Thinking About It

Please note: as a new blogger, I hadn't realized that 2 posts on one day would be lined up one on top of the other. This post was written earlier than the one above. Read it first, or if that's impossible, read it knowing that I meant you to read it first.

If you’ve been following my journey you know that I’d hit another speed bump and broken my story’s struts.

I had a bad case of I-write-crap-itus.

What to do? What to do?

I fell into my ‘Thinking About It” phase.

Just to be real clear, thinking about writing isn’t the stuff you do when you’re teasing out a back story or working out motivation. It’s unfocussed. Diffused. It’s akin to deciding you’ll go on a diet on Monday. You hold the promise of the finished book in your mind, but lightly. It floats in mid-space, like a child born without conception or gestation. And the more the promised novel hovers there, all perfect in aspect and execution, the more you worry that you'll never come up to snuff. You haven't got the writing chops.

Thinking about it is not helpful. It just adds more insecurity, more confusion.

Did you see any mention of writing in the title? Thinking about it doesn’t qualify as writing. Write crap if you need to at first.

Just write.

 That's what writers do.

Even with a case of crap-itus.

Step Two - Following the Right Wizard

I’m a huge fan of Jim Butcher and I’m going to say it flat out--I love his character Harry Dresden. Who wouldn’t?  Harry’s a wizard. He's smart, sarcastic and noble. Add it up, and he's damn near irresistible.

Take C.S. Forester’s Horatio Hornblower, strip him of his uniform, and you have the same sort of mythic hero. All right, I can agree it’s a stretch. Horatio Hornblower is a laconic, naval officer during the Napoleonic Wars. Harry’s a quip-tossing wizard from Chicago. But they’re the same type of man. They doubt themselves, constantly. Despite that, they’re the type of guy you’d pray to have beside you when the world is falling down around you. Brave. Capable of seizing the moment. Stoic. Unflinching. Rule breakers who don’t knuckle their eyes and go boo-hoo when it comes time to pay the price for their transgressions.

Both characters had something else similar - they were created by talented authors who made you believe. Different writing styles, different genre, but the same magic. With C.S. Forester, it’s the sound of sails snapping to the wind. With Jim Butcher, it’s the scent of  sulphur; it’s the perfect detail that shuts down your disbelief.

Yes, I’ve gone off on a Jim Butcher tangent, but there’s a reason.

I was licking my wounds. How was I going to drive the Leigh-bus to publishing success if I blew my tire at 10K?  I still wanted to write a book, even if my storyline resembled a tribble. What I needed was someone to break the writing process down for me -- preferably someone with whom I felt a deeper connection than an anonymous how-to book writer.

Yup, enter Jim Butcher.

I’d finished the latest Harry Dresden book, and was on his site, trying to find out how much longer I had to hold out before his next book was published. And lo and behold (yes, it felt faintly prophetic), I noticed a link to Jim Butcher’s old blog, wherein he laid out his thoughts on story craft. I printed out the whole damn lot, took scissors to it so that I could put it in reading order, and inhaled. A plan, I thought with an evil grin. A route. I hit the dining table with paper and pens and tape and tea and cookies. I made notes and I thought myself well equipped.

I started again. A new setting. Another type of world. Same character.

This time I got as far as 20K before my words spluttered out like the last bit of oil in a hurricane lantern. My brain didn’t even bothered admonishing me. It just patted me on the shoulder, told me not to stay up too late, and waddled off to its bed.

I’ll always be grateful to Jim Butcher, who showed me that his way of getting from the first word to the last one. He kept me from shutting down after my first defeat. I'm glad he posted those thoughts. I tried to use them, but discovered his way was not my way.

Lesson for this one?

There is no perfect way to write a book.

You have to find the things that work for you.

Now, because you’ve been so darn patient and read all the way to the end, here’s the link: http://jimbutcher.livejournal.com/

In Between Step One and Two

I was off the couch, and finally on my feet again. But then came the tricky part -- seating myself behind the keyboard and writing. What was the first issue? My blithe confidence was gone. Fifteen years ago, it had felt easy; words streamed off my fingertips. I even had proof:  200 pages of easy, stuffed in a cardboard box in my closet. But now I was paralysed with self-doubt. Just the thought of finding that first paragraph…hhhmm..perhaps I could just skip that part, and pick up where I left off in the old manuscript?

I read it.

Two things were instantly clear. I really liked adverbs back then. A lot. And I needed to start fresh, as my original plot about a virgin caught on a pirate ship felt a tad dated. Besides it didn’t fit the insistent voice whispering in my ear. I needed a new tale, one without sabres.

Also, I was aware of another issue that might prove to be a tiny hiccup on my path toward becoming the great Canadian writer.

I’d lost a large chunk of my vocabulary. Misplaced, forgotten, lost, I don’t care what you want to call it, but my language skills were as gone as my twenty-seven inch waist. Think of it as a case in de-evolution. I’d been a stay-at-home Mom for twenty years. The first crack started with Sesame Street, and by the time I knew all the words to The Wheels on the Bus, I was well on my way to mushy brain. My skill in description, and my ability to attach the right word to an object had eroded. When I wanted something, I’d point to it. It made things faster.

Well, there was no way out of it. I’d have to try to write and see if I could coax the words back to my fingers. As for worrying about coming up with interesting storyline, I decided to consult the experts. I went in search of a how-to book. In the store, I scanned the titles. Conflict and your Character? Writing Believable Motivation? Character Arcs? As I flipped through the books, my story concept began to feel like a tribble. It made interesting squeaking noises while balanced on  my palm, but other than that, it was starting to look a hell of a lot like my Mom’s old faux fur throw rug. 

Which left me back at home, without a manual, staring at the blinking cursor. To hell with it. I started writing. The words flowed, until I hit 10K and went splat. It just dried up overnight. I could not put another word down.

And at that, my brain said, ‘Sod you, Mate, this is too hard. I’m going back to the People magazine.’

Lesson from this?  There isn’t always a straight path from concept to book completion. Be prepared for one or two roadblocks.

Inevitably the biggest one will be yourself.

Step One

I gave up on the dream.

Twenty years ago I decided writing 'the’ book would have to wait until the kids were school aged. And then stuff happened which made writing difficult, and for various reasons, I gave up on the dream.

The kids grew up. The garden flourished. The dogs aged, and so did I.

About 4 years ago, I was laying on the couch watching Oprah. I’d seen the show before, but even so, I was watching it again. Flat on my back. With the remote in my hand and probably some chips balanced on my stomach. And the thought occurred to me:  I could lay here for the rest of my life watching Oprah. Essentially waiting to die. Watching Oprah.

No offence Oprah, but no thanks. I opened a drawer, took out an old partly finished manuscript, and thought, maybe I can do this again.

Going into it, I knew it would be difficult. First off, I didn’t have the ‘great idea.' I had a character and a desire to write again, but that was it. No great concept. No ‘wowser’ flash of inspiration.

You know what? Waiting for the great idea is really dumb. Don’t do that. Start writing. The great idea will catch up.

Okay, so back to me...I had scared myself silly with the thought of the ‘great book.’ The only way around that was to give myself some slack. I decided to write ‘a’ book, not ‘the’ book. I’d make an effort to do a good job of it, so I wouldn’t be embarrassed if someone read it. But it was just for me. I just wanted to have a dream again, and to be able to say one day--

Once, I wrote a book.

I wasn’t even going to tell anyone about it.

A lot has changed since then. I don't write casually anymore. It’s my job and yes, perhaps, my obsession. But still, some things have stayed the same. Once in awhile I watch Oprah.

Why am I telling you this? Because I needed a shape for this blog - some common theme running through it.  Pets are good, but my spaniel is really lazy, and there’s only so many stories I can spin about him. I don’t have many great thoughts. I don’t cook. Well, I do, but I hate it.  My old hobbies are faintly musty and boring. I read a lot, but so do many people.

But I do have a story to tell you. About breathing life into old dreams and how along the way, I found myself again. Over the next couple of months, I’ll tell you how I came to be here - a writer with a finished manuscript and a contract with the amazing Deidre Knight - and from there, we’ll see where we go. 

If you want to write a book, the first step is:

Get up off the damn couch. 

The Dress

I don’t like New Year’s Eve. I came to that decision twenty-eight years ago as I considered the cowboy hat perched on my date’s head. The hat should have warned me. We were more than a thousand miles from any ranch, and as far as I could tell, my  date had never branded the rump of a steer or, for that matter, settled his own in a saddle.  The more I stared at that hat, the more I found myself thinking about horses, and donkeys and asses.

I was also thinking that I was going to have to take my coat off. We were standing in the split level’s microscopic hall, and all I could see were feet.  There wasn’t a heel among them; unless I was being charitable, and I wasn’t feeling charitable. No one was wearing what I deemed a party shoes – spiked heels and a few straps. And worse,  the hostess who watched me from the top of the stairs was the type of girl I’d learned to be careful around. She was wearing a white shirt under a pink fuzzy sweater and a modest black skirt. Since it was her house, she’d forgone shoes. She was wearing a pair of house slippers.

My date turned for my coat. Conversation petered out as I slithered out of my coat.

He’d asked me to a party. A New Year’s Eve party. This did not qualify as a party. This was a few old friends gathered in a  living room drinking (oh someone shoot me) kahluaa on ice. This was a world of crew neck sweaters and dusty rose house paint.

Clearly, my dress had been invited to the wrong party.

That dress. It had more slits than seams. It glittered. It showed thigh, the ridge of my spine,  and the shadow between my boobs.  It was a great dress if you were feeling slightly risqué for a big party. It was  a horrible dress if you were sitting thigh to thigh on a living room couch, beside married guy #1 and married guy #2. 

Their wives glowered at me all night.

So, here’s what that taught me. To be charitable to the girl in the wrong dress. To only blame myself if I answered the door in a pair of new house slippers with an 8.99 price sticker still stuck to the sole.  And that I was truly capable of making a New Year’s Resolution and hanging on to it.

As the girls talked about people I didn’t know, and their men talked about cars I cared nothing about, I thought, don’t do it. Don’t go out on New Year’s ever again.

I haven’t.

The Retriever and the Muse

Sometimes I’m a dumb retriever.

I don’t mean to be, but sometimes – and it’s always when I’m writing – I behave exactly like a slow-witted retriever*.  Have you ever thrown a ball for a retriever? They love it, right? They gallop down the hall in pursuit, skid to a stop, and snatch it from the air with a velvet mouth. Then depending on who trained whom, they bring the ball back. They make happy noises in the back of their throat as you wind up to throw again.

Let’s pretend you’re the retriever’s human. That day, for no particular reason, you feel mischievous. You take the ball, assume the position, and palm it, instead of tossing it.

The dumb retriever goes thundering down the hall in pursuit of the non-existent ball. His head snaps back and forth as he tries to figure out where it went. He’s practically hyperventilating as he scent-searches for it. Finally, he looks back to you, and there you are, ball in hand, grinning, thinking how cool it’s to be human.

When it comes to writing, let’s say I’m the retriever. My muse is the ball tosser.

There are days my muse pitches the ball. I run after it, fingers flying over the keys. It’s a supremely happy time for both of us. We’re one as we play the game.

Then, sometimes she doesn’t feel like playing. Fun time is over, but I don’t know it. She smiles at me, pretends to throw the ball and then takes off for the kitchen. I run down the hall, trailing words behind me in a blur, but once I’m there, I can’t find the damn ball. It was supposed to be there, at the end of the hall, but it isn’t. There is no ball. There are just words streaming behind me, leading to nothing, except that long dispirited trot back to my master.

Today I was a retriever. I ran down a story line, paying no attention to the chuckles behind me, and found there was no ball at the end of the hall.

Whoof.

Merry Christmas, and to all a Good Year.

*this rant was not approved by the League of Retrievers.

Speed-Dating-With-Deidre

Sometimes the stars take over and steer you the right way.

I joined RWA’s FF&P loop in November. Two days later, someone posted a message about TKA’s Speed-Dating-With-Deidre contest. Wow. The Knight Agency was high on my list of top ten literary agencies. I didn’t think I had a snowball’s chance of being one of the first one hundred and twenty-five, but I gave it a whirl, thinking, faint hearts and all that.

I had reason to be pessimistic. Up to then, I’d only won two things: a book and a guinea pig. And really, the rodent had been a bit of a cheat. Mom had signed the permission slip for Miss Fitzgerald’s Win-Mugsy-the-Class-Guinea-Pig-Contest completely unaware that I was the only kid that had picked up that particular permission slip.

When I realized I'd made it - I was one of the first 125 to leave a comment, I just sat there for awhile, marvelling. Then the work began. As I passed through each gate - down to 30, down to 10, and Holy Crap, down to 3 - I worked harder than I'd ever done in my life. I took a weed-whacker to Hedi, pruning and tightening her until she was as lean as I knew how to make her. The deadline loomed. I hit send, and thought, so be it.

The morning I got The Email, I was in a rush to get out of the house and was just checking because well, that's what  you do, when you're in a contest. You check almost every 5 minutes, just in case. I opened it and everything around me - my husband coming from the garage with the keys in his hand, the dog by my feet, the sun streaking light on the flowers by my monitor - they all faded away. It was just the email, and me, and the moment.

So, it begins. There's work waiting for me up ahead. More lessons for life. More learning to do.

I feel so blessed.