You Don't Move Me Anymore

Way back when, while I had friends who mooned over Mick Jagger, I had a thing for the cadaver next to him. When Keith Richards released a solo album, I was first in line to buy it. As expected, there's some great guitar on it. And as expected, his voice sounds like someone who has boozed, drugged, and smoked his way through all his years on earth. I'm sure I'm not the only person who mentally pictures Keith Richards at age 2 with a Marlboro hanging from his lips. His is not a a polished voice, but a blues voice--and he's no great lyricist, but I like his music.

In particularly, he has a song called You Don't Move Me. And of course, it makes me think of writing. Because I recently read a manuscript that . . . well, didn't move me.

I tried to think of why. Each sentence was perfectly crafted. No extra words. Spare. Lean. Writing that I admire.

There were no errors of grammar. Nothing to stop this editor in her tracks.

The voice . . . solid.

The problem at hand? Yes, the hero faced a pretty Herculean crisis.

But I was not moved.

And it was only later that I realized this newer writer had grasped the mechanics of writing, but not the emotion. And later still that I realized PLOT DOESN'T EQUAL CHANGE.

That was it. Because really, when I arrive at a "meh," that is sometimes the problem. Plot advances story. It has a beginning, a middle, an end. But how does the main character CHANGE? Is there an emotional core to the book? It doesn't have to be this massive "message" book. But really . . . there's a story arc, and there's a character arc. If I am, say, going along with a cop on a case, and he solves the case, but isn't forever changed by the case, then it's just a procedural.

That Keith Richards was right. You need to MOVE me.

So how are you going to move your readers?

Call Me Mitzi

On my very first day of sophomore year in college, I somehow was dragged to a frat party (I was never into fraternity guys). I was bored out of my mind, when along came a tall then-senior, clutching a beer.

"What's your name?"

"Erica."

"Nope."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're most definitely not an Erica. Henceforth, you will be Mitzi to me."

And henceforth I was.

Now . . . I have to say, I kind of chuckle at the memory. But I "get" that sometimes people don't seem to fit their names. Somehow, this stranger, who became a friend, must have discerned an eccentric soul . . . and felt Mitzi fit me better.

Oldest has a friend whose name is Amazing Grace, and has siblings with names like Maximum Jazz and Chances Are Good. I actually really LIKE Maximum Jazz. And of course, we all know about celebs with unusually named children.

I know there's a certain torture to having unusual names. But then again, when you get older, perhaps you appreciate being the only Mitzi in the room.

So it is with character names. They have to fit. I rarely have a plain-name heroine or hero. An upcoming release has a Calliope and August. Magickeepers concerns young Nicholai Rostov. I love my characters' names--they speak to me somehow. I have had Georgia Ray Miller and Teddi Gallo, and a woman named Skye.

And just like giving birth and the awesome responsibility of naming your child . . . I give a lot of AGONIZING thought to names. They "come" to me from nowhere most times. Other times, I comb baby books and then research name origins.

And one of these days, I think I will have to have a Mitzi.

How do you name your characters?

And for the record, Demon Baby's Naked Strike continues. The housekeepers here today are amused.

Watering Your Garden

I haven't been watering my garden lately. Or my lawn. We're in the middle of a drought where I live. The trees are already shedding their leaves--and it's not even Labor Day--because it's so dry. Patches of lawn look like a dustbowl. My flowers are wilted. Even the guys OBSESSED with their lawns . . . have dead lawns. In fact, the only people with nice lawns are those watering them--and frankly, given the environment and resources and the drought, I don't think ANYONE should water their lawn.

In my writing life, I haven't been watering my proverbial garden either. It's been difficult all around. Demon Baby is on a Naked Strike, meaning he is nude 24/7 . . . and he has been in a particularly clingy state, I think because Oldest left for college. When we web-cam her on Skype, he thinks she can walk through the computer screen and come home. Last night he tried to put pennies in her hand. He doesn't get it, and I presume in his Demon Baby little mind, he thinks I can vanish into the computer too--after all, I spend so much time here. So he clings.

Add to that my dad going through a rough patch, and my time commitments for volunteering . . . and school starting for the middle two . . . and . . . and . . . and I think I have a mental garden, but I need to water it. I always know when I am in a drought because everything gets on my Last Raw Nerve. You know that nerve? Even the Naked Strike . . . yup. Last Raw Nerve. Apparently, I have one.

Watering my garden, for me, means knitting. It means shutting OFF the computer at night. That's a tough one. I am a computer 24/7 gal . . . but I also know it can be unhealthy and encourage workaholism, so off it goes. It also means indulging Shiny New Idea Syndrome, just for the heck of it. Just to get that energy. It means meditation. It means getting back into walking. It means reminding myself of the things I have to do to take care of the writer soul.

So how do you water your garden? And how do you know when you NEED to?

How Extraordinary Are You?

We all have the extraordinary coded within us, waiting to be released.

~Jean Houston

Every day, I tell my children they are destined for great things.

"How do you know?" Oldest asks.

"I just do," is my usual reply.

It never--not ever, not for a moment--dawns on me that my children might lead "ordinary" lives. Lives of quiet desperation, lives of monotony. I don't know why it never occurs to me that this might happen, but it doesn't. It's just not on my radar map. Everything I do for them, every waking moment, every sacrifice or time or money, is with that thought in mind.

Now . . . I have to say that I don't think being "extraordinary" means fame and fortune. But I DO think it means finding your passion and pursuing it. Waking each day--or most days--with a sense of purpose. Filling your life with people you don't just "like" but LOVE down to your core. There are so many people in my life that I can look in the eye and say, "I love you." Male friends, female friends. I close my conversations with my Pammie (my best friend), my sister in Texas (boo-hoo) with "I love you." I say it easily to my parents. I say it and MEAN it with so many people because frankly, I don't have TIME for lukewarm relationships in my life. If we get one go-'round, I want to LOVE the people in my life, not pass time with them.

When I first started doing volunteer work, my father, in particular, said poverty couldn't be beaten. That some kids were just going to be hard-wired to make the same mistakes their parents did simply because they had no options. I never believed that. There were DAYS when I went into the 'hood and thought, "You are losing this battle"--but then I would rephrase it. Maybe I lost a battle or two, but not the war. Now, my parents are very interested in my causes and my mom even knits beautiful hats and baby blankets for children who will have a cold winter this year without them. She bought food for seniors struggling to make ends meet last Christmas, which I then delivered. In my mom's own way, she's in the battle.

So it is with writing. I wonder--I really wonder--how many of us had ONE teacher, grandmother, parent, or person who read something we wrote and said, "You know, you are a very good writer . . . you should pursue this."

Think about that. How much "extraordinary" can be unlocked with encouragement? Oh, there's tons of hard work. Don't believe for a second the hard work doesn't FOLLOW the key unlocking the extraordinary . . . but if we all went through life recognizing extraordinary, think of the world.

I mentored an unwed teen mother who delivered her baby and went to school the next day to take finals. She had a second baby. She faced hardship, struggle, and living places that terrified me for her. She is now a nurse. She graduated in May. She is a hero of mine. We spent a couple of years together, every week a part of my life. I love her.

So I say to everyone reading this . . . YOU are extraordinary. Believe it. Own it.

And tell me . . . how extraordinary are you? And who unlocked that key?

Have a beautiful day.

E

A Room of One's Own

Baby Girl moved into Oldest Daughter's former bedroom last night. (Oldest is getting a soon-to-be-redecorated guestroom for when she comes home, complete with her Audrey Hepburn Breakfast at Tiffany's poster.) Let me compare Oldest's room to Baby Girl's for just a moment.

Remember. It is the same room.

When Oldest lived in her room, you would not know that it was carpeted. Rather, you would have thought it was carpeted by clothes in some avant-garde new home decorating system. You would have been hard-pressed to know what the top of her dresser looked like. The closet spilled out to the room in some sort of hostile takeover . . . and remnants of meals were scattered in bowls, cups, wine glasses, and take-out boxes--you might be lucky enough to find a spoon in amongst the laundry, should you have needed one. This was a constant sore point between Oldest and me. My housekeepers, I am sure, muttered many Spanish cursewords under their breath at her. But . . . I love Oldest JUST the way she is. So . . . you know . . . it is what it is. Now it's her room-mate's problem.

Baby Girl has now taken over the room. Not so much as a pen is out of place. Her clothes are neatly folded in drawers--even her socks line up. It lis serene and looks fabulous. She has plans for a mural. She's growing into this room of her own.

If you have never read A Room of One's Own, it's something worth checking out as a writer, particularly as a woman, and even if you DON'T write . . . it's a great piece. I wish I could say I could write anywhere, anytime. In fact, though the stories run through my head constantly, I seem to require a room of my own to write. My office is in a central room with kids running through it all day long. This is my room, but it's not entirely my own. Nonetheless, I cope with that . . . and carve out a mental place. I have my Buddha statues, my lucky clock, my pictures of my grandmother. I look at my children's pictures, pull out pens from ceramic mugs the kids made me in art class. I have my iPod. But for me, maybe because I am a woman and a mom of four, the rest of the house needs to have some SEMBLANCE of cleanliness in order for me to feel settled enough to write. Unfortunately, my Significant Other doesn't "get" that--doesn't even try. So it's a chronic battle to carve out "my room." I cannot tell you the sight that greeted me in the kitchen after 26 hours of driving in two days. Cannot even BEGIN. So . . . today, after church, after driving to the food bank, after coming home, I will clean . . . I will play music . . . and I will carve out that room. It's as much MENTAL as physical.

I have come to believe Virginia Woolf wasn't far off. We each require something, I bet, that creates our room. What is yours?

Things You Learn on a 13-Hour Solo Car Ride

I drove home--alone--from my daughter's college (near Canada). I drove through the night (got home at 4:30 a.m.). The road is long and dark. You learn a lot. Such as:

• No matter HOW close my gas is to EMPTY, I cannot buy gas from them. Just can't.
• No matter how hungry I am, I can't eat this.
• I really love this.
• There seems to be an extradordinary propensity for motorcyclists on the highway to do 90 mph. I fear for some of the guys I saw on the road. Doctors don't call 'em donor machines for nothing. Slow down!
• I really, REALLY love this guy's music.
• Even when I THINK I'm done crying from missing my daughter, something else will remind me of her and I will start all over again.
• My daughter's idea for me to marry him amuses me A LOT somewhere around 2:00 a.m. Yes, he's gay. But she thinks he would make me laugh, he's a writer, and we could settle into a nice companionship in our old age as we set up house together. (Oldest Daughter believes what I really need is a nice gay guy to marry.)
• I delivered 165 pounds of food to the food bank this week . . . when alone for long hours, I think of the food bank, the homeless, kids in foster care, and come up with ideas for saving the world. I just need to get elected.
• I really, really, really love my iPod. It borders on obsession.
• When I think of all the crazy things he's done, in sequential order, he really deserves the name.
• And most importantly . . . . WHEN ALONE FOR 13 HOURS, the STORY IDEAS JUST DON'T STOP.

Has a road trip ever taught you anything?

Oh, The Places She'll Go--Courtesy of Dr. Seuss

Oh, the Places You'll Go!
Congratulations! Today is your day. You're off to Great Places! You're off and away!
You have brains in your head.You have feet in your shoes.

You can steer yourself any direction you choose.

You're on your own.

And you know what you know.

And YOU are the guy who'll decide where to go.

You'll look up and down streets.

Look 'em over with care.

About some you will say, "I don't choose to go there."

With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,

you're too smart to go down any not-so-good street.
And you may not find any you'll want to go down.

In that case, of course, you'll head straight out of town.
It's opener there in the wide open air.
Out there things can happen and frequently do

to people as brainy and footsy as you.

And when things start to happen, don't worry. Don't stew.

Just go right along. You'll start happening too.
OH! THE PLACES YOU'LL GO!

You'll be on your way up! You'll be seeing great sights!

You'll join the high fliers who soar to high heights.
You won't lag behind, because you'll have the speed.

You'll pass the whole gang and you'll soon take the lead.

Wherever you fly, you'll be the best of the best.

Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

. . . And will you succeed?

Yes! You will, indeed!

(98 and 3 / 4 percent guaranteed.)
KID, YOU'LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!

Today is your day!

Your mountain is waiting. So...get on your way!
---Dr. Seuss

Possibility

Oldest Daughter and her violin leave for college tomorrow. Right now, it's all about possibility.

I think nothing is more soul-crushing, nothing will age you faster, than giving up on possibility. In fact, when I think of friendships I have moved away from in life, outgrew, it was always a friend who was so filled with cynicism that they stopped believing. The "why bother" people of the world.

I just saw a sketch for the cover of Magickeepers. It blew me away as soon as I saw it--and I'll share when the final is approved. I have a new book idea that I think is exciting. I have a new release in November. The thing about this career is with every new manuscript, release, idea . . . there's the possibility of something great.

Somehow, if I could say to new writers . . . the one thing to hold onto in the face of rejection and discouragement, the pronouncements that no one is reading anymore, in the face of all of it, hold onto possibility.

My mom gave Oldest a hand-knit blanket for college. In the card she wrote "See you at Carnegie Hall." Possibility . . .

Oldest Son wants to go to M.I.T. and be a math professor. Possibility.

Baby Girl wants to be an artist/poet. Possibility.

Demon Baby wants to take over the world. Dinstinctly possible.

Anything is possible. Believe it.

Thoughts?