come when you need them, they come a week AFTER you need them), and so on.

But as a writer? Well, it's not like I can go in a cubicle and "hide" from my boss after not sleeping. I AM my own boss, and I am, quite frankly, rather demanding.

So the simple pleasure of sleep for this writer is . . . awesome. Other simple writing pleasures include, for me, Demon Baby actually falling RIGHT TO SLEEP at 7:15 p.m., caramel macchiattos with soy milk from Starbucks, my iPod Shuffle playing songs that get me rolling (my iPod is psychic--it KNOWS when I MUST hear the Cure, or Cake, versus my want-to-slit-my-wrists Howard Shore-composed violin solos), and some days, realizing I MAKE STUFF UP FOR A LIVING.

I have learned over the years, that some of the things I THOUGHT I needed to write were just bullsh*t. I mean, I spent nearly ALL of my adolescence thinking I needed an attic room like Jo in Little Women. This evolved to my contemplating sharing studio space with an artist for my "writing space." I told myself I needed silence. Then had four kids and three dogs, AND a parrot thrown in for good measure.

I have come to the conclusion the two things I need are . . . sleep . . . and my computer. I NEED sleep. I can go two nights, even three, and still function, but then, my friends, there is a wall. But that attic space? Right now, it just has Christmas decorations in it.

So what can't you live without? And what illusions have you let go of?

Human Nature

For some writers, I am sure it's about the plot. The cool twists and turns.

For me, it's all about character.

I have two great quotes.

It is easy to point out the mistakes of others, while it is hard to admit one´s own mistakes. A man broadcasts the sins of others without thinking, but he hides his own sins as a gambler hides his extra dice. ~Tenzin Gyatso

So, the tendency of our childish nature is to take small things too seriously and get easily offended, whereas when we are confronted with situations which have long-term consequences, we tend to take things less seriously. ~Tenzin Gyatso

I think BOTH of these quotes are fairly true about human nature. I try to guard against the first. I will be the FIRST to admit my many, many flaws. For example, it's not that I can't cook. I REFUSE to. I hate to. I lack that nurturing gene when it comes to my family. I loathe it. It seems a waste of time, when I would MUCH rather be doing other things. So my kids get a lot of grilled cheese. Now, you may recall one of my New Year's resolutions was to cook more. And I am doing so. But I still hate it. Yes, I have LOTS and LOTS of flaws. Sins of lack of cheerfulness sometimes. Too smart for my own good so sometimes I'm snide. I don't hide them. They're pretty much out there for people to see.

The second one? Yeah. Sometimes the BIG things are the big pink elephant in the room that I don't want to talk about. So I will focus on the little things that are easier to talk about.

Human nature. It fascinates me. Characters fascinate me. This journey fascinates me. I am a student of life. Of human nature. And maybe that's why I write.

How about you? Why do you dissect characters? Or is it about plot for you? Do you write to understand yourself? Do you write to understand human nature?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Peace,
E

P.S. It's another of my sins. Blogging. This is my 523rd post. How sick is that? I am addicted.

Thrill Me, Baby

And now for a dose of positive writing stuff. What's your best writing thrill?

I mean, yes, definitely, the first time I saw a poster at Red Dress Ink's party . . . with Spanish Disco on it . . . big thrill. The first time I held my first novel in my hand? Thrill. In print! First time I saw one of my books in Cosmopolitan? Thrill. US Weekly? Thrill.

But, in all honesty, if I think of my biggest thrill, it's actually something kind of small, kind of quiet. I remember the first time I talked to my editor at Red Dress Ink after she bought Spanish Disco. And she said, "I love your book." And then we DISCUSSED it--characters, which scenes she liked, and so on. And I realized, for the first time, SOMEONE had read my book. I mean, not my writers' group, not my sister or my best friend. Some stranger I had never met had READ it and was discussing my "work" like it was a REAL book. Heck, she had BOUGHT it. By the time I got off the phone, I felt numb with joy.

So I've had a lot of thrills, a lot of fun memories. But it was that small one that really still stays with me. It was the first time I felt like an AUTHOR.

Everyone has different thrills. So I just want to have a party. Tell me about your thrills, gang. Pubbed or unpubbed . . . doesn't matter. We all have some moment that was a WOW as a writer. What was yours?

Intimate Evil

No, I am not talking about Demon Baby. I'm talking about villains.

I realize, right now, as I am more stressed than I have been in a long, long time, that what is worst about my stress is how it presses up against me. When I lie down at night and say my prayers, it presses against my chest. Because some of my stress has to do with something happening with one of my kids, it suffocates me. It's there, constant, and though I pray and "give it up" to the Universe, it's all around me sometimes. That's how it is when you love people fiercely.

And that pressing against me, almost physical, is what I am striving for in one of my works in progress. My hero is up against a conspiracy, and it threatens him. And it presses in, closes in, suffocates, raises the stakes at every corner. Can't breathe, can't think, can't run, can't escape it.

I think the scariest evil is that. It invades your space. It's intimate. It's not "out there" but coming closer to hearth and home. It's the stuff of nightmares, isn't it? When I think of some of my recurrent nightmares, they are consistently that I am hiding from evil (usually in the form of a serial killer in my dreams, occasionally wandering post-apocalyptic bands of evil people--such are dreams). And I must hide in small, claustrophobic places. Waiting to be found. In tiny places. Heart pounding. And then weighing my situation. Do I make a run for it? Go out in the open? Risk coming out of hiding to find a BETTER hiding spot?

Okay, sure, I can page Dr. Freud regarding my dreams. But really . . . as I step back and look at what I am trying to accomplish in my writing, that's it. Intimate evil.

So how do you raise the stakes in your writing?

DELIRIUM!

GO GIANTS!