when panic sets in

You have everything under control.

You’re first draft has been written and re-written and you finally see where things are supposed to going, precise details and all.

You have outlined your work and adjusted for discrepancies and holes. You have deleted scenes and added in missing ones.

Now, you think you are ready to take those next to final steps when you read, and comment, and then go back in and edited for voice, style, description, setting, etc.

But then you realize it: There are more holes! Hang on, my whole time frame in these scenes is off. And this scene – what does it do? It doesn’t move the story forward at all! And wait, neither does this one!

And you have to outline again, and then you find more holes and more discrepancies, and you think *#$*#* will this never ^&*%*&^$ end!!!

And your mind whirls, and you want to scream and throw something. But, you can’t, because really you’re doing all this ’cause you’re writing one damn good novel, and you’re  taking all the steps to get to that fantastic end product.

Even if there are a hundred, a thousand steps more than you thought you would have to take.

Of course, I’m talking about me, and the part about writing one damn fantastic novel is brain washing.

 

 

From invisible to visible

If you’re a new author, particularly a non-genre fiction writer not backed by a publicity department, it’s hard to get your target readers to notice your book, quote from Linda Cassidy Lewis.

She’s giving away a signed copy of her novel, The Brevity of Roses. All you have to do is hop on over there and leave a comment. And there are ways to up your chances of winning her debut novel as well.

If you haven’t read her novel, or even you have, go on over, and let’s move one author from feeling invisible to being highly visible!

Good luck!!!

 

keeping up with myself.

Have you ever read something that made you re-consider all you thought you knew about writing?

Ok, maybe that’s a little too dramatic, a little too overwhelming to even consider, but what about reading a book that seems to break all the rules, and yet reads beautifully?

The book that got all this churning is Tiger’s Wife, by Tea Obreht.

I’ve read the reviews, and it seems some people don’t agree with me that Obreht’s book is great, but enough do that she’s won some awards and been nominated for others, and she’s certainly generated a buzz.

In reality, I think she mainly only broke one rule: her novel reads like short stories that were squeezed into one entity. The book consists of stories and various characters, and we move ominously (and often omnisciently)  in and out of them. I can see that it can be confusing and odd, but I left myself go with it and it grabbed me.

At one point reading Tiger’s Wife I thought to myself, this is how I would have written when I was in my early twenties if I had been writing then. This thought stopped me in my tracks. I realized that I was impressed with Obreht’s freedom of movement within her novel, and that in my twenties this freedom was innate in me. I scared by this thought: Was I being true to myself as a writer, or was I holding back, unknowingly following someone else’s standards?

Now, in my thirties, I’m more stuck in some sense, more fixed. And when I write, I follow rules. And I do think we all need to follow rules. It’s just that for each of us those rules need to be different, and evolving, and most likely different for each piece we work with.

I can’t write with the same movement I would have ten years ago. My movements now are big and vast, but they are taken with precision and aim. It doesn’t mean it’s better or worse, just different.

Part of writing is about writing who we are. Today. And this is the best freedom of all.

A memory

When I began writing I had no idea how to find other writers. None of my friends or family wrote, and I had studied science in school. I went on-line and I looked up writing groups in my area. I found one that met once a month in a library close to my home.

I was the youngest person there, by far. They were retired men and women who gathered to write and read to each other. I remember feeling so awkward, so out-of-place. I was young, in my twenties, what had I lived through to tell to these people? But, I returned again and again for almost a good year.

There was one older lady in her late seventies or early eighties that I remember in particular who always patted the seat next to hers if there was one, or gestured me into the room with a big wave of the arm. I think of her periodically, her effort to make me feel welcome. And how the little interaction I had with her inspired me not only in writing but in life.

Her name was Susan Romvary. The first time I entered the large conference room in the library, she sat near the doorway in a large cushioned chair separated from the group. She didn’t look up when I came in the room, in fact for a time I thought maybe she slept, or was incoherent; her head dangled forward and I was never able to see her face. People were reading, and I thought didn’t she heard them.

“Susan, will you read?” the organizer said.

She looked up, and I was shocked. She was stunning, her eyes dancing, her expression one that inhaled and released energy in a profound way. I could tell in an instant that she loved life and she lived it fully.

Some time after I met her a short story came to me, a sort of vignette that brought three people into one person’s life. It is fiction, but it is inspired by her and the words she spoke that night. She passed away in late December, and when I received the news I immediately thought that our little planet lost one terrific person, even though I hadn’t seen her in years, and only knew her through a few meetings. I remembered this story I wrote, and found it on a stick drive. Here is a portion of it, just the way it was written, because to edit it now would change it to who I am now, and not what I saw then. Perhaps you’ll see a little of her in it.

Vera sat across from me. Her name was scrawled in nearly illegible handwriting on a name tag stuck just above her left breast. Her vest was red, vivid in the dim room. Her head was bowed; she had not raised it, not even when I entered. Her hair was thinning, and dyed auburn. I wondered at her presence. Had she heard the others speak? Was she coherent? Suddenly, she lifted her head, and I realized it was her turn to read. Her eyes dazzled, and met each of ours in turn.

“I love humour,” Vera said. Her voice was inflected with life, and thickly accented. “I grew up in Hungary, escaped to France when I was a girl, and now, I live in a nursing home. Humour has saved me. I have had one published novel. It is, of course, humoresque. It was featured on CBC radio. Nothing more. I’m writing my second. It’s about my new residence.”

 I realized I was part of something. Would I be accepted, or would I be judged for my youth, as I had judged them for their age?

“I write in English,” Vera said. “But, it is not my first language. Nor is it my second. French is. I came to Canada as an adult, so naturally, I chose Quebec. I write in English because it is a simple language. If I can teach myself to speak it, I can teach myself to write it.”

 I listened to Vera, as I had not to the others. I had been too self-absorbed, worried about how my own work would be received. It was my first time in a writing circle.

“I had a husband, two children. My husband is gone. My children are gone. I tell you this not so that you will feel sad, or pity me, but so that you will know humour is healing. I have survived the holocaust, I have survived famine. I have lived alone in foreign countries, not understanding a word of the people around me. I struggle to retain the images of my family. Yet, I am glad to have gone through it. Otherwise, I would not be alive. I will read you an excerpt. I hope you will laugh. I expect you will laugh.”

And we did laugh.

Liebster Blog Award

Nisha, over at NM’s writers bloq (don’t you love the name of her blog?!) has given me the Liebster Blog Award! Her blog is very fun, touching on so many diverse topics in literature and writing. Go pay her a visit and meet a new blogging friend!

I’ve been thinking about who to pass this on to, I never like choosing, but I’ve decided to pass it on to fellow bloggers who are self-promoting self-published works. Some I have read, and some are on my to be read list. I have no idea who has how many followers, as most blogs don’t show the number of followers. In alphabetical order:

1. H. B. Berlow: A writer in Kansas who has published short stories and novels in various genres.

2. Lawrence Estrey: A writer and a pianist in England. He has written and published a psychological thriller, Secrets.

3. Cathryn Grant: A prolific writer who has published 2 novels, 3 novellas, and flash fiction. She has created her own genre called, Suburban Noir, and her writing is very fun, while at the same time exploring the darker aspect of us.

4. JC Hart: A writer and a mom on young ones. She has co-edited and contributed to a compilation of short stories for a fundraiser entitled Tales for Canterbury. Not a novel, but I’m including the work because it’s for such a good cause and deserve recognition.

5. Linda Cassidy Lewis: Has written and published Brevity of Roses. A novel that will take you into three lives, through turmoil, and to their ultimate happiness.

Upon receiving your Liebster award, you should:

1. Thank your Liebster Blog Award presenter on your blog.
2. Link back to the blogger who presented the award to you.
3. Copy and paste the blog award on your blog.
4. Present the Liebster Blog Award to 5 blogs of 200 followers or less who you feel deserve to be noticed. (some say just 3 or more blogs of less than 200 followers each)
5. Let them know they have been chosen, by leaving a comment at their blog.

Dominoes

When I began writing, I wrote a novel. Then I re-wrote it. And then I did it again. And again, all in all a total of about 11 times. I did it without coherence, knowing that it needed tending, but not knowing how or where to find the problems.

I think what I was doing was developing my voice, learning all about the craft of writing.

Recently, I’ve gone back to that novel and I re-wrote it again. This time, I’m learning about the craft of story telling. I’ve been learning about story telling over time, but never in such a concise form as I have these last 3 months.

What I’ve learnt is that sometimes writing is about not writing.

I speak to other writers, read your blogs, I know that for you many of you this is something that comes quite naturally for you. Not for me. I think of writing, and I need to write. I am not good at slowing, thinking, mulling things over. I see something I don’t like and I want to change it. immediately.

There are of course, big problems with this. A change very rarely is a change unto itself, there is always a domino effect, a ripple that one small change sends out into the whole novel. And what if that ripple leads to others, and others, which it often does, and I don’t like those changes, they don’t belong.

So, I’ve learned to still my hand, and keep files and journals where I write my thoughts. I analyze them, see the ripple effect of a change, and inevitably, I will adjust, often more than once. And only then once I have everything outlined and organized step by step will I implement the change. If I like it.

And the prose? Well that comes last now. At the very end. After everything is in its place, then I can play with the words, and enjoy the textures and sounds. Can you tell this is where my fondness lies? It comes to me naturally, in ease. The rest of it is work, fun work, frustrating at times, but very rewarding.

Wishing you all a happy New Year with lots of fruition, and may your writing go where you want to take it!

Happy Holidays!

 

Home sweet home

I normally leave the house to write. I find I’m much more productive if I do, and even the transition time is worth giving up because I do so much while I am working. It’s well worth it for me.

 

This week, the kids have been sick, and I haven’t been able to leave. I try to disappear into my room when time allows and write for even half hour, but my mind can’t focus. I haven’t even been able to read the submissions  my group sent out this week. What is it about being home that leaves me surfing the internet or staring at a screen and not paying any attention to it?

Is it lack of discipline? Am I not pushing myself hard enough? Or is it the lack of cues that trigger me into the work mind frame?

How do you get yourself into work gear from home?

that’s not me, is it?

“If writing can be thought of as a sort of telepathy–a rousing and rendering of spirits–then Elwork is as talented a clairvoyant as any your likely to encounter.” I quote Scott Smith, on Paul Elwork’s The Girl Who Would Speak for the Dead. 

Where stories come from is something writers occasionally like to explore.

Different stories have different answers. If a story comes from seemingly out of nowhere, sometimes I’ll pretend for a moment that it’s being told to me, sent to me somehow.

Do I believe this? No, not all, and even as I think it fleetingly I don’t take it seriously.

In Shade, by author Neil Jordan, his main character Nina becomes a famous actress on film and stage. In one of her first trials at acting on stage, when the curtains lift and she’s  surrounded by applause she experiences a departure that I liken to an author writing:

And the character was gone, quite suddenly, lifted from me by invisible hands with no sense of release; it was hovering somewhere in the wings, maybe, like a ghost itself, awaiting another manifestation, another embodiment, another performance.

When we write, I think most of us, do indeed become our character, go someplace else, experience something else. It is easier to become some characters than others. At times it happens spontaneously, at others we must work at it, trying to find the character, searching. And sometimes that character lingers, not letting go, hanging on…

 

I’m an adult, I can have a Christmas list too, right?

My kids have been planning their Christmas wish list since October. Actually, if I’m really honest, they’ve been planning it since December 25th, 2010.

In mid-November I was presented with a list by each of them. My 8-year old wrote one for my 5-year-old, at her request. And they both made up one for the 1 and a half year-old. The list is huge and endless, and is updated daily.

When my son asked me the other day, “What’s on your list, mommy”, I nearly teared up. Oh, they’re not so selfish after all. They think of others. They think of me!!!

But, wait, what was on my list? Did I even have a list?

I have come up with three things for my list since that day: Fluffy slippers, chocolate (yummy, dark, and nutty!), and the third is still on debate: an e-reader.

It’s taken me a few years to even consider wanting one of these e-readers, never mind buying one. Recently, I’m beginning to have a change of heart. Why? There are certain things that are becoming only available in e-format. I’ve been using my iPhone for the last year to download and read on, but the screen is so small, and it’s not very comfortable for longer pieces.

I was thinking of gifting an iPad to the our family, could I use the iPad in the same way as an e-reader, or is the experience still very electronic? I’ve been told numerous times that an e-reader is a very comfortable read.  But, it’s not a book! And I love my books. Yet, I’m missing out on some things I really want to read that only available electronically.

I have a little bit of time left to fill up my Christmas wish list, and figure out if an e-reader will be on it. And at this point, there are various brands and models available, and I would to de research to know which one is the best value and gives the closest possible to real book effect. In the meantime I’ll keep shopping for everyone else, scratching off the list, one by one.

Any thoughts: how is reading on an e-reader versus an iPhone or iPad?

And another question for writers: Can you download your own work in progress onto an e-reader?

Almost there, so close……

Then WHY, oh WHY, does it feel so far?

I’ve been re-writing the major part of a novel for the last two to three months. It’s a novel I wrote seven years ago, and the first thing I ever wrote after deciding I would write. For reasons I won’t get into right now, I went back to it. Needless to say it needed work. We change, grow, expand, see the world differently, and I saw situations in the novel that I didn’t like.

But, this post isn’t about editing, and fixing, it’s about how when I’m at the last stretch of the novel, I feel like I’m never going to get to the end. I cut, and then add in so much, it’s as if the ending is getting further instead of closer. I recognize mistakes I made along the way, and I have a file entitled Things to Wrap Up, so I know the end is not really the end. Then a read-through, and then Beta readers, and then another round. So I’m hoping to reach an end (of sorts) in January, into February at the latest. Not in the two weeks or less I’m anticipating to finish my re-write.

I find myself full of adrenaline when I write, almost panting through it. And I tell myself, slow down, enjoy the process, that’s what it’s all about, this writing stuff. And yet, I’m still counting pages.

(I found this digital image on-line, and traced it back to its creator, Christina Pereira. In it, I see myself reaching for this ending, this goal, with all the others being too high out reach for now. I’ll have to get a ladder and a basket to collect them all.)