So Does It Start . . .

. . . with a theme?

In the comments of the last post, the point was raised. Do you start with a theme?

As background, a friend was speaking with one of those editors with a pretty huge (in the publishing world) reputation. The kind of uniformly respected editor whom, if you drop the name, people know who it is. And the editor is of the opinion . . . it all starts with a theme.

Now people will line up on both sides of this--vehemently saying it's all entertainment, it's all subconscious, it's all this or it's all that. And realistically speaking, yeah. You can have the Loftiest Theme in the History of Literature, but if your prose sucks, or you fail to entertain . . . then it doesn't matter one iota.

In actuality, NOTHING can be separated in writing. Great character but lousy plot . . . sorry. Do not pass go, do not collect $200 (or a book contract). Great plot but hollow characters . . . same. By whose definition? Obviously that's subjective.

But the always-brilliant friend of this blog, Mark Terry, posited in his On Writing (and go download it now!) that you advance as a writer. Writer 101 is lucky to stick his commas where they belong. By the time you get to Writing 401, you might be ready to try your luck in the Big Game.

I tend to agree. Because I think where you REALLY get into seeing writing on a whole other plane is when you start thinking of theme, and character arcs, on symbolism, on what you have to say and why you're saying it the precise way you are.

Which isn't to denigrate the writer who says, "I never give it a thought." But I think . . . read enough great works, and most of us (some of us?) realize we should. We should dig deeper, find our theme. Weave the theme, watch the character arc.

The editor in question . . . and MY editors . . . over and over again, they ask. When I did the rewrite for my next book, one thing my editor said, "This was eminently readable. Perhaps TOO readable." Layer in some theme. Layer in some more conflict. I added 100 pages.

So I know this is bound to get writers discussing, arguing, saying "I don't believe it works that way." But I honestly think when you get a certain caliber of editor . . . they think this way. When you reach Writing 401, you start to think this way. Maybe not. I also think as you advance, it all becomes part of a seamless writing whole.

Thoughts?

The Arc

Years ago I was friends with a woman who was overwhelmingly negative. There were plentiful reasons--difficult childhood, bad relationship, finances, job, etc. She made exceedingly poor decisions. The kinds of decisions that everyone around her--heck, total strangers--could see were decisions certain to doom any chance she had for happiness. Was she sabotaging her life? Could she not see it? Years went by. YEARS. And yet, essentially, nothing changed. Oh, the relationship, job, finances, calamities were different--slightly. But she held onto her negativity. I saw not even an incremental bit of change in her.

I guess what she lacked was growth. Spiritual growth is hard-won. I find people don't generally grow until the Inquisition Team of Life ties them to a rack and turns the wheel--hard. My growth has been "earned" through illness, divorce, pain and suffering, joy, parenting, the day to day difficulties of life--tempered, at all times by an unceasing desire to learn, to find the silver lining. I welcome change in myself.

So relating this to writing, I started thinking about character arcs. Seems lately on more than a few blogs, I have seen bloggers rail against certain authors. They don't call them out by name most of the time. It's more "best-selling author, all of whose books I've read until now . . . . has disappointed me with this latest effort." Very often, it's a series that has now so bitterly disappointed. And I think . . . it sometimes boils down to growth.

When I write, even though I don't outline, I have a very clear character arc in mind. I like the astronomy definition of an arc: The apparent path of a celestial body as it rises above and falls below the horizon. In most books, characters have their eye on the horizon. In some way, shape, or form, they have a goal, something they are striving for. The character arches toward it, reaching, struggling even. They are on some path. The result should be . . . change and growth.

In my darker books, I think I find the character at the end of the book is wiser. They have gone through some trauma, or they have faced a difficult set of circumstances, and they can no longer go back--for better or worse they are changed by their circumstances. By their arc. By what they have learned. Ever in real life meet someone who was cheated on and the old adage is the wife was the last to know? Maybe it's because the spouse is sneaky. But maybe it's because once the conscious crosses that threshold and admits it, life changes. There is the moment before betrayal and the moment after. I think we intuitively pause, sometimes. Maybe the arc wobbles for that moment. Once we change, we can't go back. I could never go back to the person I was at 20.

In my comedies, the arc may be different. More often the obstacle has something to do with love--so it may be reaching a point of self-acceptance, or learning to trust. The arc means the character is changed--but often for the better. The wisdom is the kind we WANT. We're wise enough to know that being a size 2 doesn't guarantee happiness, that people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, that trusting and getting your heart broken isn't so bad as we first thought, that love is a GOOD thing usually. The change is wiser, but in a way we all hope to be changed.

Finally, I have the arcs in my YAs. Those arcs are the necessary changes of growing up. Much as we wish we could protect our kids from every rejection, every mistake we made, every tear . . . we can't. I visited a blog the other day (can't recall whose). It was a mom's blog and she said she wished her kids would never cry, that they would only laugh. I thought about it, and REALLY? I wouldn't wish that. Pain brings growth. Watching your child in pain is the worst agony about being a parent. But it's also unavoidable in the Buddhist principle of Life contains suffering. Unavoidable suffering. So though I give my YAs friends and laughter . . . growing up means . . . GROWTH.

When characters don't change? Those are the books that, I think, readers are dissatisfied with. They seem too light, too fluffy. Like you read confection for two hours, but it's utterly forgettable. Or it's the series where . . . the characters were moved like chess pieces on the board, but did anything REALLY happen?

Change is good. It's inevitable. Thoughts?

Everything I Needed to Know About Being a Writer . . . I Learned From Demon Baby

Demon Baby breakdances now. For real. He's actually wildly talented at it. Which is amusing since no one in the family breakdances. He's like some hip-hop god in a 32-pounds-when-soaking-wet package. As I watched him do this for a HALF-HOUR last night (without stopping to rest once), I contemplated the lessons he has taught me about being a writer:

1. Be fearless. Demon Baby doesn't know fear. Whether he is trying to climb out the window, or fearlessly throwing syrup from the second-story landing, whether he charging full-speed at a wall just because, or breakdancing when no one's taught him . . . he is fearless. So I remember when I come to a point in my work in progress when I just don't know if I am writer enough to pull it off and I am afraid . . . BE FEARLESS.
2. Ignore your critics. For Demon Baby, most of what I say comes out like the parents in the Peanuts episodes. "MWAH, MWAH-MWAH-MWAH-MWAH" and he goes about doing what he's doing anyway. Sometimes we need to ignore our critics--especially that inner one.
3. When life hands you rejection, ask for a peanut butter sandwich. We all have bad days. When Demon Baby has a bad day, he wants half a peanut-butter sandwich (CREAMY, not crunchy). As an addendum to that, he wants the crusts cut off. When we face rejection, we should be kind to ourselves. And if there is someone special in our life, we should ask them to cut the crusts off so we feel extra loved.
4. Don't give up. This is a big one. Demon Baby has been trying to accomplish numerous missions. He wants the dogs to have total free rein in the house and be allowed to eat--like yesterday--the good cookies I bought for company. He has been trying to defeat the squirrels that raid his bird feeder by swinging his plastic light-up Star Wars Jedi light saber. But the squirrels return each day. He has been trying to bark and have conversations WITH the dogs. In their language. Despite the fact that he has not accomplished each of these things (with the exception of the last one--I think they are starting to listen to him and talk back), the next day he gets up COMPLETELY OBLIVIOUS to the failure of the day before, and he tries again.
5. Dream big dreams. Most kids want to be an astronaut. Demon Baby wants to grow up to BE the moon. Not GO to the moon, but BE the moon. Enough said.
6. Fight the dragons of doubt. Demon Baby is under the impression that dragons live under the stairs. The entrance to their lair is through the air conditioning intake. He tries, almost daily, to take that apart so he can go and fight the dragons. I think of the dragons under the stairs as the dragons of doubt. It's good to leave them locked under the stairs, and if they come back, use your light saber to chase them back where they belong.
7. Free your imagination. If you read over on my Demon Baby blog . . . Demon decided he has a new name--Kirby. He also has a Hong Kong name--Tun-Link. He only answers to those names. Just in case you wondered . . . they are NOT his real name. Demon Baby has a rich inner life full of imagination. He sees things mere mortals do not. It is unfettered imagination, not tied in any way to the reality of the rest of the world. Writers need that kind of imagination.
8. Crayons are fun. We have crayons and marker pretty much everywhere. On furniture. On walls. On the carpet. I look at this as . . . not being afraid of the red pen. Edit away!

So there you go. Turns out I know everything there is to know about being a writer--from Demon Baby.

Any lessons you learned about being a writer from your kids or dogs or cats . . . that you care to share?

Oh My GOD, She's not happy with the last one either!

THIS is now Oldest-Daughter Approved. I need one of the seals like Good Housekeeping.

There? Happy NOW?

xo
Mom

For the record . . . she doesn't always have a violin on her face

There, Oldest Daughter.

Happy?

Worth a Thousand Words

Expectations

When I was sixteen and trying to decide what I wanted to be when I grew up, I had pretty much settled on a doctor. My dad talked me into being a writer. I remember the conversation, in our living room. He had a scotch, was sitting in the blue chair. I remember it like it was yesterday. "I don't know, Erica, about being a doctor. All that science--you sure you have a passion for it? I really think you should be a writer. You're a good writer. Very good." Now, in thinking about it, I don't know whether that was somewhat cultural, i.e., he respected the great "classic" writers as a Russian. Or gender (he was convinced I would never get married if I was in medical school and then a residency until I was almost 30). Or he just thought I was a decent writer. But what still amazes me is encouraged me to pursue a profession where it's pretty much guaranteed you'll always be hustling for work or starving.

However, what REALLY got me thinking about parental and familial expecatations is TWICE this week someone said to me the third-most often comment when they hear I am a writer. Number one is, of course, "I have a great idea for a book." Number two is the old, "So what do you write?" And coming in at number three . . . "I always wanted to be a writer, but my father was a lawyer and it was expected that I go to law school" (you can fill in any other profession . . . or if no profession then, "My parents encouraged me to find something you could count on.")

And when they TALK about writing, their faces get almost . . . euphoric. And so I always feel a bit sad for people who aren't really doing what they want to be doing. And of course, there's this idea that they DON'T do it because it's not paying (i.e., they abandoned it entirely and aren't even writing for pleasure or with an eye toward breaking in as a second or side career).

So often, we let others' expectations alter our sails. We start shifting in the water, steering toward some other island, some other place than our heart's true desires. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the first time I got married it was because that's what was expected. It wasn't anything outright (all right, there was ONE conversation that stuck in my mind). But at every family gathering, people asked, "So have you met anyone yet?" and "You're not getting any younger, you know"--and for the record, is ANYONE getting any younger?

I don't ever do that anymore. I try to take a quiet moment with myself and discern what it is I really want. Without the pressures of what I think everyone else wants. It isn't always easy. But after years and years of practice, my internal voice is pretty damn loud.

So tell me, on this path of writing, have you ever been swayed by others' expectations? How did you choose your "day job" if you work at something else? How do you stay true to yourself?

The Doll at the End

When I was a little girl, my sister begged and pleaded for the "doll at the end." No one knew what the doll on the end was. We asked her what the doll at the end looked like. We asked her what her name was. But we couldn't figure it out. Until ONE DAY . . . we were shopping and my sister rushed to the "doll at the end." It was the African-American doll. The ONE African-American doll the store carried. And yes, she got the doll at the end.

Fast forward to two days ago. The pool opened and Baby Girl was standing in my office being greased from head to toe with sunscreen. She is blue eyed and has adorable freckles and is as Irish looking as they come. Only she is not Irish (maybe a little bit on my mom's side). I commented that we had to make sure we always applied sunscreen, and how fair and beautifully freckled she is. And then I said, "You are the most Irish-looking Hispanic I've ever seen." Followed by a comment how both her brothers look more Hispanic and have darker skin--and she is so fair--and must watch those sunrays even more. This was all in my drive NOT to have her learn to tan--which is so bad for you. And to have her embrace her freckles, which I think are beautiful but she does not. But she got very, VERY upset. "But I want to be HISPANIC! I want to look like my brothers. Why do I have to have freckles? I want to be Hispanic-looking, too."

Well, we launched into a "you're perfect just the way you are" speech that we mothers always tell our kids--because it's true. And then I thought about it. And writing.

You see, to me, it's refreshing that when I go to the bookstore, there are Hispanic imprints and African-American imprints. I like seeing heroines who are Indian, or mixed race. I love that books like that aren't "on the end." I love that LGTB is represented. Do I think we still have a very long way to go? Sure, I do. But I love that my daughter is not growing up in a world without writers like Mary Castillo.

Do I think that the only reason my daughter wants so very much to "look" Hispanic is because of the media or books? No, of course not. She is growing up in a house where she sees a rainbow and meets people of all races and sexuality and religions. With a mother who wants her to be proud of being Hispanic. But I also know the fact that there have been in-roads in less marginalizing of other races and religions in the media helps. It's nice to see women of color and Hispanic women as the "face" of Revlon or other makeup brands. Again, do we have a long way to go? Of course we do.

To that end, don't forget to visit Ellen Oh's blog on Wednesday as she discusses young girls and media images. Specifically, what the media does WRONG in sexualizing young girls.

But there are some things I am happy about. I'd love to live in a world where people just pick up a book without regard to the race of the person it's about. Maybe we'll get there someday. But in the meantime, my freckle-faced beautiful little girl embraces being Mexican-American. And that's a good thing, in my book.

Thoughts?

And Another Thing . . .

I realized yesterday that there was something about my post that seemed to imply it was all worth it because my daughter is going off to be a music major and is playing the Kennedy Center. And yes, I am a very proud mom. But if she was still a squeaky player who decided to become an accountant, it would still be worth it because she would still have the gift of music (although, given that she hates math, I think the accountant thing is far-fetched . . .).

Which brings me to my post. When people garden, they don't ever think they're not a "real" gardener until they create a perfect rose hybrid. When they knit (like me), they don't think knitting is a failure unless they start making sweaters that they can sell in some chic boutique. (Which for me will NEVER, and I mean NEVER happen--but I still like knitting.) If they sew, they may aspire to make clothes, but chances are they're not looking to start a fashion label (unless they are my 10-year-old Baby Girl, who indeed aspires to that). But it seems like ALL writers aspire to one goal and one goal only--to be published.

Now, don't get me wrong . . . am I MORE excited that the tens and tens of thousands of dollars that I have spent over the years (and I am not kidding, the total has GOT to be upwards of $60,000) for violin lessons culminated in Tuesday? Probably. There is a sense that she was moving toward something, a goal. But when we discuss a post-college career, my own sense is "just be happy." If that's songwriting (something we have newly discovered she has a knack for), then that's great. If it's violin performance, fine. If it's managing a rock band with her music degree? Fine. I'd love it if she managed him. I don't have a sense of any path being a failure.

But writers? They can be thrown into the depths of despair by not being published. Or being published but not achieving a certain level of success. Or . . . you fill in the angst.

And I am not quite sure why. What is it that makes writing as an art form different? That we measure it differently from other pursuits?

I suppose for one thing, writing is meant to be shared. So without an audience, it somehow loses something. But let's say you're a writer who is in a group that gives public readings. You're sharing. It's still not enough. A guitar hobbyist who plays in a local coffeeshop is probably thrilled to do so. Not a writer.

It's self-torture.

So discuss. Why is this so?

The Journey

Tuesday night, Oldest Daughter plays violin on this stage. My mother and I are packing an entire box of tissues.

When Oldest Daughter was three, we were watching PBS (this was back when I had only ONE child and had the luxury of watching highbrow shows instead of these guys). She saw a woman playing violin at Lincoln Center and said, "That's what I'm going to do with my life." To which I looked at her and thought, "Eccentric for a three-year-old, but what are you going to do."

For a YEAR, she begged and pleaded for violin lessons. For a year, I put her off. I found her classical music appreciation classes with this woman. She learned about this composer. She also learned about all the notes--which she then pronounced with a Russian accent for a year because her teacher was from Moscow.

Finally, after a year . . . she started violin. She wasn't in kindergarten yet. Her violin was 1/32nd of the size of a usual violin. She learned to hold her hand a certain way on the neck of her instrument ("So a lizard could slide through" was how they taught the kids). And I became a Suzuki Mom. A Suzuki Mom is, for those who don't know, a mom who attends said violin lessons WITH her child so she can mirror what the little child is being taught. It meant an hour and a half of lessons a week--two different days. It meant me learning the notes and where her fingers went. It meant me going to lessons through pregnancies #2, and #3. By #4, she was just being DRIVEN to lessons and I didn't have to stay. It meant breastfeeding through lessons. Occasionally, when nine months pregnant, it meant sleeping through them, exhausted. It also meant financial sacrifices of monumental proportions, not just lessons but instruments and camps--eight hours away sometimes.

But on Tuesday, I will sit in my seat at the Kennedy Center with my box of tissues and for not the first . . . for not even the thousandth time, know it was all worth it that she could have the gift of music. The gift of following her three-year-old's heart.

The first time I ever got published it was here. Next year, I have a book coming out with them. I started out thinking, "If I ever just see my name in print somewhere . . . " to seeing my books on the front table at B&N.

It's a journey. Sometimes, you don't even realize you're making progress. All you hear is a squeaky violin, all you have in your mailbox is a pile of rejection letters.

But you keep going.

It's a holiday weekend in the U.S. Some people will travel literally. Some of us travel figuratively.. So . . . share . . . how's the journey going?

How Soon Is Now?

Most of us are guilty, at some time or another, of judging someone before we really know them. I try not to. I think as we go through life, we learn the lesson that we shouldn't. When we're teenagers, we tend to judge people by what they wear or who they hang out with . . . and there's that first time we meet someone we assume to be not our type only to discover they really aren't so bad after all. When I was in high school, and maybe I can drag out my prom picture and scan it, I dated a jock. ME! Me, skipping my entire senior year . . . tutoring a jock who I considered dumber than dirt (because I was, of course, an opinionated teen), and discovering a nice guy after all. He didn't get to graduate (so much for my tutoring skills), but he got the girl. We dated for a year and a half.

When we get a little older, we still judge. Maybe less on clothes and more on behavior. I can't tell you how many times I would meet someone who was an utter jerk. Only to discover they had lost a child, or their wife had cancer, or there was some other tragedy behind their behavior. Thus the roots of compassion are born. We start to understand and see the world less from a ME-ME-ME perspective and start to see that every person we encounter has a story, and we're not privy to it.

But here's the thing . . . . when writing, I now realize I need readers to form some pretty fast judgments. By the end of chapter one, they should have some pretty clear picture of who this main character is. We don't have to dump the entire back story there. But human beings do a pretty good job of filling in the blanks. So there must simply be enough quirks and dialogue cues, enough of a conflict and behavior, that we "get" who the main character is, and hopefully decide to stick with him or her.

The trick, too, is to make sure there's enough of a character arc for CHANGE to occur. We don't want to "know" them on page 1 and by page 300 not see anything new.

So, opening any one of my books or works in progress . . . I see what I fit into chapter one. In Spanish Disco by the end of the first chapter you know that Cassie Hayes is a book editor, a bitch (she really is very snarky), and having phone sex with her favorite author, who lives in London. She never cooks, keeps her condo in Florida colder than an icebox, is like a daughter to the publisher who owns the small independent publishing house where she works, so she rarely has to put in hours at the office, that she drinks tequila--straight--to be able to fall asleep, and that she's very bright . . . and skilled at pulling the best book possible out of her authors (if they--and her boss--are willing to put up with her difficult nature). You know she is confident enough to--at her age (not yet 30)--drive a mint-condition banana-yellow Cadillac that she bought from a dead person's estate. That she drinks enough coffee all day--whole pots--to give her an ulcer. As for the phone-sex author, Michael, she clearly has a thing for him--they can talk literally until dawn. But she refuses to meet him. In short . . . you don't know everything about her--but she's quirky, eccentric, smart, and very, very crabby in the morning.

I can open any of my books and feel like I know the character. However, when I did some contest judging recently, I noticed that often by the end of chapter one, I didn't really know much. Too often what I knew were character sketch items, but not the character him- or herself. They were things like age and hair color, where they lived and what clothes they wore. But nothing more than that.

It's never too soon to know your character. To have readers make a judgment or two. No, we shouldn't do it in real life. But in books, it's essential.

Thoughts?

Everything I Needed to Know About Being a Writer . . .

. . . I learned from Law & Order.

Okay, so not really.

But I have to say I have learned a few things from watching that show. Such as . . .

• Create real flaws. You know how when you go on a job interview and the interviewer asks you what your worst trait is, and so you have some prepared answer that's a flaw--but not REALLY a flaw? Like perfectionism. Versus confessing that you are never on time and rarely meet deadlines? Well, in books, the most compelling characters are the seriously flawed ones, not the perky-perfect ones. On Law & Order--take your pick of versions (except the new redhead on Criminal Intent who is so awful I can't watch)--the characters are seriously--and I mean seriously--flawed. Goren may or may not be insane. Half of them are recovering--or not so recovering alcoholics. There have been adulterers and lousy fathers. Munch (my favorite character) has been married four times. And yet--they are compelling. They are dedicated to their jobs. You believe in their world. You take them, flaws and all.
• Don't be afraid of conflict--REAL conflict. I actually struggle with this in my writing. I create OBSTACLES. But not conflict. What's the difference? I very often create external circumstances for my characters to overcome--or even internal circumstances. But my characters rarely fight with each other. They banter. This is because in my personal life, I loathe conflict. I run away from conflict. I can't "do" conflict. Don't get me wrong . . . I can argue and raise my voice with the best of them, but REAL conflict, the gut-wrenching variety? Can't do it. But on Law & Order, some of these partners have had serious conflicts. So serious they've come to blows, or even split up for a while. They have argued--not just banter, but the kind of in-your-face, I-am-calling-you-on-your-shit variety. And they survive.
• No back story dumps. Frankly, I know very little about Elliot's marriage on Special Victims Unit. I know he and his wife married young, had a pack of kids, struggled. I know he's Catholic. I know he and his wife split up for a while. That he's a mess. But why did he marry her? How did they meet? How does he FEEL about her? No idea. And any of the things I do know about them . . . I learned over many, many reruns (I don't watch Law & Order except in reruns, and even then only a couple of times a month at most, unless I am depressed, in which case I will climb in bed and watch 13 in a row in a Law & Order marathon). Back story comes out slowly, in bits and pieces. I know Goren's mom was insane, but the recent events about his possible father (won't spoil it if you never saw last season's finale)? Who would have friggin' guessed? Law & Order is like a Buddhist's dream. It's a show all about the MOMENT. Not the past. Not the future. Right now. (All right, not a Buddhist's dream. What about all that violence?)
• Characters need to believe in something greater than themselves. And I don't mean God. Though Elliot does believe in God. I mean "something." Some cause, some reason to get up in the morning. For every single one of the cops across all the Law & Order varieties . . . it's justice.
• Create REAL, layered characters. Last bullet point aside, people can believe in the same exact thing . . . but it can look completely different. That's creating REAL characters. You see, justice for the cops isn't always just the way the D.A. sees it. Sometimes, writers seem to unite a team in pursuit of justice or "something." But it looks the same. Each character seems to hold that dream, that principle in the exact same way. Not on Law & Order. They may all passionately believe in something bigger than themselves, but they each do it in their own uniquely dysfunctional, f*cked-up way.
• It doesn't have to be about the beautiful people. Okay, Olivia is drop-dead gorgeous. In fact, I have never seen a cop who looks like her. But Munch? The rest of the guys? Not a particularly handsome bunch. I like that. It feels real. I mean, I would run away with Bobby Goren tomorrow, but I don't think he is particularly handsome. He is rather . . . interesting looking.
• Don't forget setting. The city is a character on Law & Order. MY city. New York City. They capture it well.

All right, so there you go. Any other Law & Order fans? Anyone else learn a lot about writing from a movie or TV show?

Let us know your viewing habits.

Sentence by Sentence

I was recently asked to evaluate a manuscript for an editor-pal. What I read--for 15 pages until I put it down--was an entire back story dump. It was awful. In the adage of "show don't tell," this was stupefyingly "telling." And no, the author doesn't get more than 15 pages of my time. Life's too short. This was too bad.

Very new writers often stumble at the whole back story issue. When I point out "show don't tell" sections, the usual response I have gotten has nearly always been, "But I have to tell the reader x or y because it's important." My response is almost always twofold: It might not be as important as you think. And two, there are ways to show this.

Okay, now suppose you've been writing for a few years. You "get" the whole "show don't tell" adage. You don't ever back story dump. Now it's time for the sentence-by-sentence edit for "show don't tell."

This is where I'm at. Weeding out single sentences of telling.

For example . . . . instead of saying my character felt cold, I will change the sentence to have them look at the sky outside, feel the wind picking up, and go in search of a sweater. Or add a blanket at night. Or kick one off. I don't have to TELL the reader my character "felt" anything. Search for the word "felt" and chances are it's a tell, not a show.

A superstitious character? I don't have to say so. Just have them knock on wood at some point in the conversation. Scared? Check the closet and under the bed. You get the idea. These are broad examples and pretty cliched, but it "shows" my point.

I would say most of this showing versus telling has become second nature, but I will still find spots where I seem to want to do both--TELL the reader my character's trait AND show it.

So now it's ruthless editing. Whereas years ago, I edited out huge chunks of back story, now it's a sentence. A word.

I suppose that's progresss.

So . . . in your quest to show not tell, where are you in the journey? What other signs do you have in your writing that you are progressing as a writer?

Love/Hate

I was downloading some music for my nephew this weekend. And he wanted a certain band for his iPod, and it pained me. PAINED me. Give me Arcade Fire. Give me John Hiatt. Give me Coldplay. But don't give me . . . I can't even SPEAK their name. So I said, "I hate this band and you're killin' me,kid. Can you not be satisfied with all the cool music I have already given you (including old RUN-DMC????)?

My mom, sitting in the living room, said, "As a Buddhist, you shouldn't say HATE." (This from a lapsed Catholic, but . . . she and my dad ask a lot of questions.)

She's right of course.

I should strike the word from my vocabulary. Even when discussing politics. Or music. Or things removed from me. But like most people, I am a swirling mass of loves and hates.

And I started thinking about it. I tend to describe my characters as a set of "positives." You know, "He's a magician who has dedicated his life to the clan." Or "He is a professor who has studied medievel history his entire life. It's his passion." I give a list of attributes.

But in rethinking things, I am starting to feel like perhaps I would do well to think about what they LOATHE as well as what their passions are. Because, sometimes--SOMETIMES--I think it says more about us when we explore what we hate, really hate, versus what we love.

Case in point? I love my children. I would die for them. I love my parents, I love candles. I love the rain when my windows are open and I can smell it. I love baby giggles. But really? Don't MOST people?

What do I hate? My son's snake, Lydia. Laundry. Emptying the dishwasher. Hypocrites. Racists. Male chauvinists. People who pretend to like children but want them "seen and not heard." Teachers who have forgotten they can inspire. War. People who wear a smile but give backhanded compliments.

Think EVERYONE hates those things? Maybe. But a lot of people won't take a stand. Won't speak up. It's easier to "go along."

I work at not hating. I empty the dishwasher so we have clean dishes. I do the laundry. I pray for racists to become enlightened. But there's a part of me that really, really can't stand people who condescend to children.

So I work at it. And in thinking about my characters . . . I am starting to think . . . sure, they love some things. But what do they HATE?

Sometimes, I know. but in one case, I am NOT SURE. And I need to be. So it's more psychological exploration of my character tomorrow. Hope he's ready for it. He's hitting my Couch. (Where many of you have reclined.)

Thoughts?

Tears

I am devastated. While researching a horse breed for my work-in-progress, my thoughts naturally turned to one of the top-five nonfiction books of my life: Sacred Horses: Memoirs of a Turkmen Cowboy by Jonathan Maslow. Released in 1994, my copy of this unbelievable book has survived multiple moves, marriages, and pregnancies. It has been packed and unpacked, and though I am a chronic book-giver, gifting my hardcover and paperback books to anyone who wants to read them, it is one I have never, EVER even loaned to another human being. I read it. I re-read it. Sometimes, I just touch the cover.

So while researching, I decided to see what this wondrous author was up to. And I found out he died of cancer two months ago.

I am literally in tears. THAT is how much the book has meant to me. It is out of print, but believe me, so worth tracking down for his humor, his edge, his beautiful writing. I feel utterly bereft. Like losing a friend. That he wrote about nature makes it even more poignant. He was writing about nature and the rain forest before most of us even began to worry about "going green" or global warming. His writing was witty, alive, vibrant.

So my friends, this blog post is dedicated to one of the most brilliant writers I have ever had the pleasure to read. And it's with the hope, the idea, that his writing lives on.

I am including a "sacred horse" in my Magickeepers series. I believe the horse has just been named Maslow.

Thanks for reading this. Only other lovers of words can understand, I think.

Peace,
E

Nothing Unseemly About It

I've always been a direct person. I say what I mean. The first time I discovered this wasn't always so with others was when, actually, I turned down a date with a man I had gone out with twice. He was infatuated. I wasn't. I SO wasn't. By the second date he was envisioning an engagement. I was envisioning the end of the night. So when he asked me, the following week, why I "couldn't" go out on Saturday night, I said, "I don't want to." "Well, what are you doing? Do you have plans?" "No. I'll probably stay in with my grandma." "So you'd rather stay in with your grandmother than go out in Manhattan and have a good time with me." "Yes." "Most women make something up, like they have to wash their hair." "I don't make up excuses."

I wasn't being MEAN. But I didn't see any point in continuing to date someone because I was unable to say I wasn't interested. It also didn't strike me as honest to string someone along until he "got the hint."

However, when it comes to my writing, I have one "wishy-washy" tendency. The word "seem."

"It seemed like the room grew very cold."

"The crowd seemed to inhale as one."

Look, it either got cold or it didn't. They either breathed as one or they didn't. You can't play it both ways.

I get SO disgusted with this writer habit. I don't allow it when I edit other writers. But somehow, this awful habit creeps into my own work.

I understand that sometimes it's because, truly, the crowd CAN'T REALLY inhale as one. It does just "seem" as if. But in writing, it's fine to make the leap. To be decisive.

Editing last night, I found three "seems" in fifty pages. ARGH!

Tell me, if I take out all my "seems" does my writing become "unseemly"?

And do you have anything "seemingly" creeping into your writing?

Do I Know You?

With me, pretty much what you see (exhausted mom of four, writer, odd around the edges) is what you get. I don't like small talk. I prefer to keep to myself, but I have very, very close friends that mean everything to me. Family is my number-one priority. Then my prayer life. Then my volunteering life. Then writing. Sometimes the order of the last two shuffles, but not much.

I wear my (typically bleeding) heart on my sleeve. If I want to cry, I don't care who sees me. If I am in a silly mood, I don't care if I am out in public. I am always the first person out on the dance floor at a wedding.

Baby Girl and I went out for dinner. She had given me the most glorious Mother's Day card (hand-painted by her) with an essay inside on why her mom is so special. Suffice it to say, virtually every sentence had some form of the following: "My mom is very different from most moms, and that's part of why I love her so much." "My mom is kind of crazy a lot of the time, but if you know her, that's why you'd love her." So at dinner, I asked her, "Why did your whole essay resound with 'my mom is weird.'" To which she replied, "Have you met yourself?" I asked if she wanted a normal mom. To which she replied, "No, I'll keep you." Which was gratifying, since she is rather stuck with me.


But in the end, Baby Girl's essay aside, I feel I am unknowable. There is so much pain and joy and heartache, and thoughts and prayer way, way beneath the surface. I don't feel that anyone knows me fully. And I feel that way about most people. We spend our lives trying to connect with people, but in the end, do we REALLY know them?


Which brings me to my work-in-progress. I have a couple of characters that I "get." I see them, feel them. In my mind, I see him brush a stray piece of hair from her face. I see her pausing to watch him before he knows she's there. I feel their breaths. But there--off-stage for now--is her domineering, mean father. Him, I don't know. It's not that I can't write him. I think I can. But I don't know what motivates him. I don't KNOW him. I can't wrap my mind around him. And while I don't have Writer's Block* (see end of post), THIS is a block that is holding up my work. I don't get him.

At one point, a certain member of my writers' group and I would have rather large disagreements about one of his characters. I think he felt he knew this character . . . and I didn't. Because it's not my work--I know to a very large extent he was right. On the flipside, we're trying to make our characters knowable--not just to us, but to our readers.

I also realize that the MAIN reason I don't know this character in my work-in-progress is I have no idea what motivates him. What makes him get out bed in the morning. What jerks his proverbial chain. For me, I get out of bed for the coffee brewing, for the chance to see Demon Baby with the peace of sleep on his face. I get up for my kids because I know if I am not "motivating" them out the door, their days will be a mess and spill back onto my day. I get up because loads of laundry are waiting to get done. I get up to blog and "see" all of you. I get up to pray.


So . . . are we knowable? Is what we know the EVIDENCE of our existence? Am I knowable only by what I do? Where I choose to spend my time? Are your characters knowable? And what obligation do you have to your readers to make them knowable?


Discuss. :-)


*My Writer's Block asterisk? I read the NY papers in the morning. James Frey made Page Six of the New York Post with this comment: JAMES Frey made his triumphant return to the literary limelight Tuesday night at the Blender Theater, where he walked through his adoring fans flanked by two huge body-builders and took the stage to read from his first novel, "Bright Shiny Morning." As jazz pianist Eric Lewis played, Frey read a passage about LA's gun culture under a slide show of Terry Richardson photographs of tattooed, heavily armed gang members. Asked if he'd suffered any droughts of inspiration during his 10 months of typing, Frey replied, "Writer's block is for chumps. To me this is a job, like being a banker, or a teacher. You never hear of banker's block."

To which I wanted to hurl my computer. I think the man is a jackass.

My First Time

Baby Girl had her poetry reading last night (she won a contest). She marched up in front of a ROOM full (big room full) of adults, some students, teachers, etc., all but a handful of whom were strangers, to read her poetry. And she was shorter than the lectern. Literally. She stood behind it and there was no part of her--not even the tip-top of her head--visible. She stood on tiptoes, they lowered the microphone. I could see the top of her hair and her forehead. It actually highlighted how tiny and young she is. And she read her poem with confidence she didn't feel (she said she was nervous) and drew huge applause.

When she made it back to me, of course I told her how well she did--she really was wonderful. How proud I was and am. And then . . . I said, "You should be a poet when you grow up. No one really aspires to that anymore." "What kind of job could I have?" "You could be a college professor and write poetry." We talked about that for a while. Then I said, as I often do, "You should follow your heart and not worry about money. Do what makes you happy." And we moved on.

But I started thinking about her big night in light of this post that Stephen Parrish directed me to. That first time you realize your gift with words is a gift.

I wrote a lot of short stories as a child. They were usually about mice for whatever reason. Mice with complex family relationships who lived in libraries. Mice that were not python food (I really, REALLY hate Oldest Son's snake). And much as I loved writing them and reading them aloud to my poor unsuspecting grandparents and parents . . . I didn't think it was a gift.

Until 7th grade. Now to be utterly clear, I had a 7th-grade English teacher who was . . . I am sorry to say it . . . like a caricature of the unmarried spinster. I don't want to publicly skewer this woman, though I presume she is long deceased. But wrap your minds around a really, really plain woman with long frizzy hair piled high on her head. And she would assign us essays. The most amazing thing was . . . sometimes she said, "They don't have to be true." Like the ol' "What I Did on Summer Vacation" one they trot out every year? She said, "It doesn't have to be true." So I made up a story about how I spent it in a government experiment about underwater colonization. She read mine aloud.

I can still remember the angry reactions I got from classmates. "That couldn't have happened!" "Well, she said it didn't have to be true!" And then some in the class thought it was amazing and fun and how did I think of it. I had a lot of details about how our colony worked, where it was located--I even had a moment of crisis written in there about when it appeared that our glassed-in colony had a leak.

From there, we as a class went on to other stories and essays. And it kind of got to be routine that she read mine aloud. And finally, at some point toward the end of the year, my teacher pulled me aside and said, "Have you ever thought about being a writer?" And for whatever reason, I hadn't. I had wanted to be a doctor or a vet. But I hadn't thought about spinning my stories for a wider audience. I thought about it . . . making up stuff for a living. I tucked it away in my head.

Years went by. This movie came out. That seemed like an important job. It combined writing skills with saving the world! (Important music crescendo please.) But after I went to college, I discovered a case of terminal shyness and more importantly, the sense that I didn't really want to PRY (unfailingly polite) was going to doom that career. I just didn't want to butt into other people's business. So my best friend from college went on to journalism, and I became a book editor. Just the perfect job for a woman who preferred to be left in a cubicle with manuscripts for company.

But in my head . . . I never forgot that 7th-grade teacher. And I kept writing stuff that wasn't true. Fast forward . . . here I am.

Yes. Here I am . . . On a poetry night with Baby Girl. And I can SEE she has something. I can see it when she wakes up first thing in the morning, goes to her poetry notebook, scratches out one word ("It's not quite right, Mom . . . it throws off the rhythm.") for another BETTER word. I see it.

I think last night was an important night. I hope she remembers it always. What it felt to stand at a microphone behind a lectern taller than she was, in her brand-new outfit for the occasion, with her big sister's borrowed necklace, and read HER poem.

What was your first time?

The Bird's Nest

In my living room, I have a bay window . . . a picture window. And in front of it grows a maple tree. This spring, a robin decided to build a nest in it.

The nest is a haphazard affair. I can actually see strands of yarn that the robin must have plucked from my garbage cans (I knit, and I recognize some loose strands from old yarn--this white chenille). There's a silver ribbon from a Christmas present. The nest is in a place where we can see it from the chair in the window . . . and it's near Demon Baby's bird feeder. Demon Baby loves his bird feeder, which he fills with sunflower seeds. And he "defends" it with a passion from his mortal enemies, the squirrels. He defends it with a glow-in-the-dark plastic Star Wars light sabre. And he, like all Jedi, is fearless. He hates the squirrels like they are an incarnation of Darth Vader, and he is willing to fight them to the death.

We've had some hellacious weather here lately, and very often, Demon Baby sits in the chair by the window when it is raining and sobs. "PLEASE can we bring the nest inside. PLEASE can we bring the eggs inside." He is absolutely distraught--his face wet with real Demon tears.

It breaks my heart to tell dear Demon Baby that no, the nest must weather the elements.

So it is with writing. We build it, strand by strand, adding shiny Christmas ribbons and bits of yarn we've collected. We build it word by word, strand of plot by strand of plot. And some day . . . we lay the proverbial egg. A finished book. Then we sit on it . . . we sit on it and nurture it and hope an agent likes it . . . and then it hatches and a tiny bird, a hatchling, leaves the nest--sometimes it's even PUSHED from the nest. And we hope it flies.

But the other part of it, of course, is the rain and the windstorms. We can't protect our work forever. It has to survive the elements. If we're lucky, our agent and writers' group and critique partners will be like Demon Baby, defending our work with a plastic light sabre. The super-cool glow-in-the-dark one. But in the end, it has to weather the storm. Alone.

And if we're lucky, our baby birds will soar.

In the next two weeks, two hatchling manuscripts will be leaving my nest. I am sad to see them go. But they're ready to fly. Shiny ribbons and all.

Thoughts?

The Most Important Thing My Mom Ever Taught Me

Yesterday was Mother's Day, and I spent it with my mom. And in pondering it . . . I wrote her something in her card thanking her for the most important thing she ever taught me. Because ALL the advice my mom ever gave me, over all these years, from birth until now, can be summed up with these ten words:

PUT ON YOUR BIG GIRL PANTIES AND DEAL WITH IT.

Yup. Frankly, this advice from mom applies to everything in life.

Because in the end, what choice do we have? Suck it up or die whining.

I have converging deadlines.

See mom's advice.

I can't get this scene to work.

See mom's advice.

I got two rejection letters in one day.

See mom's advice.

I have a cold and don't feel good but my editor needs these galleys back.

See mom's advice.

I have a Demon Baby who was up no less than 13 times in the night and I haven't slept more than two hours and it was SUPPOSED to be Mother's Day, but I was up at 5:30 a.m., and was still cooking for Oldest Son's confirmation party at 8:30 p.m.

See mom's advice.

Today, after all that and no sleep again last night, I am really, really, really tired.

You know the drill.

So tell me, is there any bit of advice that seems to apply to all areas of your life? To writing?

Share.

Happy Monday!

What I Know . . . the Mom's Day Edition

Basically, when I had my first child, I was utterly and completely clueless. Sure, I took Lamaze. Sure, I read a book or two. Sure . . . I had a sister 10 years younger so I was an experienced babysitter and mothering fill-in from time to time. But still, what did I know?

The things I didn't know, of course, had less to do with swaddling a baby and changing a diaper and how to breastfeed, and more to do with the things you only find out once you have a baby, or two, or three, or four.

So . . . this is what I know now.

That sure, I could write a thousand funny, adorable, charming, smart, silly stories about my kids. But in the end, the lessons I have learned are far more profound than the stories I have to tell. That I am different because I have mothered.

I thought when I became a mother, that I would teach my children things. How to read and write, how to pray, how to ride a bicycle, the secrets of how to tie your shoes and make a decent scrambled egg, and all the rest of the mysteries of the cosmos. But in the end, through four children, I learned you teach them nothing.

You try to model a person worthy of their love because children seem to love most openly of all--and I trip and fall as much as anyone. I yell too much after too little sleep. I am eccentric and moody at times. I don't cook particularly well, and laundry is a haphazard affair. But they know, beyond anything, that I love them with all my soul, with a fierce kind of mother-love that is maybe a little bolder and louder than most moms. But what I know . . . is that babies come into the world with their own soul agenda.

They each are so different. So destined for the lives their little souls intend to live. Oldest Daughter played this concert last night. She arranged (!!) songs by U2 and the Beatles. I cried through the entire thing. Oldest Son . . . my math genius. My kindest child in many way, a gentle heart with a mind for numbers. Baby Girl--who won the poetry contest (remember when she was guest blogger?? She won!) and is my creative writer and crafter and painter. The mushy one, who loves to curl up with me. And then . . . there is Demon Baby. We pray his agenda isn't this place. But I am fairly certain his fearless nature and passion will lead him places I can only dream of, maybe. Right now, he loves space and the stars.

I didn't teach them any of their essence. They arrive that way. They teach me. That's how it works, I think. That's what I know.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!!!!

The Flea Market

When I was a little girl, my dad used to take me to the flea market. He LOVES places like that. He has easily 10,000 records. You read that number correctly. LPs. All jazz. And we would go hunting. (He is visiting me, and said he recently got airchecks of my favorite--Django Reinhardt--which he is going to give me.) The best thing about flea markets is the hunt.

Once in a blue moon, I still go to the flea market. I think because it reminds my of him and how much I love him. I like going ALONE (a flea market with Demon Baby is a nightmare I don't want to imagine). I wander the aisles in some kind of meditative trance. It relaxes me. I don't collect LPs, but I do buy useless crap sometimes--a pretty plate, or a teacup, or an old book. I sometimes spend an hour just looking through old family photographs there--you know, the old black and whites of families from the 1930s or what have you. I don't know the people, of course, but I wonder who they were. I also wonder why no one wants their pictures anymore. I think of family, and even death. After I am gone, and my kids are gone, and my grandkids are gone, who the hell is going to want my pictures? My crap! Will my junk end up in a flea market?

Anyway, what I love about the hunt is you find something cool, but there, 'round the bend is a table--and maybe there's something even COOLER, some hidden treasure that is just meant to go home with you.

So it was with my work-in-progress yesterday. You see, I have a perfectly servicable plot point. It works. It has a "cool" factor (this is for MAGICKEEPERS, my middle-grade fantasy). But then, out of the blue, I thought of something SO MUCH BETTER. I wavered for a minute. It will mean rewriting a couple of scenes. BUT . . . with this new addition, I know exactly where the book will end. Exactly. My young hero is going to say, "Why didn't I think of this before?"--and he will have an epiphany--just as I did yesterday.

And I guess my point is I can't help myself. There's always the promise of something hidden 'round the next bend. And that hunt, I suppose, is one of the neatest things about being a writer.

Thoughts?

Vapor Trails

Last night I had a bad dream. I'm not sure what it was about exactly. I just slept awfully. I was overtired--Demon Baby and I drove to the airport to get my mom and dad at 9:00 p.m. Oldest Son has had a raging case of strep and lost over a tenth of his body weight since the weekend. I had to clean the house from top to bottom to get ready for the Invasion of the Parental Units. By the time Demon got to bed, it was midnight. I gave up my bedroom for my parents, so I'm bunking with Demon Baby, and he was up--easily--ten times between midnight and dawn. So after a while? I start hallucinating. And somewhere near four a.m., I know I had a nightmare.

I vaguely recall an urban apocalyptic feel to it. I think the Blue Wiggle was in it. (Regular readers know when I start lacking sleep, I develop strange crushes on children's TV stars . . . I went through a Steve/Blues Clues phase . . . and trust me, Steve is not the sharpest knife in the drawer). And I "think" there was an Invasion of the Body Snatchers vibe going on--the Donald Sutherland version.

Anyway, when I woke up, I started trying to remember the dream. I'm not sure why except that there was something about it. So I felt like I was grasping at vapors . . . these leftover remnants of a dream . . . snippets of pictures in my head . . . a feeling . . . a wondering. And it dawned on me . . .

THAT'S what it's like to write a book. At least for me.

Yesterday, as we talked about process . . . I realized I left something out. Or maybe it's best left for today's blog post anyway. And that is what it's like to have a vision in your head and to try to make it finite . . . on a computer screen, on paper. It's sometimes so elusive. You have it there in your head--sort of. But you're chasing these vapor trails.

THAT'S what it's like. For me.

Thoughts?

Self-Editing

I tend to edit in my head. It's how I write. What you see in, for example, THE ROOFER, published, is pretty close to my first draft, word for word. First draft.

Yesterday, I opened my contracted work-in-progress, read 100 pages, and changed about 30 words--mostly by changing single word choices.

I can do this--I think--because I worked as an editor for years and years. And also because I've been in a writers' group for 12 years. And because my PROCESS is, near as I can tell, the following:

1. Open file. Sip coffee.
2. Decide what happens in the new chapter I am about to write in a big-picture sense in terms of plot. And a big-picture sense in terms of the emotional growth of my character. Thinking of a recent chapter in my middle-grade fantasy, I wanted Koyla to break the rules of his newly found clan of Vegas entertainers/magicians and sneak out with his cousin to the top floor of the secret family quarters at the casino--where the family keeps polar bears and penguins from their act. And I wanted him to be having fun with his cousin, being amazed at this magical world that has opened to him (the animals obey the commands of the females of the clan), and then for him to be in grave danger from the sworn enemies of the clan and nearly drown in the icy pool. In terms of his emotional growth, after he is nearly killed by the shadowy other realm . . . he will realize that he MUST throw his lot in wholeheartedly with his clan--or he could die. But he will ALSO realize that he cannot be too foolhardy because he can endanger the people he is just STARTING (baby steps) to care about.
3. Write without stopping. One chapter. Just get it out--again, I'm virtually a first-draft writer, so what comes out is fairly polished, but "slim"--more on that later.
4. Close file. Sip coffee. Deal with Demon Baby.
5. Elapsed time? About 25 minutes. I don't berate myself, agonize, etc. Just write it.

Okay. So Demon Baby will generally have, in that elapsed time (judging from yesterday, for instance), pinched me and begged me for storytime (which we'll do). Dumped the ENTIRE container of soap bubbles that I have given him on the carpet on my porch (enclosed room) thus RUINING carpet, and then let the dusty/dirty dogs run through it. In which case, clean-up is involved. He will also, likely, have fingerpainted with the blueberry yogurt snack I gave him. Walls need a wipe-down. Carpet . . . forget it. Dogs need a bath. Then, after storytime, there is cuddle time and then the FUN (!) of laundry. (Can you STAND the excitement? What theoretical physicist WOULDN'T want this?--see yesterday's post.)

Then I come back, later, to my wip. It could be that day. It could be that week. Hell, it could be a month since I juggle projects. When I do, I open the file and re-read the last chapter and self-edit. So here's what I do.

1. Open file. Sip coffee. Listen for sure signs Demon Baby is really enjoying the Matchbox cars he is playing with. If the coast is clear, I . . . .
2. Read it for flow. For sense. For making sure it accomplished what I set out--the two goals--one action, one emotional/character growth. If it didn't, can it be fixed or does it need to be cut?
3. Read for emotional resonance. I am a touchy-feely writer. If my face isn't smiling during the happy parts, something is wrong. If I'm not feeling somewhat crushed by the sad ones, something is wrong. Reads #1 and 2 are simulatenous. In short, I'm aiming for an overall sense of whether or not the chapter rocks or sucks.
4. Now I focus word for word. All adverbs are immediately suspect. I try to punch up EVERY single verb.
5. All adjectives are immediately suspect (in case there's a better one). ANY TIME two adjectives are used in a row to describe something, even MORE suspect. One should do it if they describe the same thing--i.e., a hairy black bear is OK (one adjective for color and one for texture), but a hairy and furry bear is not. Obviously, that's a silly example as I don't think anyone would write the latter--but you never know.
6. Check comma placements, sentence flow (break anything into two sentences because the sentence is just too long for the average reader to muddle through or is a muddy sentence).
7. Read dialogue carefully for realism. Eliminate any tags I can. Punch up the dialogue so the lines are more identifiable by character so I don't NEED tags. Make every line of dialogue advance the plot--it's dialogue NOT conversation. Cut any conversation/small talk.
8. Cut anything that shows, not tells.
9. Cut ANY sentence in which a character asks himself something. Once in a while, I slip up here, but if a character asks himself, I wonder if the culprit is Mary, that means the writer didn't do a terribly good job of connecting the dots. Most of us don't question ourselves. We simply arrive at the conclusion. Lawyers lead witnesses. We don't have to lead readers (except invisibly--asking a question--that's not invisible).
10. Finally, I layer in description. As I said, I write slim. Now I make sure every sentence helps create a picture of the world, piecing in the things I "notice" as I look around their world in my head. Not TOO much, since most of us only notice a few things. While questioning a suspect, for instance, no cop is going to notice the chintz on a chair in the room. Details must MATCH the character.
11. Hear a crash in the pantry. Save file. Close it. Run to see that Demon Baby has climbed up the pantry shelves to get the dog bones that I erroneously thought were out of his reach, in order to feed the dogs.

Now, all this sounds sort of methodical (except the Demon Baby stuff). It isn't. At ALL. At this point in my career, it's fluid and pretty seamless. But in thinking about self-editing . . . I tried to break it down.

So . . . Demon Baby aside . . . what's your process and any self-editing tricks you have?

Theoretical Physicists Apply Here

I don't know anyone who dates the "old-fashioned" way. It's all online dating services. I even know two couples who met online at E-Harmony and are now married. One happily. One not. Sounds like the 50-50 odds of marriage.

If I ran an E-Harmony add, it would say something like:

Utterly exhausted mother of four seeks theoretical physicist. Bad fashion sense, wild hair . . . fine. Do you like talking about Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle? Big Bang Nucleosynthesis? Then I want to talk to you! Must love children and dogs. Son has a python, but I don't like her, so snake phobias are OK. Must be spiritual, but if you don't believe in the Big Guy, I understand. Most physicists don't. Music lover, please, as my iPod is more important than food. NO SMOKERS. Must be neat . . . but tolerate mess.

The last line of my personal ad is because my house IS messy, but there is NO way I am EVER going to pick up after another man again.

So do you think I would get any responses? Me either.

But here's the thing . . .

While there are exceptions to every rule, don't you just love how in the movies, physicists look like Russell Crowe??? And how in romance books, fabulously wealthy men who would just as soon eat their corporate opponents for breakfast are secretly just pussycats? How male chauvinists are usually just "messin' with ya" and are actually chivalrous, instead of just really being a**holes?

Which is, I suppose, why we call it fiction.

Why am I pondering all this? Well, I am working on a romance with a professor in it, and he is really dysfunctional (agoraphobic). And I am showing all the ways in which this is paralyzing. It's not something "cute" that just the right combination of romance can cure. Like one day, a la Jack Nicholson in As Good As It Gets, he can just venture out and be fixed.

Which is why, I think . . . any romances I write are generally not quite what the genre demands. Which can be a good thing. Or a bad thing. Depending, entirely, on the reader.

Thoughts?

Nothing Special

You know that meme that's out there asking you to list six unique, random things about yourself? Well, I am not going to do that. (Aren't you all relieved?) But I AM going to use that as a leaping-off point for a discussion of standing out in the marketplace when it comes to characters.

Let's see now . . . world-weary cop, noir private eye, recovering alcoholic cop/private-eye/anything, gambling addict cop/detective, world-weary vampire, bride having her doubts, it's ALL been done before. And judging from some queries I see out there on blogs . . . either (a) writers haven't figured out how to make these characters unique, or (b) they don't know how to construct a query that makes these characters sound unique. Either way, you're in trouble. Because if you can't do a unique-sounding query then you will never get read. And if you can do a great query but your character is nothing special, you're not going to get bought.

And it was a meme that actually got me thinking about this. You see over at Edie's blog a week or so ago, she posted the meme, and I mentioned something random. You see, I grew up playing cards (Rummy) with my grandma. Then I was introduced to poker. I also remember one Christmas Eve craps game. And then we (my family and crew of pals) moved on to the classic card game "Oh Sh*t." We always (once I was a late-teen) played for money. Not serious money. Silly money. Nickels and dimes and quarters. Everyone in my family has their "lucky" change jar. Mine is one I found in an antique store--a little porcelain herb jar that someone would have kept sweet-smelling lavender in years ago, and it has purple flowers painted on it. It's an antique, worth probably the two dollars I paid for it, and I love it--AND keep my money in it. My mom has a "Country Crock" plastic tub. But on Edie's blog, I shared that one day, burnt out on playing "Oh Sh*t" (and this was as a preggers mom of one, with one on the way), I took out the game of TROUBLE. You know, the one with the pop-o-matic. And we BET on the outcome of the game. Five bucks per game. On TROUBLE.

And my point is this . . . I have never been a gambling addict. I can play for fun. The five bucks just, as they say, "makes it interesting." My family . . . we like to make things interesting. But if I WERE to write about a gambling addict (and I have, in this book), I would have to "make it interesting." Someone who goes through life betting on TROUBLE, on whether it's going to rain. On any of a number of nutty things. I used to bet football with a friend of mine. We bet weird things--loser has to mail the winner something with polka dots, or something that tells time or temperature. I still wear my polka-dot scarf he got me. Alas, I lost the thermometer that he had added a woodland painted animal to (don't ask).

When deciding how to make your character have quirks, I think you have to "make it interesting." Being a gambler ISN'T a quirk. Betting on TROUBLE is. Being a bride with doubts, isn't a quirk. Deciding whether or not to go through with the wedding based on whether or not you get some "sign" from God, like seeing a bride form in the syrup pattern on your pancakes at the Waffle House one morning? That's a quirk. You don't even want to know how I decided to get married. Really. It was that random.

You have got to stand out in the marketplace. EVERYONE at a certain level of competition is "good enough" to be published. It's the really special characters and storylines that will actual elevate you.

Thoughts?

What Are Your REALLY Afraid Of?

When I was a little girl, often my father's mother would babysit us. She was from Russia, and what I remember most was she made me drink tea. Before bed. Tea I hated the taste of. She also used to curl my long hair by wrapping it in newspapers (old technique . . . especially if you were poor, as she was after she came to America). She was a pessimist, but it was only much later that I understood why--she had been wealthy in Russia, the Communist Revolution destroyed everything she and her family had--they murdered people she knew . . . family, she came to America, penniless and alone, lying about her age (she wasn't even 18 yet), struggled under great poverty in the melting pot of the lower East side of NYC. What was to be optimistic about? So I don't think I understood her because I was just too young to grasp all that. She was a chronic worrier. But now, of course, I realize she had everything in the world to worry about. But what I most remember was she was TINY. I mean, teeny-tiny, maybe 90 pounds soaking wet. In baby-sitting parlance, this meant that, were a bad guy to break into our house, were a marauding band of crazed mutants to break into our house, she would merely be a fragile little snack cake for them. THIS I understood quite clearly in third grade.

Overactive imagination? Oh yes. After all, I've become a novelist. And one night, my sisters and I worked ourselves into a shrieking mass hysteria because we were certain a man was waiting outside our bedrooms to kill us. We saw his shoes there at the doorway, lurking there. We screamed, we cried. My grandmother was hard of hearing.

Now, the other part of this is my parents frequently partied until at LEAST dawn. Many a time, in later years, I'd leave for high school and they would be toddling in. One New Year's Party were threw lasted until January 3rd. So our mass hysteria lasted until amost dawn when my parents came home to shrieking children and a sleeping mutant snack of Russian origin. The serial killer outside our bedrooms was ACTUALLY a pair of my father's shoes. Just shoes.

So it is with writing fears. Recently on the blog, some people opened up about a fear of rejection. But that's not it at all. You don't fear the rejection letter. A rejection letter is nothing more than shoes. What you FEAR are the mutants. The mutants could be:

• The Mutants of Humiliation. Now that I have this awful rejection letter, SOMEONE out there knows how pathetic a writer I am. I am embarrassed.
• The Mutants of Reality. Now that I have this awful rejection letter, I have to face something I am not ready to about my writing--that I need to learn more craft, that I am not "ready" to send this out there even though I thought I was.
• The Mutants of Inner Tapes. Now that I have this awful rejection letter, that negative internal tape I love to play over and over and over again . . . is just louder and louder and louder. That I've wasted my time. That I am kidding myself. That my mother/high school English teacher/ex-boyfriend, etc. is right.
• The Mutants of People Who Know Better. You know them. The negative bloggers. The people who have given up. The people who tell you that you can't succeed.

See? A rejection letter is just a SHOE. It's the mutants. What are you REALLY afraid of?

The other half of this story is that in the light of day, the shoes weren't terribly frightening. They were JUST shoes after all. When you bring the mutants out into sunlight, as ANY zombie-movie fan knows, they will turn into a shriveling, burning mass of flesh and die. Mutants can't take sunlight.

LEARN what your REAL fear is. Then bring it out into the light. Then you can move forward bravely. You need not fear being a snack cake.

Thoughts? What are you REALLY afraid of?

The Writing Mom

Yesterday, my alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. But I was already up (stress). By 6:10, Demon Baby had arisen. Demon Baby, for the record, does not greet sunrise with joy. He doesn't babble at the rays as they form a dappling pattern across his crib. He wakes up, and his first instinct is to pretty much let the world (in particular, me) know his sheer displeasure at everything about it, which means whining or crying for about 5 minutes, sometimes 10. Yesterday, I scooped him up at my desk, and we rocked in my desk chair for about 10 minutes. I was struck by how wonderful, actually, this is. See, I used to DREAD the whining routine. I used to say, "My darling Demon Baby, greet the sun with happiness." But now I realize it's the only 10-minute period in which he will cuddle and hug me and we have pure alone time (since no one else is nuts enough to be awake at that hour).

The day pretty much was a blur from that moment. I got in a fight with Oldest Daughter. I got the other two off to school. New contracts came (announcement soon!)