The Penitent Man

Someone I adore wrote to me recently about the fear of sharing his work. It holds us back sometimes, the fear of putting our stuff out there. Rejection is a sure thing on the way to an agent or a sale. Once we're published, it's reviews--good and bad. Criticism.

Sometimes we delete whole works with the press of a button. I ripped up many a short story. I shred the sheets of looseleaf (ahh, those days before computers), tears in my eyes. I suck. I really do. I berated myself mercilessly.

We tell ourselves that. I know, for me, I have published many books . . . but there's always the book that's a reach, that I am not sure I am writer enough to pull off. I'm not smart enough, talented enough. I don't have enough coffee!!!!

I told my friend, we need to be like Indiana Jones. My favorite scene in all the movies was the one where Indiana took the leap of faith.

The penitent man will pass.

That's what he whispered. Hand on his heart. Short of breath. Heart racing. Put his foot out over that chasm. And there the bridge appeared.

In my real life, I like to think I am a penitent woman. Too many coincidences have occurred in my life that I take as a sign of the divine. I am blessed a thousandfold. I pray--unceasingly most days. My candles flicker for friends in pain or struggling. For ME when I am struggling. They flicker in a sign of solidarity. Of faith. Of compassion. I pray for Tibet. For peace. For my children.

As writers, the penitent also pass. We have faith in our work. We have faith in the friend who offers to read our work and help us. That we are entrusting our work to someone who cares. Someone who wants us to succeed, not bring us down.

Take a leap today. With me. Put your stuff out there. Write a query. Share a chapter with someone you trust.

The penitent will pass. A chalice awaits.

Thoughts?

And to my friend . . . you know who you are. Have faith.

The B*tch Surcharge

There are some people so not ready to be published. How do I know? When they vehemently--angrily . . . confrontationally react to even the slightest criticism. Because if you're going to put your stuff out there, there are two facts you cannot escape.

One . . . your work is going to be criticized.

Two . . . guess what? You don't get to hand-deliver your manuscript to an agent or editor. You don't get to go into their office as they read it and "explain" the parts that seem to give your CPs or contest judges, or hired editors or beta readers pause. You don't.

Consequently, I am considering instituting a B*tch Surcharge to the next manuscript I am asked to edit. If the author is nothing but wonderful, the surcharge is not invoked. The B*tch Surcharge is also applicable to men. Just because they have a penis doesn't mean that can't be a B*tch.

As an aside . . . I have an editor friend at a major house. She works with a major name. She would LOVE to tack on the B*tch Surcharge. But my editor friend and I have decided . . . B*tches are born, not made. They are B*tches of long-standing, mulched with the manure of success.

Unbeknownst to me, Nathan Bransford wrote on this topic a few days ago. He called it something different.

Be gracious to criticism. Don't be defensive. In short, get over yourself.

Thoughts?

Chemistry 101

When I was 21, the person whose company I enjoyed most was a man named Kurt (or Curt--I can't remember), quite a bit older than I was. He worked as an exceutive vice president at an investment banking firm in the Twin Towers, was originally from Montcalir, New Jersey, and we were friends. He often took me out to dinner at places that I could never afford on an editor's salary, and we would talk for hours with no lull. Things got tricky around my birthday when Kurt decided he had enough with being "just friends." And the fact is, I was really young and didn't feel any chemistry.

Now that I am older and wiser, I miss him. When the Twin Towers fell, I combed the victims' names . . . and truthfully, I have no idea what happened to him. He stopped being my friend, and I am left with wondering . . .

Here's the other thing, I was REALLY young. And I am telling you that I agnonized over this "chemistry" thing. I didn't understand it. I WANTED to be madly in love with him. I wanted to like him as more than a friend. But I didn't. Oh, there were lots of reasons I suppose. In hindsight, I don't imagine we could ever talk politics. He was from "old money." The only thing old about any money we had was if it stayed in our pockets a while. But chemistry made no sense to me. You couldn't "will" it, could you?

Years passed. The people I had "chemistry" with were almost uniformly not good for me. And now--again older and wiser--I wonder about chemistry and do think it can be nurtured. Either that, or the things that I like in a person are much different--intelligence, decency, a sense of purpose, spirituality, belief in social justice, a sense of humor, can the man make a decent scrambled egg? My chemistry with women friends is similar . . . humor somehow edging out most of the other qualities.

As a writer, every time I put in a relationship (romantic or even close partnership), I'm looking to create "chemistry." For me, I "show" it through dialogue--finishing each other's thoughts, inside jokes (even if the reader doesn't quite get it yet).

So . . . your thoughts on chemistry? Can it be forced? What is on your chemical combustion list? How do you show it in writing? And if Kurt is somehow reading this . . . hi!

Shortcuts and Originality

Last night, while hacking up a lung (CURSES to you, damn pollen count), I watched this movie. Unfortunately, that was approximately 1 hour and 45 minutes of my life I cannot retrieve. Were I not so sick last night, I would have turned it off and read, but sickness kept me passively watching this train wreck of a film.

I could go into the many, many, MANY reasons why I hated it. (The lone exception being the always-brillian Don Cheadle.) Sure, I am going to believe Liv Tyler as the wise-beyond her years shrink . . . SURE, I'm going to buy that Charlie can ride a motorized SCOOTER all through Manhattan, whose streets were strangely devoid of insane cabbies. (Hello????) I won't go on . . . and on . . . though I COULD. What bugged me most, as a WRITER, was the fact that the movie "shortcut" any sort of character development.

How do I know they shortcut character development? Any movie in which a person SINGING a song subsitutes for any real dialogue. Don't believe me? Recall ANY movie in which we are to believe in the "happy family" coming back together after crisis . . . and instead we get an air guitar/karoke/singing scene (the unwatchable Stepmom comes to mind with Susan Sarandon and her children singing, in nightshirts, into brushes as fake microphones while laughing happily). So last night's movie had the insane Charlie listening to Bruce Springsteen and then in the KEY scene launching into a Who song from Quadrophenia, I believe.

But screenwriters aren't the only ones who use these little tricks. Books do it too. How many books do I have to sit through where the "heart of gold" in the otherwise-mean character is the "so nice to his offbeat granny" thread.

Now, I use grandparents in my books often. I do it because I loved mine and I like to have grandparents actually be three-dimensional persons in books (I loved writing about Nan in Diary of a Blues Goddess). But it can be overused.

The fine line, of course, is showing, not telling. Versus trotting out cliches.

So what shortcuts do you hate from film and books?

The Sage Continues

More on the sage.

As a solid mass of rock
Is not moved by the wind,
So a sage is not moved
By praise and blame.
~Dhammapada 81

I know writers who, because of a single rejection letter, will rewrite their entire book, suddenly losing ALL faith in the work based on ONE editor's opinion. I have know writers who will leap from one gimmick to the next, shoehorning the manuscript into the latest and greatest "hook"--never holding faithful to the original at all until the original idea has been lost in a morass of hooky concept. I know some who cannot handle criticism at all--never, ever, ever shopping what's a very polished manuscript.

I know writers who, despite multitudes of rejection and what anyone, I presume, with any sort of editorial expertise can see is a very flawed project, will not lower themselves to change a single word. Writers who are so blind to obvious missteps in their own writing.

Somehow, this Buddhist passage has it right, I think. It's this constant struggle to find, through honing your own work, a Middle Path. Neither unable to see a flaw because you think you are the next Steinbeck, nor so beset by insecurity that you won't ever hold fast to what's good.

I have said before on this blog, that I had been asked to read through some query letters for an editor-friend of mine. I was spending some time with him, and he had a mass of slush, and said, "Comb through it and see if anything jumps out at you." Nothing did.

Worse, there was actually an author who compared himself to the greats, "Not since Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath has there been a work like mine . . . ." If you are going to draw a comparison to Steinbeck? Pal, you have better be up to the task.

So it is that we must use some inner divining rod. Become the sage.

Thoughts?

The Sage

I decided to do one of my Buddhist Writer posts today. I love this quote:


Irrigators guide water;
Fletchers shape arrows;
Carpenters fashion wood;
Sages tame themselves.
~Dhammapada 80


I suppose I could add . . . writers write. It's what I do. Without a lot of fuss. It's just what I do.

The other part of this, though . . . is that line. Sages tame themselves.

I spend a good part of my life taming my temper. Trying to speak less, not more. Taming my impatience. It goes back to school, really, and feeling frustrated by having to wait for everyone else to understand the concepts I already grasped. Even skipping a grade didn't help. I was impatient then. I remain impatient now. The difference, of course, is I was an impatient third-grader with zero compassion for people who struggled in school, and now I am a much older and somewhat wiser person who realizes we're all just making our way through life at our own speed.

But applied to writing? It means rooting out the weakest aspects of my work and trying to tame them. For me, it's a tendency to rush through, not enough description. I have to dig deeper in each scene. But then . . . I still like to write very spare. So it's the Middle Path I seek. In life as well as in writing.

As a sage, I try to tame my desk. Tame my procrastination. Tame the clutter. Some days, put it this way, I am the wise sage. Some days? Not so much.

Stephen Parrish had a blog post recently on ruthless cutting and critiquing. The sage doesn't seek empty praise. Not that praise alone is a bad thing--there's more on THAT tomorrow as I continue this theme.

Thoughts? What aspects of life . . . and work . . . are you trying to tame?

True Confessions

If you are a regular reader of this blog, I am fairly sure you occasionally think, "She's nuts . . . FOUR kids, THREE dogs, TWO birds, ONE python, an active volunteer, AND she writes three books or more a year?"

Yeah. I'm nuts.

BUT . . . my life when I am NOT in "intense" deadline (intense being subject to definition . . . say, a book due within three weeks) is fairly normal--at least what I "think" passes for normal for most people. Laundry is done, Demon Baby has bathed, children have done homework, we eat well (healthy . . . for me, vegetarian), the house looks like HUMANS live there.

Where I live (Virginia) it is POLLEN season. I have never had particularly bad hayfever before, but I basically sit and tears roll down my face from allergies right now. You wash your car, and you can write your name in 1/4-inch green pollen gunk by sundown. Consequently, I have a headache and feel tired.

I am on deadline.

I ate peanut butter on whole wheat today for breakfast. I didn't use a knife, just grabbed a spoon, slapped it on, ate it. My coffeemaker blew up (yes, SPY, I know it's a sign from the gods to give it up again). I therefore, on deadline and feeling crummy, drank coffee with GRINDS floating around in it. Lunch was at three because I forgot to eat. Ramen noodles with some broccolli tossed in. RAMEN! Like some college kid. I just ate dinner. A cinnamon bun leftover from one of my kids.

I am still in my pjs. It's 7:00 p.m. I won't be dressing today. I have no makeup on. My hair is styled, but . . . I wouldn't answer my door if anyone rang the bell, put it that way.

There's my LIFE. And there's my life on DEADLINE.

So tell me . . . true confession time. When deadlines beckon . . . (can be day job or writing, or self-imposed deadlines or needing something for a conference) . . . what is the good, bad, and ugly of your deadline life? 'Fess up.

My Life in a Fellini Film

My life, I have very often said, resembles a Fellini film. Absurdist in the extreme. Fantastical. Insane.

And now, it's all being filmed.

Why? Oldest Son, Oldest Son's Best Friend (who lives in my house about half the week--his family gets MY son about half the week . . . it's sort of like shared custody), and Baby Girl want to be filmmakers. They now film EVERYTHING. The pizza man arrived. It was all captued on digital camera. My opening the door. Filmmaker poised "Hello, Pizza Man!" Slowly backing up the stairs to get a tracking shot. Capturing this mundane act ("Pizza's here!") for all eternity.

I now feel as if I have to hold up my hands and beg, "Off camera, guys, please. Can I blow my nose off camera?"

I happen to know many a director started out this way. Maybe this is their future. I hear the three of them behind closed doors upstairs, plotting films. There are plans to make a Cujo-esque movie using Fat Dog. They have plot. Actors (a.k.a. Me and Demon Baby).

And as I laugh my way through my afternoons on film now . . . it got me thinking. How did YOU start out, dear readers, planning and plotting your literary (or other) careers? Did Ello set up moot court at her kitchen table? Did Stephen make a map from his bedroom to the bathroom? (And please visit his blog post, 72 Virgins--I publicly declare my love for Stephen here . . . thank you!)

Did you write? I remember notebooks filled with scribblings, and a book about a dysfunctional mouse family living in the New York Public Library that I wrote when I was about 8. The mouse family had very elaborate lives . . . and I think in my little girl mind, I assumed fame and fortune as a writer. However, I also wanted to be a vet. Now I just have a lot of pets, including the soon-to-be Oscar-winning Fat Dog). And no fame and fortune--but my name on more than a few book covers.

So I encourage my budding filmmakers, even if it means I will soon be on YouTube. I'll be sure to invite you to the movie premiere. In the meantime, share. How did you start on your journey to the writer you are today? The person you are today.

Sea Monkeys

On Friday, a women's book group is going to discuss this book. Yes, it's mine. Under a pen name (there was a discussion at my publisher of keeping my comedies separated genre-wise from my dramas--and this one is dark). I'm going to the book group to talk about it, and it dawned on me that this book has one of the oddest writing back stories.

As a writer, do you ever think you're so weird that you just don't bother to tell people the truth about how much you obsess over writing lest those "normal folks" want to commit you? I turned in the rewrite of Freudian Slip, my November release, yesterday . . . and in it, a character wonders whether she's finally cracked. Well, this book is one of those slightly odd, very eccentric writing stories. A sign I am, indeed . . . odd (as if I needed any proof).

You see the ENTIRE book . . . all 300+ pages of it . . . all of it . . . spun out of a SINGLE thought I had. One scene I wanted to use. The scene had nothing--zero--to do with the book. It was a scene of childhood--my own--that I could use in ANY book. A metaphor. But I needed a book to put it in.

The scene spun out of a SINGLE memory I have of wanting to go on a diving bell off a pier near Asbury Park, New Jersey. If you don't know what a diving bell is, it's basically a little submarine on a crane. You climb on, they lower you in the water, you look through the little round windows, they pull the sub back up. As a claustrophobic, the THOUGHT of going on one NOW makes me break out in a sweat. But when I was a little girl, I wanted to go on. My dad said no. Why? Not because he didn't want to be a nice guy. But because have you ever SEEN the water off Asbury Park, New Jersey? Not clear. And though the sign offered an "underwater spectacle" and showed a mermaid waving, it would have been akin to my disappointment (of which he was acutely aware) over sea monkeys not REALLY setting up whole cities and driving cars in a glass jar on my bedroom windowsill (I cannot TELL you how that CRUSHED my little-girl heart). So I never got to go on the diving bell. I never got to see a mermaid underwater at Asbury Park.

That's it. One memory. I thought the murkey water was a good metaphor for secrets and lies within a criminal family.

One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I had an entire book in my head. From a mermaid on a sign, sea monkey angst, and dirty water.

And the entire book came to me within . . . oh, fifteen minutes or so. A book with a dozen main characters, spanning 30 years, one war, two love stories, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, Operation Babylift, betrayal, politics, conspiracy, a bar in Hell's Kitchen, a detective, an alcoholic bar owner, the bar owner's brother, illegal drug money . . . the whole thing. From sea monkeys, essentially.

When people ask (see last post) where I get my ideas from . . . I REALLY have no idea. Oh, I have an idea. From sea monkeys. But if I tried to explain it, as I've done here . . . I know how utterly nuts it sounds.

Please tell me. Am I the ONLY one?

The Actuary

Before any cocktail party, I read the riot act to anyone I am going with. "If anyone asks, tell them I am an actuary."

Because, and no offense to real-life actuaries, no one (except a curious writer) asks actuaries very much about their job. Writers are a different story . . . people have LOTS of questions for writers.

You all know those questions. The ones you dread. I used to think that, well, if I met another writer, then that would be cool. We could spend the party talking about books and writing. Well, the last time that happened . . . the other writer got all pretentious and made all sorts of pronouncements about literary fiction and his Great American Novel--which was not yet written but was destined for the Pulitzer. Kind of made me want to to retract my "I'm a writer, too" comment and go back to "I'm an actuary. Now move along."

So here are the questions I hate:

• What is your book about? I hate this one because then I have to trot out my pitch. Sometimes I have perfected it, sometimes I haven't. Now, in the comments section of the last post, I DID say having your pitch perfected for conferences is imperative. But the thing is . . . I don't feel like practicing it for every cocktail party I go to.
• Have I ever heard of you? I have no idea, pal. I have no idea what you read. Obviously, if you are asking me that, then likely not, unless you have some sort of brain injury.
• Where do you come up with all your ideas? I don't know. They come to me. They come to me in the middle of the night, in the shower, in the car, and in this constant and never-ending stream of consciousness/prayer life I have going on. I don't know. I really and truly don't.
• What do you read? Now, ordinarily, I wouldn't mind this one. But watch people's eyes glaze over when you tell them you are working through this at the moment. People think I am weird. That I am a physics groupie and find physicists the sexiest, smartest men on the planet, except for him and him. I often wonder what would happen if I went to a cocktail party with all physicists.
• Are you published? Yes. But I used to hate this one.
• Are you published by a REAL publisher or did you publish it yourself? This is an addendum to the question above it. This is something new in the era of the print-on-demand thing.
• I read your blog. Why did you call your neighbor a jackass? Because he is one.
• And my number-one least favorite: I've got a great idea for a book . . . will you help me write it and we can split the royalties? Sure. You stand here and hold my drink, and I'll be back to discuss it. . . . . Now where are my car keys.

So come on . . . there must be questions you dread! Share . . . .

Full Circle

The other day, I blogged about beginning your novel. Now I'll blog about endings.

I wish life had neat little endings. We talk about "closure" all the time. But really, I have found my life has no closure. Grief, for example, can strike me ten years after the fact and bring me to my knees as surely as the day a death first happened. Old relationships don't end neatly. I try to be "in the moment" and let go, but occasionally old hurts rise to the surface. I found out recently that someone said something unkind about me to Oldest Daughter. She said the person said it in a joking manner, but it didn't sound funny to me. I aim for closure, but I don't often get it.

But then I have my novels.

My characters nearly always get closure. They may not get a perfect Happily Ever After, but they aren't plagued by old baggage either. They get their answers, their closure, their new love, the ability to move on. Whatever they seek--solving a murder, finding love, saying good-bye to someone . . . they usually get. The path may have twists and turns, but in the end . . . SOMETHING happens.

Because in real life, sometimes something DOESN'T. I will never forget losing a friend in a plane crash. No bodies were recovered. For years, I would "see" him places. Doppelgangers. Because there was nothing to say good-bye to. Just ash.

Not so in my books. My characters, even the ones where it doesn't end well, get that "something"--that dramatic moment.

The other part of my endings is a sense of full circle. I nearly always reference something in the last chapter that happened in chapter one. In The Roofer the last line mirrors almost exactly the first chapter.

I like to think that when I die, I will have come full circle. I will have a sense of having accomplished what I wanted with no regrets. A completed circle is a sign of a life well-lived, I think.

Thoughts?

Yours, Mine, and Ours

In the comments section of the last post, I started thinking about when writing changes from a private entity to a public one.

I always wanted to be a writer--but I didn't necessarily want to share my writing. I filled up pads of paper and journals and notebooks with thoughts and stories and poems and doodles. The occasional watercolor. About half the time, I ripped my writing to shreds, thinking I sucked. I started writing . . . well, probably around third grade. By middle school, I had full-fledged short stories. By high school, they were getting dark and "writerly," and I was fascinated by F. Scott and Zelda. By college, I was getting published in my school lit magazine (a GOD AWFUL story). Post-college, I was in some literary magazines, and was routinely getting poems published, usually in feminist magazines and newspapers with tiny circulations.

But it all was fairly private. For every piece I sent out to literary magazines, there were thousands upon thousands of words I never shared. They were mine.

I wrote a novel. Started another. Abandoned it. Wrote Spanish Disco. Watched it sell in a matter of months. Even then, my writing didn't feel "public." I had a 16-month or so wait until publication. In that time, I wrote--and sold--three more novels. And then, finally, it became this public thing.

I was surprised at how much I didn't particularly like that. I mean, I was very proud to have my name on a cover, and I was somehow thrilled to hold a BOOK, my BOOK in my hands. But it didn't really change how I felt about writing. In fact, as I met so many great people . . . I also would stumble across a mean-spirited blog or two. I stopped Googling my name. I mean, literally stopped, at least a year or so ago. Maybe two or more. I just . . . felt this weird reaction when writing became public. It was suddenly as if these PRIVATE thoughts were shared.

Think about it. A lifetime of writing for only yourself. Years and years of private scribblings. And now?

The blog is different. The blog is my Happy Hour and psychotherapy couch and coffee pals all rolled into one. It's friendship and solidarity. It's where I wander through my musings about writing. But it's not the writing itself.

Lately . . . I think I pursue quieter hobbies I don't share. I think I seek out solitary things. I don't share a lot in my personal life. At all. I don't tell people I'm a writer. There are many reasons why. But I think some of it is finding my way between what's mine and what I want to share. How to put bits of me into fiction without it seeming like I am giving away my secrets or pieces of me.

If you are published . . . or plan to be . . . it's part of your journey. Maybe some crave the limelight. I don't. And even those who do may be surprised. The sharing thing . . . the public arena . . . may not be what you think it will be.

Thoughts?

What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been

I was reading a magazine on the plane. Some trashy magazine I wouldn't ordinarily buy left by my seat's previous occupant. They asked some celebrity guy where he would be in ten years. Ordinarily, I wouldn't care what some actor or actress thinks, but it happened to be HIM. And he's that damn good-looking, so I read it. And his quote was something absurdist that I can't really recall because I am so exhausted from travel. BUT . . . the gist of it is who the hell knows, and that's what's so great about life. It's all an unknown.

I have been visiting my parents. My father is blind, and he doesn't have an easy time of things. Everything is hard when you are blind--particularly if you weren't BORN blind and only BECAME blind as an 74 year old man. A lot to get used to. And consequently, my mom doesn't have an easy time of things.

And to make a LONG story short, I am trying to get them to sell their house (yes, in THIS economy) and move near me so I can help caretake. And there were moments, as I ran after Demon Baby in their house, trying to keep him from leaving things on the floor that would trip my dad, where I thought . . . how did I get here? As in this video.

And when I think about it even more . . . I would not ever have pictured my life. Not being a writer--a working writer, a writer who actually publishes books. Not a mom of 4. (MAYBE two or three. Most definitely no Demon Baby in sight.) Not caring for my father, not him being blind. Not the books and adventures I've had--those horrible lows when I wonder . . . what the hell was I THINKING becoming a writer and then those amazing highs (Agent calling: "We have an offer.")

I'm not sure how I got here. Sometimes I think sheer force of will. Sometimes luck. Sometimes hard work. Sometimes persistance. Sometimes duty and compassion. Sometimes the fates.

How did I get here?

So tell me . . . when you survey your somewhat grown-up life . . . how did you get here, oh writers?

Where to Begin

I'll probably leave this post up for a day or two, because judging by the angst-ridden emails I get, the writers who approach me when I give presentations, and my own experiences, where to start a book seems to give people the most pause.

Growing up, we probably all heard, "Begin at the beginning."

Not true for a novel. Can you imagine if everyone started their novels in Dickens-like fashion with the birth of a baby.

David Copperfield begins with "I AM BORN."

Of course, I adore Dickens. But no, it wouldn't be good for each of us to start with the birth of our characters. Having given birth to four children, I like to regale them, when they are annoying me, with "I was in labor for 26 hours with you, and this is how you repay me?" But no, it's not terribly interesting to anyone but them and me.

Many novels begin with the "set-up," A funny story, an anecdote, something that tells you, "Here, reader, this is what the book is going to be about."

Some with a dilemma.

A longing.

A crisis.

A dead body.

In general, I think it has to start with something . . . captivating. Something different. Funny. A dead body. An engaging voice. A perfect one-liner. Something that makes you sit up and take notice.

And more often than not, you may write a chapter or two before it dawns on you, CRAP, that was all back story, HERE'S where I begin. With the dead body. With the woman walking in on her husband in bed with the neighbor. With the man discovering his accountant has cleaned him out. With the unplanned pregnancy. With the crisis of conscience. With the morning after a bender full of remorse. It begins here.

My feeling is slice as much back story from your opening chapter as you can possibly get away with. Then start with the big moment.

In my new work in progress, I start with the discovery of an ancient manuscript with a very big secret.
In my other . . . I start with a boy discovering he has a special magical ability.
In The Roofer? A dead body. I like starting with those.

If I was to tell you my life story? I would begin with my children, for my life didn't REALLY begin until I had them. Not really. Not living fully. Then I would move backward to tell you why I feel that way. Then forward . . .

So where do you begin?

Who's Your Friend?

I was thinking about how subjective what we read (and write) is. A character I thought was benignly bitchy (Cassie Hayes in Spanish Disco) was loathed by one editor who passed before it was bought. I had men and women readers find her charming. And more than a couple who just couldn't stand her. But I have a high tolerance for snark and bitchiness if someone is smart, and so I actually liked her. She was someone I could be friends with.

And in thinking about it, particularly in genre fiction, you are always walking a fine line. Too quirky or too flawed and readers won't "like" your main character. Too likable and you end up with bland. My editor had a real problem with this character. Skye was a gambling addict. By definition, that meant she made foolish choices. I felt like I understood her. Addicts can be very likable and charming. But my editor . . . she was less certain, and we had conversations about it.

I suppose it's a bit like friendship. If I were to walk into a cocktail party where I didn't know a soul, and survey the crowd . . . if there was a cluster of "beautiful people" all smartly dressed over there. And a cluster of "power professionals" over there . . . and a smattering of small groups around the room of couples who look well, ordinary . . . I would make a beeline for the group of people over there with pink and blue hair, maybe a few tattoos, and a unique fashion sense.

My friends in real life are every color, religion (even lesser-known religions, like Baha'i, which is the chosen religion of my lifelong girlfriend), shape and size, and country of origin. They are rarely in professions where you punch a clock, though I suppose I know a couple who do. My best friend in the entire world and I have the following coversation once a month:

"I went and got my hair done today."
"What color?"
"Sort of pink. With the front pieces bleached out."
"Cool. Send me a picture."

My oldest daughter, the last party I went to solo, told me I looked like a "hot lesbian." When I asked what exactly a hot lesbian looked like, she said, "You." (For the record, I had on black pants, a black camisole, a white blouse, and a black man's vest on over it, and I was wearing my--as Oldest Daughter calls them--Lesbian Glasses . . . black with rhinestones.) And before anyone gets pissed at me over this stereotype, I gotta tell you, I have NO idea what a Hot Lesbian looks like. I am merely repeating her comments. However, I DO know a Hot Lesbian does NOT look like a Barbie Doll Mom, which is how most women around here dress.

So here's the thing. I write about about characters I can relate to. That I personally would want to be friends with. And it's dawning on me that sometimes that means I am going to butt up against a wide swath of readers who wouldn't want to be friends with my main character. And it also dawns on me, particularly in commercial fiction or genre fiction, how often that's a concern--likeable but not bland, flawed but not unforgivable.

Readers invite your characters into their lives for a few hours. They really get invested in them. They are, in their minds, justifiably angry when your characters do something horrible or they act "out of character." I think you can break more rules when you're established than when you are trying to break in.

So in your current work in progress, would you want to be friends with your main character? I actually would. But judging from the above . . . that's just saying my character is a little different.

Shaking Fists at the Gods

All right . . . so let me tell you something.

My skull and eye finally feel better. My knee is a mess. A MESS! And today it gave out. As in, put my foot down, knee no longer worked. Then it came "back" from wherever it was it went. And I feel like an NFL football player with a trick knee. Hopefully, in my other life, I played for my Men in Blue, my GIANTS (who are still the CHAMPIONS until NEXT Superbowl). So the knee is going to be an issue thanks to my little adventure.

But I went to the allergist today. Who insists I carry FOUR Epi-pens with me at all times. "You are definitely going into anaphylactic shock on occasion, so inject yourself and call 9-1-1 as you're jamming it in your leg." And now to find out what's wrong.

So she looked at my arms. If you have never seen a Crohn's patient's arms, sometimes we look like a heroin addict. Mine used to be clear. Now they aren't--lots of scars and things and red marks. So she said, "I think your auto-immune system is shutting down." Hence the Crohn's arms. OK, fine. They have blood tests to see what's up. But in the MEANTIME, to avoid foods that may be triggering it, I did the scratch tests in the doctor's office.

Now, let me tell you something about having Crohn's disease. I have NO emotional relationship to food. No chocolate, no cake, no dessert, no NOTHING. No pizza. No Frito's. Nada. When you go, at times, on TPN (no food by mouth for a month at a time), you learn to not "love" food so much. But the ONE thing I love, I adore, I . . . look forward to . . . are my meals at my sushi haunts. I have lots of friends among the sushi chefs I know (as I said once, you have to eat a LOT of sushi to have the sushi chefs bring you GIFTS from Laos when they go home on holiday! I have bracelets, wedding dolls, and a gold picture of a temple). I love sushi and because I don't eat meat, I DO sometimes have tuna because it's protein, and I like it. It's not something I have every day. Maybe twice a month I get protein that way. The rest, I eat soy.

Allergic to tuna.

And lobster.

And trout (gross! I'd never eat trout).

And salmon.

In short, if I WERE to eat fish for protein, the ones I indulge in . . . allergic.

SO what collosal mind cluster f*ck are the gods pulling on me. The ONE food. The ONLY food I actually LOVE. Can't. Eat. Will. Kill. Me.

So I have decided it's a Buddhist thing. Lose ALL attachment. HENCE, there is now not ONE SINGLE food I love that I can have. None.

Except Neccos. I have documented my love for that candy here in entire blog posts!

Which brings me to the writing.

Sometimes . . . I don't care what you do for a living, what your hobby is, what your life is like, the gods mess with you.

For writers, their laptop blows up. They get a rejection letter on the day their wife files for divorce. I don't care what it is. It happens.

And it's up to you how to handle it.

So I give you a quote from Ayn Rand.

Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish, in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours. ~Ayn Rand

Anyone else feel like cursing the fates? Anyone else have a quote that reminds them . . . just get your ass up off the ground?

Share!

The Desert

“What makes the desert beautiful,” said the little prince, “is that somewhere it hides a well…”

This is a quote from one of my favorite books, The Little Prince. It's one of those books that I read and re-read, and each time, I glean a little more wisdom. If you haven't read it since childhood, I highly recommend it.

And this one quote, to me, describes the writing process. I was recently explaining to someone the phenomenon of hating the middle of your book. It really does feel like wandering around in a desert with no landmarks, nothing but sand, no water.

"What do you do when you hate the middle?" this person asked me.

I keep going. Just like deciding to stop in the middle of the desert and just sit down . . . is suicide, so it is with writing. You've got to keep going.

And it's with the hope of a well, of an oasis. And it's with the idea that if it all comes together the way you picture it in your head, then you'll look back on the desert time fondly. You'll remember how hard it was, and that will make it all the more quenching and wonderful when the book really IS good. The desert landscape that once was so horrible will now be beautiful to you.

I have my desert days. I have days at the well.

How about you?

Dr. Orloff

The flag is a show of solidarity for the protesters today. Think peace.



And onto the post.



Writer's block is, I suppose, an occupational hazard for a novelist. I've never gotten writer's block (knock wood). But I have had days when I sat down to write and just felt . . . uninspired. Unlike some writers, I usually just knock off for the day. I am firmly convinced a real writers' block comes from pressuring yourself until your brain explodes. Okay, so that doesn't entirely sound medical. But . . . that's what Dr. Orloff says today. Your brain could explode.

Moving on in my exploration of the writer's health, there are other persistent writing conditions. Anyone else get a twitch in their eye? My right one (yes, the one that got smashed when I fell) . . . is persistently unhappy today. A little twitch from tiredness and reading and writing too many words. I've gotten twitches for years. I just read too much for my own good. Dr. Orloff has no prescription for that because she knows . . . reading IS my medicine, so suck it up.

Carpal tunnel anyone? I get that a tiny bit. Not too much. Tight neck? Oh, I get that.

Numb butt. Sure. There's a whole syndrome, you know. Writer's Ass. Numb . . . and spreading from sitting too much and exercising too little.

I get heartburn from too much coffee. Dr. Orloff had recommended giving it up for green tea. I successfully did for a year. Then my dad came at Christmas, was hospitalized. Daughter was sick. I had deadlines. I went back to coffee and haven't yet bitten the bullet and given it up. I know what awaits me. Headaches. My eyelashes even hurt last time I gave it up. Frankly, I can't deal with hurting eyelashes right now.


I've been known to fall asleep sitting up when I'm writing late at night. That can't be good. Dr. Orloff says get up to bed and have a restful night's sleep. Oh, and send Demon Baby to boarding school so that's possible. Thus, Dr. Orloff knows . . . it is what it is.

Eating? Bowls of rice at my desk, but I honestly should STOP and take a walk, and eat a peaceful meal. Mindfully.

There's no hazard pay for writers. But maybe there should be.

So . . . any of these writing conditions? Tell Dr. Orloff.

What My English Teacher Never Taught Me

I was fortunate in that all my favorite teachers were my English teachers--I always had great ones for my favorite subject. I looked forward to English class, to spending an entire period talking about books--even when we had to do grammar, I liked it (well, not as much . . . ).

When I got to college, I declared an English major pretty quickly. I used to sit with the spring and fall schedules and read through the English department's course offerings like a kid in a candy shop. I took African literature, and I took an entire semester on Milton. I was in heaven. My university had a wonderful English department and except for one odd-duck of a professor, I attended exciting lectures that I truly enjoyed.

But they can't teach you everything.

So often on this blog, we say being a writer is about learning your craft over a period of years. And in thinking about it, even though I had a minor in creative writing, and even though I attended graduate school briefly at NYU for English/Creative Writing, before running out of money, I learned 90% of what I know about writing AFTER college . . . over the last 15 years.

So I started thinking about some of the things I've learned that either directly contradicted my English teachers or that somehow just could not have been learned in a classroom. Here are a few of mine . . . feel free to add yours in the Comments section.

• I learned you really CAN start a sentence with "and" or "because." In one English class, starting a sentence with "because" was grounds for an automatic D on your paper. I start sentences with those words all the time. Just. Because.
• I learned there's something called PACING. Who knew? When you spend four years of college maxing out on 15- to 20-page short stories, pacing is less of an issue. You can just stick all the best stuff in there, focus on ONE major event (no subplots). And though the short story is sadly fading as an art form in this country for lack of places to publish them, a short story won't teach you about pacing the same way a much longer work will.
• I learned there is such a thing as too many adjectives and overuse of adverbs. My teachers used to call adjectives and adverbs adding in the "details." Now I firmly believe less is more.

So how about you? What do you know about writing that your English teachers never told you?

Games Writers Play

Oldest Daughter and I watched The Wonder Boys on Saturday night. It is one of my all-time favorite movies, from Robert Downey Jr. arriving with a transvestite who plays the tuba to Tobey Maguire's brilliant performance. And of course, that it is about writers and editors makes it all the more fun.

And one of my favorite scenes is when Grady (Michael Douglas's writer/professor character)and his agent play a game inside a bar. They see a man who looks a bit like James Brown in a quirky sort of way, and begin inventing this history for him. "He's a former boxer who got that scar on his nose from a prize fight, and his name is Vernon, and he went to prison and . . ." and soon they have invented this colorful life for a man named Vernon (except his name isn't Vernon and he's none of those things).

I realized, watching it Saturday, that I do the same thing. I fill in the blanks on lives in airports and coffee shops. I meet people and imagine what their marriages are like or what keeps them awake at two a.m. If I see them line up their sugar packets neatly before tearing them and putting them in their coffee, I imagine perfectly arranged sock drawers and anal-retentive checkbook balancing and cupboards that are alphabetized.

I don't gossip. I don't take these imaginary filled-in lives and repeat them. I know it's all in my writer-mind. But I constantly fill in the blanks. I imagine full lives all around me.

I play games in my head. All the time.

So what games do you play?

More On Why I Write

"The difference between reality and fiction? Fiction has to make sense."

~~Tom Clancy

I can't make sense of this. I can't make sense of this. Or this.

In fact, as a thinking person, there's a great deal of the world that makes no sense to me. When there is such abundance . . . why are people hungry? Why do people turn a blind eye to genocide, to poverty, to the unscrupulous nature of arms dealing, to . . . the list is neverending.

And so I like Clancy's quote. In a world that is, to my way of thinking, usually without sense, without reason, the world of fiction struggles to make sense of it.

We usually like our fiction to end with the good guys winning. With the world being saved. With the bad guys being robbed, a la Robin Hood. We like the mob to be brought down by the forces of its own greed and corruption. We want the real guilty guy tried and convicted and the innocent man on Death Row to be freed. We know that most of the time, things don't work out in reality. We know justice isn't blind. We know that people of peace--in Tibet or elsewhere--are often trampled by the people with the biggest tanks. We know landmines remain that take the limbs of innocents.

So fiction is a place to explore that and change the rules so it works out the way we want. At least for me.

I think that's sometimes why I write.

Thoughts?

The Call of the Book

Watched this movie last night with Baby Girl. It was overdone, schmaltzy, but it connected with me on a couple of levels, mostly because the lead was a writer, and because he wanted to adopt a child.

It had the usual writerly fantasies that the movies invoke about my chosen profession. The lead character was immensely wealthy, was thrown glittering parties by his editor (Angelica Huston in a power suit). His agent was his best friend. And he was given over two years for a deadline. He, of course, had writers' block.

But there were a couple of writer parts that felt very real to me. In one scene, he was supposed to turn in the draft for the sequel to his best-selling novel. And he INSTEAD turned in a different book. His editor was furious (of course). And he said (paraphrasing), "I'll write that book for you and sell you lots of copies, but my life changed. I adopted a son, and we've had a hard time, and this was the book that I had to write."

Over on Mark Terry's blog, he had (and he called it that himself so . . . . I feel I can call it that) a "mini-rant" about writers who say they write because they "have to." I pretty much agree with his blog post. However, the scene in the movie resonated with me, too. Sometimes, you just have a book that calls to you, that demands to be written.

I was mid-way through a complicated novel about a priest, an IRA bombmaker, and a Catholic bar owner who gave money to Sinn Fein--and the granddaughter of the bar owner who fell in love with the man from the IRA. It spanned about twenty-five years. And in the mdist of it, a persistent voice that I came to know as belonging to Cassie Hayes came into my head. She was very much like me (the writer in the movie last night said in every novel, it could be thought that there's one character who has autobiographical elements of the author in them). And the entire plot, the premise, the secondaries, all literally gelled inside my head in the matter of a few hours. Much to my writers' group's dismay, I abandoned book #1, which still sits on my computer, nearly finished, six years later, and wrote Spanish Disco. The first draft flew out in a couple of months. Second draft, too. It sold within 90 days of making the rounds of publishers (which I have now come to see is a ridiculously short time).

Maybe there are some books you write not because you HAVE to but because they call to you. And going with Mark's observations . . . books that call to me are sellable. I think I have honed my publishing hunches enough to not try to write something that I innately know just would be nearly impossible for my agent to deal with. Even the character in the movie last night said to the editor, "Just read it, and I know you will love it." He knew it wasn't what she wanted, but it was very good in its own right and would, indeed, sell.

Thoughts? Have you ever felt the inexplicable call of a book even when it meant abandoning a work-in-progress?

Passion Versus Polish

I downloaded a song by this man onto my iPod. He's known for his acting . . . his good looks . . . being an alcoholic on and off the wagon. But not singing. However, something about his singing This Time . . . is very aching. In fact, don't just take my word for it, download it, or read the review of his singing here.

Anyway, what I was struck by is that he's not a trained singer, but the song is just rather haunting (in a movie I couldn't get through). And I think that it feels that way because he truly SOUNDS passionate, lost, in a state of agony. It's a case of passion over polish.

As an editor, for the last fifteen years or more, I often come across manuscripts where the writer clearly poured a great deal of emotion into the work. You can just feel it coming off the pages. But as an editor, I can also see in those same works passive voice, or wasted scenes, or characters that come in and then disappear, my guess because the writer couldn't bear to part with a "darling," or . . . you name it.

I have also read books by some big names that just left me cold. I somehow got onto a romance newsletter list and I get electronic first chapters from some pretty big names in the romance world--as well as newer writers who pay for the PR and get their first chapters distributed along with a bio and pictures and maybe a book trailer. Well, a week or so ago, I got one from a household name. And I thought it was the WORST piece of drivel I had ever read in my life. I mean . . . I sat there thinking, "If this woman tried to get published today, without her name, she would be the cause of whatever editor was unlucky enough to pull this from the slush pile getting major indigestion." It wasn't just my opinion that it was awful (all right, it was my opinion), but it was just cringe-worthy, cliched, and clearly an attempt to ride what's a hot market right now with NO passion for the genre whatsoever.

So you need both. The passion and the polish. And I think the polish can be taught, but passion . . . you either have it or you don't. I think chasing a genre usually results in a servicable novel but not a great one. By the same token, when we talk about being "ready" in terms of shopping a book, you have to have all the polish. I get truly irritated when (and believe me, they're out there) new writers say something along the lines of, "Well, that's what an editor is for" in terms of craft. They feel they have a hot plot, a hot book, and they want a shortcut to the bestseller list. They don't have the time to learn the hard way. You're "ready" when the polish is there.

Thoughts?

Intuition

There's an expression: women's intuition. And I suppose a lot of people consider intuition a feminine trait. I've wondered why and decided it must go back to motherhood. Have you ever watched a mother feed a baby rice cereal for the first time? Mommy opens her mouth wide, as if encouraging the baby to open wide. Whenever I fed Demon Baby, even long after he mastered accepting food from a spoon, Oldest Daughter would say, "You're doing that weird thing with your mouth again."

Babies come into the world without a way to tell us--other than crying--what's wrong. We mothers intuit wet diapers, when they're cold, when they're warm, when they want to be held, when they want to be rocked, when they're hungry, and when they need a nap. I nursed four children a grand total of almost eight years. I nursed "on demand" (for those without babies, that means not on a schedule, but just when the baby wants to nurse). I had to intuit what that meant. I've been a mother for almost eighteen years now and four children. Sometimes I feel as if my entire life has been intuiting what four other people need.

Oldest Son's face looks a little down when I ask how school was. So I probe more. Baby Girl is biting her lip. Must mean she's worried about something. Oldest Daughter looks pale. Is she coming down with something? And Demon? Well, he's in a class all by himself.

But intuition really ISN'T a female trait. Men usually just call it gut instinct.

And I've decided, perhaps, that the reason so many people in my life say, "You're so intuitive" has less to do with being a woman, with being a mom, and more to do with being a writer.

I used to set all this stuff down on paper and worked with my prose. When I was newer at this game of publishing and writing, I hacked at it, I edited it. I tried to cross my t's and dot my i's. But after a while--and I mean years and years of writing--I somehow learned to discern when to leave the prose alone. When it wasn't "quite right" and needed work. I learned when a scene needed cutting, and when a line of dialogue needed a fresh angle.

I can't teach that. Writer's intuition comes the hard way. Just as being a mom is something you earn. Don't get me wrong, any jerk can donate sperm and any woman from puberty on can pop out a baby. But MOM . . . you earn that title. The hard way.

Same with writing. I recently read an online excerpt from a newbie writer. I think it was an e-pub, but no matter, I cringed. I saw problems so glaring I . . . felt pained for this writer. But I realized that's because I've honed this intuition thing. I've honed it from working the craft for years. I've honed it in the best damn critique group you can find. I've honed it because no matter how many books I've published, I'm willing to LISTEN to my critique partners and learn what they can teach me. And then I've honed it because I am not so arrogant to not absorb new lessons.

Gut instinct. Intution. Whatever you call it, I really think gaining it is when you see your writing evolve. Really change to something publishable. I can't teach it. You earn it.

Thoughts?

No-Bitch-Zone

I had one of my most productive days on Monday. I couldn't tell you why Monday was different than other days. I just moved from file to file, wip to wip, email to email. I wasn't operating on all cylinders. My knee still hurts like an S.O.B. My head still hurts--not quite like an S.O.B. I still had that Demon Baby running around here. In fact, if you want to know what a typical morning before dawn is like with him, read this. I still had a lot of personal stress. My checkbook still didn't balance. I still had more bills than money. But . . . I just had told myself to suck it up. No complaining. No sighing. No bitching. Just do it.

A few years ago, I wrote this hardcover book for Prentice Hall with one of my best friends, who is a family psychologist. I had a six-figure freelance career working from home, long before anyone had ever even really heard the term "telecommuting" or "job sharing" or any of the things that are fashionable now. She had given up her corporate office for a home office after adopting a little boy and, in the blink of an eye, her whole world changing. We had a very nice editor--a guy, very hard-driven and smart, and Type A. And I will never forget our "power lunch." In talking about work and career he said something along the lines of, "I try to convey to my kids how lucky they are to be kids, because once you graduate college and have a career, absolutely NO ONE except your parents really gives a shit about your problems." And I was struck by how right he was.

Now, don't get me wrong. I have this blog precisely because I DO care about other writers' struggles. I feel cared about by other writers here. By my best friend. By my PARENTS (he was right there, for sure). By my sisters. But in the end, I can't write your book for you. And you can't write mine. I can commiserate. But in the end, it is absolutely about . . . sticking your ass in a chair and just doing it.

Nothing magical happened on Monday. Nothing at all. But I also didn't let myself complain. I didn't sigh. It was a No-Bitch-Zone. I just did it.

And maybe that's just the secret for productivity. I don't know. I'll try bitching today and see what it gets me. :-)

Maybe, in thinking about it, Monday was so productive because I realized I really LIKE what I do. Even the really difficult times of being a writer are better than . . . well, any other job.

Thoughts?

Everyperson

I've never rescued anyone from a burning building. Never done CPR on anything but a plastic dummy. I've never done anything I consider heroic. I live my life like most people. I raise my kids, I pray, I go to the store, I cook bad meals (though I made some homemade meatballs and "gravy" this Sunday that was kick-ass). I've done some things that pushed the envelope of my comfort zone on occasion. I've gone into some truly scary neighborhoods to help kids in crisis. I've seen a need sometimes, and done something about it. And I realize that the world can really be divided, in some ways, between those people who would walk by a homeless person, those who would hand the homeless person a buck, and those who would take that person to get showered and give them fresh clothes and a meal.

Take another social cause or crisis if that one doesn't suit you. One person sees their neighborhood going to hell. And moves out. One person organizes a grassroots effort to take back the neighborhood from the gangs and the drug dealers. Even at the possible cost of their life.

Or take this. Or take this. Why do some citizens stand by and do nothing? Why do some speak out even when it means certain death?

I've been thinking about the hero of Magickeepers. He's really an ordinary kid, who happens to discover he is from a magical lineage. But he's an everykid. He likes skateboarding and he hates school. He likes videogames and cheeseburgers. He loves to drink a lot of caffiene and stay up all night on the weekends. He grows his hair long enough to seem rebellious but short enough he still gets the girls. And he comes to accept this tremendous mantle of responsibility--he does it for his "people" . . . his clan. Not because he really wants to but because he gains the maturity to understand it's what must be done.

And then I got to thinking about everyman, everywoman, everykid. Those heroes who live lives of complete obscurity until something--and the reason is different for each person--pushes them beyond the confines of their world to do something great, something heroic.

So much of our best fiction is about that person, right? And sometimes at the end of the book, all that person wants to do is go back to their life of obscurity. Save the world and go back to their hometown and raise their kids, go fishing, read a book, tend their garden. Doesn't matter what it is they want to go back to. Of course, we always sense that after they've saved the world, their lives will never quite be the same.

I think, as writers, it's the fabric of the character that can make these plots believable. And enjoyable. Most of us don't want to open a book about Captain Perfect and Ms. Exceptional. Not from the outset. We want to see their lives turned upside-down and what precise set of circumstances takes him or her from comfort to action.

I know with my Magickeepers hero, he's never had a clan, a family. And at first, he bristles at the rules and the nosiness, the drama that is always there with these crazy Russians, as he (and I) call them. But then, when they are threatened, he realizes they are his PEOPLE. His Russian homeboys. HE can hate them, but don't let anyone else f*ck with the family.

I think about what would compel me to take action. My kids are an obvious answer. But I've taken them into some risky situations along with me. I know when we went to protest on Washington, Demon Baby wasn't even walking yet. I thought, "What if the crowd is harassed or we all get arrested? What if there's violence?" Yet I wanted them to know some things are worth getting arrested for. Even little Demon. We have a voice. We can use it. (Though I did think I wasn't an "obvious" arrest choice because of the baby.) I've taken them with me into some of those truly frightening neighborhoods with prostitutes and dealers on the sidewalks. I wanted them to know we have two hands to help. We can use them. BUT . . . I've had the sort of "Good Samaritan" faith to think angels watch out for us when we do things like that. And really, Tibet shows me that's not always so. The Civil Rights movement showed me that isn't always the case. So I think as writers we have to dig deeper. Is it a cause? A movement? A faith? Present danger? A people? A culture? And where does the hero or heroine draw the line? And . . . even more so . . . when does the hero or heroine realize they're going forward even if it means true danger?

Do you have an everyperson in your wip? And what motivates him or her?