Writing as Art

What I’m Reading: The Brief History of the Dead by Kevin Brockmeier and The Lonely Crossing of Juan Cabrera by J. Joaquin Fraxedas

What I’m Working On: Working?

Being a writer is hard.

So many people think, “Oh, I’ll just sit down and write a book.”

Ok. Do it. All the way. Start to finish. It’s harder than you think.

Writing is art. When you ask people to give you a list of artistic endeavors, many won’t even mention writing. Oh, they might mention poetry, but fiction – nah. Non-fiction? No way.

But writing is art. The blank page is the canvas.

It’s a challenging form of art.

Painters have the visual clues. Did I get the right shade of blue for just that moment at twilight? Is the shadow on that lily realistic? What emotion is on his face?

Musicians have the auditory cues. Does this melody match that lyric? Should I write this song in a minor chord?

But writers…. We have to invoke the senses of not just sight and sound, but also touch and smell and taste with black type and white paper.

Can the reader see the storm rolling across the lake, kicking up small white waves in its path? Can she smell the homemade cinnamon rolls her grandmother’s arthritic hands are removing from the oven? Can she hear the laughter of the little girl that reminds her so much of her own lost daughter? Can he taste the metallic tang of his own blood where his teeth cut into his gums? Damn. That little guy packed a punch. Can she feel the barely-there pressure of his warm hand on the small of her back as he guides her into the room? Will she ever forget that simple caress was his first touch?

So, if you’re a writer, big kudos for doing what you do. And even when it's tough, keep doing it.

M

Comfort

As I scrolled through a ton of email from the loops to which I subscribe, I can came across some wisdom notes. The title of the post was “Comfort”.

My first reaction surprised me. Want to know what it was? (Too bad. I’m tellin’ ya anyway.)

“I don’t want comfort yet. I don’t ever want to be too comfortable.”

I wonder how many people feel that way.

I’ve been trying to listen to my intuition, to my first response to things. That first response is often the most honest. And, honestly, I don’t want to get too comfortable. If I get too comfortable, will I become lazy? Will I sit on my haunches and watch the world go by?

I can not think of anything worse.

Discomfort in moderation (as with everything else) is a good thing. It’s that thing that spurs us to alleviate the discomfort. It gets things done.

I’m uncomfortable with my writing in so many ways, but it spurs me to learn, to stay up late to “fix” something only to “unfix” or “refix” it tomorrow. I don’t want to forever call myself pre-pubbed, so I continue to work for a story that will alleviate that particular discomfort. I don’t want to be midlist forever, so I’ll always be working for that best-seller. I don’t want to just have all I imagine on the paper pages of a book, so I’ll strive to write something that would make a great movie.

Nope. I don’t want to be comfortable.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
--- Dylan Thomas ---

That’s me. I want to rage against the comfort that would keep me from pushing forward for one more achievement. I want to fight against where I am to get where I want to be.

So what did I do with that “comfort email”? I deleted it.

Rage.

Macy

A writer is what I am

Do you ever get hit with those big moments when you know, you just know that what you want is going to happen? In those moments, something inside gets tight and butterflies flutter in anticipation – even if that thing is down the road, site unseen as of yet.

I had one of those days today. I think it goes along with what Alyson said about the excavation of a story. I’ve really been digging up the good stuff.

However, I think I’ve been on a journey of excavating myself, as well. It’s a journey that clearly started in November 2005 at a work related conference when I penned page after page of ideas for a story rather than taking notes on whatever boring topic was being discussed. I came home that day and started looking for writing classes. That story is now shelved, unfinished, along with a slew of children’s fiction that I attempted years ago.

I’d been rolling around the idea of being a writer for a long time, playing with it, trying it on for size like a child trying on the pretty prom dresses from her older cousin’s closet. It doesn’t quite fit at that point. You don’t fill it out in all the right places, but you can see that you might…maybe…someday.

I’m filling it out better now. It’s no longer too long. The straps stay on my shoulders. I have a little something to fill out the bust. When I model it now, it’s a better fit.

When I think of stories now, I think in terms of goals and conflict and motivation. What would a person in that situation want? How would he come to be in such dire straights? Why would she need this or that? What would make her desperate to have it? What gets in his way? What would a nemesis do to prevent the hero from getting what he wants?

I used to see glimpses of a scene or character in my head, and think, “Wow, I’ll turn that into a story.” Now when I see those characters or scenes, I think, “How did he get there? How badly does he want to get out of it? What would he do in this circumstance?”

I guess the difference is that I used to approach it like a kid with a plastic shovel in the back yard. I’d just dig and see if bones turned up. Now, I dig like a trained archeologist. I have better tools. I know where the bones are more likely to be found. I know a phalange doesn’t tell me everything. I have to find the skull and the vertebrae to give it form.

So back to the moment thing….

I realized today that I’ve collected many of the tools I need to excavate my stories. I recognize situations in which I might need a new tool and have the knowledge to find out what will work.

I know where to look. And I know I’ll find it – maybe not with this story, but the next one or the one after that perhaps. I know I’m a writer. I’m not just pretending to try it out any more. I look at the world through writer eyes, storing up experiences upon which I can draw.

It hit me today that I will be published. I will see my books on shelves at bookstores and in women’s beach totes and next to their coffee cups. I know it like I know the sun will rise in the east and set in the west. I feel the anticipation like a child knowing Santa will put just the right toy under the tree. Like waiting through the night for the sunrise and like watching the days slowly being marked off the December calendar, I know I have to wait a bit longer. But the butterflies are telling me to wrap my arms around it and embrace it and write like the wind. And they’re telling me to call myself a writer because it’s what I am, not what I will be.

Macy

Pissing off Editors

I had the opportunity to attend a great workshop today at my local RWA. It was given by Rita winner Linnea Sinclair. She presented information she discovered by interviewing several editors and agents about how to make sure your manuscript never sees the light of day. (Not something we want, eh?)

She also shared with us the typical day for a slush pile reader. I want my manuscripts to stay out of there at all costs! One slush pile reader shared that she worked in a room lined wall to wall, floor to ceiling with manuscripts. She was expected to go through a five foot stack everyday. If the submission held her interest all the way through (first few chapters), then it went to the next step on the chain. If not, that was the end of the road for it. Very often, the slush pile reader didn't have to read beyond the first page. As this reader moved up in the publishing house, she got to take the manuscripts that made it through the screening process home (whole books now) to read and make comments. Frequently, she only read the first, middle, and last chapter, deciding afterwards to end that particular manuscript's trip towards becoming a published book. In a year of working these two jobs, she never sent more than a handful to the next phase.

That was downright depressing.

...until Linnea read us a few "typical" submissions the editors she'd interviewed shared with her. Most were all tell, no show. Many head-hopped within single sentences, and more had severe dialogue problems.

I felt much better after listening to these examples, and I was shocked that anyone would think writing like that should even cross an editor's desk.

Linnea compiled a list of the top reasons manuscripts never make it out of a slush pile. Time after time, interview after interview, these reasons were given.
In no particular order, they are:
1. Too much backstory too early.
2. Unnatural dialogue.
3. Telling your story, not showing it.
4. Problems with grammar, punctuation, sentence structure, general writing mechanics.
5. POV problems -- random and unclear POV changes, headhopping within a scene.
6. Too many unnecessary characters.
7. Format problems; not following submission guidelines.
8. Ineffectual characterization -- everybody seems the same and the reader confuses who is who.
9. Lack of conflict. Plot holes. Illogical plot.
10. Boring opening. No hook.

The good news for me was that I'm aware of all these problems. I make a conscious effort to avoid all of these errors. As a matter of fact, I've been writing long enough now that avoiding most of these errors are non-issues for me. I just don't do them. Neither does anyone in my crit group.

I felt inspired and more at ease after realizing that. I know now that many manuscripts that get submitted to editors are of poor quality. They aren't the carefully nutured works written by my group or me.

So, take heart, ladies. We're already better than much of the field.

Macy

PS. Check out Linnea's blog where she goes more in depth on this topic.

Brilliance

I love brilliance. I always have. I’m amazed when I see it and I always wonder what happened to make that particular person or thing brilliant.

Brilliance isn’t perfection. The two are very different. One is attainable, while the other is not. I used to seek perfection, but the journey towards it was difficult, the goal unattainable. Now I seek brilliance – a moment of it, a work called it, a life full of it.

Brilliant people exist everywhere and in every field and of every color and flavor on Earth. Sometimes, it is what they say or do that is brilliant. Sometimes, it is their ideas or creations.

In this blog, I want to talk about works of brilliance, more specifically books of brilliance. Most specifically, my most recent discovery of brilliance.

While I've been more cognizant of brilliant books since I began writing, I didn’t just begin noticing brilliance recently. I have always been fascinated by the brilliant play of words on a page. A book can be brilliant in one area, but not another. However, those books that stay with us are either brilliant works or they speak to us in brilliant and illuminating ways. Otherwise, they provide moments of pleasure but not profound impacts.

What books have you deemed brilliant?

My list goes back to childhood.

The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis. I loved in particular The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Great title, btw. When my step-daughter was assigned to read it for school years ago, we trekked to the local bookstore to buy it. While she looked at other books, I stood at the rack on which it was displayed and read the whole thing again just standing there. And once again, always, when I got to the part where Aslan offers himself in Lucy’s place, I cried. Brilliant writing. Brilliant.

Madeline L’Engle’s A Wrinle in Time is another. Tesseracts, mitochondria, and a brilliant young girl named Meg.

J.K. Rowling’s incredible imaginary world seems so real that we’re willing to pay for a book months before it’s released, dress up like characters from it, and visit bookstores at midnight (bookstores!!). It’s not just me. It’s legions of fans.

Richard Preston’s non-fiction work A Demon in the Freezer. His recounting of our war against small pox reads like great fiction and scares the hell out of you as only truth can.

As I’ve mentioned in other blogs -- Johnathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach.

Ender’s Game and even better – Ender’s Shadow by Orson Scott Card.

There are so many more, including the book I’m currently devouring: Libba Bray’s A Great and Terrible Beauty. What a brilliant cast of characters! What deft internal conflicts they all face! How their true heart’s desires, spoken as they form their Order, resonate with the internal conflict each of them experiences. As I read, I’m drawn back to my teenage years and the heartache and yearning that are universal at that age. Brilliant. The four girls at the center of the story have brilliant GMC’s (goal, motivation, conflict). Ordinary Ann wants to be beautiful and noticed and to feel. Pippa wants true love, but must lie about her true self because she is tainted so that no one would want her if they knew. Felicity feels powerless against the blows of life, and wants her own power most of all. And Gemma, the book’s protagonist, wants to know – who she is, why she has these visions, why …

The book is full of brilliant lines:
“I don’t know yet what power feels like. But this is surely what it looks like, and I think I’m beginning to understand why those ancient woman had to hide in caves. Why our parents and teachers and suitors want us to behave properly and predictably. It’s not that they want to protect us; it’s that they fear us.”

And

“Their sin was that they believed. Believed they could be different. Special. They believed they could change what they were – damaged, unloved …. So life took them, led them, and they went along you see? They faded before their own eyes, till they were nothing more than living ghosts, haunting each other with what could be. What can’t be.”

Read the lines in context. Better yet, buy the book on CD, too, and listen to the words. I replayed and reread them several times. It was worth every penny to read and hear such brilliance. To witness the spirit of being sixteen so aptly captured. To read the hopes and fears and universal truths of coming of age.

I hope to write that brilliantly. I say to myself everyday that I am a brilliant and prolific writer. I am. At least, I will be.

Books like Libba Bray’s are beacons in the tunnel of brilliance, lighting the way for those who seek it.

I seek. Show me.

Macy

Getting the Call

Have you ever checked out the Books, Boys, Buzz … blog? You should. The last three posts are the stories of “getting the call”. My favorite: Warning: Do Not Operate Heavy Machinery When Selling Your First Book .

I love reading the stories of first sales – whether I read them on websites or blogs or the little snippets in the RWR. I love it. Why? Because I’m pretty darn sure it’s going to be me someday. I can’t wait to have a sell-story to tell, even if it’s as boring as hell.

If the Laws of Attraction work and you get what you think about, if your thoughts determine your destiny, then I’m not just going to have a first sale, but a second, third, and thirtieth. Move over Nora. Step down J.K. There really is a new girl in town.

I don’t know when I first thought that I wanted to write books and publish. I do know when I stopped just thinking about it and starting moving towards it. November 2005.

Boy, have I learned alot since then! Baby steps all the way. Isn’t that how it all starts though? When I pause to look down the ladder at where I was, it gives me hope. I'm well on my way. Where is that bottom rung anyway? I can't see it anymore.

My scribblings led me to a creativity class, which led to a class on Romance writing at BNU, which introduced me to Leigh Michaels and her class at Gotham, which led to another class at Gotham, which led to the best darn crit group a girl could have, which led to more workshops, which provided me enough bravery to join CFRWA, which led me to meet some great authors, which led to Barbara’s Girls class, which led to affirmations and thoughts of abundance. There really are enough agents and editors and publishing houses to publish my books. And those of my crit group and anyone else who really wants and believes it.

I am a brilliant and prolific writer. I know well my amazing characters who are hiding so much and have so much to lose. I write fast-paced, page-turning plots filled with fabulous prose, snappy dialogue, and heart-pounding action. My MIP (that's MASTERPIECE In Progress, not manuscript in progress) is a brilliant page-turner that will keep you up all night to find out what happens. My name will fill a shelf in B&N someday. One book isn’t enough.

What are your affirmations? What are you attracting?

Bridges, charming roads, and hell

So, I’m working on revising sections of my story. Technically, I’m revising the bones of my outline. I haven’t even begun to tackle the deletions I know are coming in the actual scenes. And while, I’ve written some new material (a much better opening scene), I still have a long way to go in revision hell.

I’ve thought maybe I should call it something else, that perhaps by referring to it as a hell, I’m somehow attracting negative energy to the process. Perhaps, I should view it as a heaven, and thereby, attract, sweet, positive, warm energy to the process.

However, any writer knows that revisions are not the heaven of writing. Heaven is the new idea. It’s the perfect scene, dialogue and all, that comes to you in the shower (for me) or in the middle of a run (for Alyson). It’s hitting the word count goal for the day, or better yet, going over and not even realizing how much you wrote until you come up for air. It’s knowing when the muses are handing up the good stuff. It’s stepping back for space and immediately being rewarded with the spark you needed. It’s finishing. (Not there yet, but I can see the tiny pinpoints of light).

Writer heaven isn’t major restructuring of your story. It isn’t realizing that your story was a little lean. It isn’t big revisions.

I wanted revising & revamping to be pleasant experiences.

They aren’t.

I read something yesterday, though, that I’ve been mulling over.

“Revision is not supposed to get you from point A to B in record time. Revision is supposed to stroll you down all those roads not taken. And sometimes it burns all the bridges on those charming roads, leaving you no way back, but the hard way back.”
(From a favorite of mine: The Pocket Muse Endless Inspiration: New Ideas for Writing by Monica Wood)

Cheery, eh?

Well, maybe not cheery, maybe not even encouraging, although I did take encouragement from those words last night.

After a long day, I sat staring at the walls (see yesterday’s post), contemplating a scene. It’s a scene I love. However, if I make some of the changes I’m considering, it would have less of a place. Nah … it might not have a place at all. Did I say that I really love this scene? So much of the rest of the book refers in some way back to that scene. Lose the scene, lose the …. I can’t say it. Don’t make me.

Anyway, I sat staring at the wall trying to come up with any way, any thing that worked so that I could use some of what I’ve already written. Could I use the scene but move it to later in the book? (A definite possibility) Could I add urgency and more meaning to the scene? (maybe) Could I add additional conflicts that make the scene more plausible? (Sure, but what would they be?)

Frustrated because the muses were sitting with their arms crossed, and because my husband had the TV up too loud (actually, I was probably just frustrated and sensitive), I shoved the chair back and went to take a shower.

I pulled out my “Passion” bath wash and turn the water up to “almost scorching” and let it beat the frustrated soreness from me. Mid-conditioning rinse, it hit me. A plausible idea. A much better idea than I’d previously had (anything being better than nothing). An idea that didn’t have any blazing holes at first glance.

I obviously should bath more often.

So, I hopped out, tangles still in hair and wrote up notes for the idea.

I didn’t even know that road was there, but the shower helped the muses clear the cobwebs and hand up an idea. A good one (I think). Maybe this new road will be a perfect path for where I’m going. But if not, there’s always the hard way back.

I don't want to take the hard way back, but just knowing there is a way .... well... that's something.

This Inner Artist Thing

I'm taking Barbara Samuel's new class called The Care and Feeding of Girls in the Basement. It is designed to "help inspire and encourage you, to help you learn (or remember) how to nurture your creative spirit. It’s a chance to renew your joy, tap into the original delight you once felt for writing, and start the year with a powerful commitment to yourself and your writing."

Quite frankly, it's depressing the hell out of me.

Why?

I'm having a hard time keeping all the girls in the class straight, for starters. Of course, that's probably a mindfulness problem. (Mindfulness is something we're supposed to work on every day as part of the class. I fail this miserably, as I usually remember to be mindful as I turn out the light after working all day, trying to write, taking care of my husband and 4 dogs, and in general doing all those nagging things you have to do as a grown-up, like laundry and dishes. So, of course, I just go to sleep, mindful that I failed at mindfulness for the day.) Perhaps, if I printed out the emails and kept them together I could "get to know" everyone better. However, that would mean one more writing notebook to add the box currently ready for me to move. Oh, and it's been ready since Dec. 22. Oh, and no one seems to know when the f*&%ing renovations will be finished. So... no new notebook.

Second, everyone seems to be the really creative type. ("Aren't you a writer?" you say. "Aren't you a creative type?") Well, yes I am, but I've never given much thought to sacred spaces and creativity alters and artist dates and muse personification and being the wild woman and wolves and such. I feel like I can't really set up the sacred space because mine is waiting for paint and lighting and a f*&%ing bathroom to be installed, among other things. So, I have yet another box where I'm collecting these things so I can move them and then set them up. However, I don't have a place to put them that's mine. Right now, it's all common space. I can't tell if they work because I can't set them up.

I think my biggest problem is that I truly did ignore the creative side of me for a long, long time. I ignored my need to just be. I was too caught up in achieving and in proving that I not only could do anything to which I set my mind, but that I could do it better and more perfectly than anyone else.

I've had the discussion with my mom recently that part of my intensity comes from the constant praise I received for achieving. There were very few "I love you because you're you's". There were alot of your smart, your at the top of your class, your really good at this or that, and we value you for those things. Being the "good girl" and the "people pleaser" that I am, I worked damned hard to always be smart, top of the class, really good, etc. Of course, mom says no way, she loved me just because. However, I think when you hear praise for THINGS all the time, you start to associate your self worth with accomplishment. And in my case -- perfect accomplishment. It wasn't enough to just be me with hopes and dreams and flaws and indecision and quirkiness.

So... I drove myself to a point where I wasn't sure at all where I was going.

Now, for about a year, I've been on a path to rediscover my creativity. I felt great about it until this class. Everyone is witty and enlightened and far more clever than me. I guess the hardest thing is that I see how analytical I am compared to everyone else's intuitive nature. The women in the class are able to look inside themselves so much better than I am. They can open up their soul windows and see. When I open mine, I wince and then think how can I improve, accomplish and succeed. Those old drives are like barnacles on a boat. I'm just going to have to dive down and scrape them off.

Diving down is the hard part, but I'm just going to keep working on it. This class isn't a competition. It's a self discovery. I think somewhere down deep is a waify little spirit that needs exercise and some healthy love (I almost wrote praise...yikes...see how hard this is) and some serious coaxing. I want to be with that artist inside me, to feel at home with her and her needs, but I haven't worked out just how yet.

I guess, I just keep looking for her. It isn't any wonder why the following has ALWAYS been my favorite song:

I have spoke with the tongue of angels
I have held the hand of a devil
It was warm in the night
I was cold as a stone
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for
I believe in the kingdom come
Then all the colors will bleed into one
Bleed into one
Well, yes, I'm still running

U2, I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

Macy

Suzanne Brockmann

"Some of the best romantic suspense writers today are most well-known for (say it with me) their characters. Just about everyone loves Suzanne Brockmann's heroes--particularly her Navy SEALs. And Brockmann herself says she writes around 80 pages of backstory for each of her characters before she even gets to the first actual page of her novel." Tracy Montoya in her Polishing your Manuscript: Pushing yourself from Unpublished to Published workshop at Kiss of Death (RWA's Romantic Suspense Online Chapter).

Okay -- say it with me -- What the hell? I love Suzanne Brockmann. I just started Flashpoint. I'm listening to it on the unabridged CD in my car while I drive to and from the bill-paying job. Her characters are so real. It truly is one of the great things about her writing. However, I'm 1/3 of the way into the second CD out of 11, and I've already met 4 POV characters. (Say it with me -- 4 x 80 = 320 pages before the first page of the story.) The last book of hers I read (also on CD) was Hot Target. Very, very good. (5 POV characters, if I remember correctly, for 400 pages of backstory before the first novel page.)

Of course, this explains why she is so very good. It also explains why (although I love her books and have been known to drive around my block several dozen times while listening to her because I can't go home until I find out what happens) I'm always a bit depressed when I read her. To me, she's a gold standard in romantic suspense. She writes a book about her characters just for her before she writes her book. I think I have 10 pages of character stuff (backstory) total for my 4 POV characters.

Apparently, I'm just a little behind. (And here I am typing this blog instead of doing the last 100 words I need to get tonight.)

Ah, well. The point of taking this class (in which I'm largely just lurking and printing the lectures for later use) was to find ways to go from unpubbed to pubbed. It's good to know Suzanne Brockman's way to write, but I can quite honestly say, I won't ever write 80 pages of backstory for one character. I'm not sure I could write 80 pages of backstory about me and I've known me for, well, many, many years.

There's a point when you just have to write and quit worrying about how everyone else does it. I'm there. And I'm also off to finish those last 100 words for tonight.

.... And maybe, just maybe, add a bit more backstory to my character worksheets.

Macy