This past weekend tested me. The beginning was good. Family came in from out of town. My daughter graduated from high school, and a friend's daughter went into labor. It was the start of a new chapter for Linnea, and the start of a new life for baby-to-be.
The middle was disastrous. My friend's daughter couldn't deliver, and after 36 hours of labor, was taken in for an emergency C-section. My aunt called to tell me that my uncle (her brother) had passed away just a few hours earlier. My friend called to say that mom and baby were doing fine. A massive storm swept through the area, knocking out power and flooding streets. And then, my mother, visiting from the other side of the state, couldn't breathe. We rode to the hospital in an ambulance, taking at least four detours due to flooding. After several hours, she was finally admitted for observation, and I got to go home for some rest, with only eight hours until the graduation party.
The end of the weekend, while less frantic than the middle, was still mostly a blur to me. After falling asleep at 5:00 am, I woke up at 10:00, three hours until party lift-off. With the help of an army of family and friends, final prep was flawless. An hour into the party, I got a phone call that Mom was being discharged. Off I went again. Got home in time to say goodbye to everyone, and then start the clean up. The end of the hospital stay, the end of the party, the end of the school year, the end of the weekend: they all converged.
As I have replayed the weekend in my mind, I realized that I had just had the privilege of attending a free, albeit incredibly intensive, novel workshop. Strange, I know. But here's why.
Beginnings
The novelist introduces characters, setting, and plot. All my characters arrived just when they should have. I had multiple settings, to keep the story fresh: my house, the graduation auditorium, the farmer's market, the hospital. And the plot was clear: watch daughter graduate, throw her a party, everyone lives happily ever after.
Middles
The novelist introduces conflict. Without obstacles, twists, or surprises, the story is boring. So here they come, in the form of emergency surgery, a birth, a death, a storm, an ambulance ride, and a health scare.
Ends
The novelist creates the climax of the story, in which the main character faces her nemesis, or obstacle, or fear, and comes out on the other side a slightly different person. Without this growth or change, there is no story.
Character Arc
So how did this change me? What did I learn from all this? For one thing, let me state for the record that I do not believe that everything happens for a reason. I believe that things just happen, whether due to physics, fate, or happenstance, it doesn't really matter. What does matter is what you choose to take away from your experiences (if you choose to take away nothing, then clearly there was no "reason" for event X to occur). We all know people who choose to ignore the chance to change their way of thinking, or their behavior, even when faced with the overwhelming evidence in front of them that, whatever situation they happen to find themselves in, they have played a part in it somehow.
I could very easily have fallen into the "Why me?" category. After all, I really had no control over any of it. But instead, I chose to view each obstacle as simply something that happened. Not to me. Just plain happened. I reacted when I needed to react, changed what I could change, and ignored what could be ignored. By then end of the weekend, I didn't change so much as I came to a sharper realization of what I already knew, and a determination to make sure others knew it, too: that I have a wonderful husband, amazing daughters, incredible family, and supportive friends whom I can always count on. So now you all know.
But the even bigger culmination of the weekend's "character arc" was the epiphany that I could use this tiny little weekend as a barometer by which to measure my novel. If this weekend represents a workshop-worthy roadmap for storyline and character, then I need to be sure my novel matches it. Fortunately, during my first run-through, I feel confident I've nailed it. However, I plan to spend a little more time going over everything in a bit more detail, because I learned one more thing from the weekend, too.
Everything goes more smoothly when you know what you're doing.
The End
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
I Have a Pen and I am Not Afraid to Use It
Well, sort of. I do have a pen. And most of the time, I pick it up and scribble with no more thought than a passing whim. Check writing, calendar entries, lists (I make lists like no one's business), all those college forms my almost-freshman daughter needs to have filled out and signed. Oh, yes, and the occasional letter to the editor or public comment in front of the local school board (some of you know exactly what I'm talking about).
(Pardon me while I have a small musical interlude here--my daughter is playing the theme to Amelie on the piano.)
Okay, back to the pen. Most of the time, I do not have any difficulty whatsoever saying what I want to say, being blatantly (some might use the adverb "rudely") honest. I suppose I could be described as opinionated, or merely confident. Regardless of what people think, I try not to be swayed just because popular opinion travels in the other direction. In other words, I have the strength of my convictions to bolster me. Of course, I do try not to be offensive when I am in the minority, but mainly that's because I don't want the crap kicked out of me.
So why is it that I sometimes have difficulty picking up that pen to finish this novel?? Six years is a long time to be working on this project. It really is almost done. Mere moments away from "The End," in fact. But I know that a couple things are working against me.
Obstacle One: Me
That's right, I am my own worst critic/enemy. It isn't ready yet. It isn't good enough. The competition is better. Whatever. I am working on changing the language of my internal monologue. It is good enough. It is actually better than good enough. It is just what Agent X is looking for.
Obstacle Two: Me
Really? Why, yes. Yes it is. It's that whole stupid fear thing. Fear that once I finish this, I won't have any other stories to tell. That I will be finished. You've heard of the sophomore slump, right? That second CD or that movie sequel that never quite lives up to the debut. Yup. That's what I worry about. So I have to tell myself, codswallop! (I love that word, don't you?) My little Moleskin notebook (which travels with me everywhere) is already chock-full of new story ideas. And I have two other novels in draft. I am not a one-trick pony, thank you very much.
Obstacle Three: I'll give you two guesses
Shocker, I know. When you've worked on something for so long, something that comes from a deep place in the soul, it is hard to let go of it. But my baby is just about ready to leave the nest, and I'm not talking about my daughter. I need to push this one out the door so I can give the other babies what they need to grow into novels.
After my homespun therapy session, today was a great writing day with my group. Eight pages re-written, and more tweaked. A character name finally figured out (and it's a good one!). Resolve strengthened. Obstacles? What obstacles? I have a query to write.
(Pardon me while I have a small musical interlude here--my daughter is playing the theme to Amelie on the piano.)
Okay, back to the pen. Most of the time, I do not have any difficulty whatsoever saying what I want to say, being blatantly (some might use the adverb "rudely") honest. I suppose I could be described as opinionated, or merely confident. Regardless of what people think, I try not to be swayed just because popular opinion travels in the other direction. In other words, I have the strength of my convictions to bolster me. Of course, I do try not to be offensive when I am in the minority, but mainly that's because I don't want the crap kicked out of me.
So why is it that I sometimes have difficulty picking up that pen to finish this novel?? Six years is a long time to be working on this project. It really is almost done. Mere moments away from "The End," in fact. But I know that a couple things are working against me.
Obstacle One: Me
That's right, I am my own worst critic/enemy. It isn't ready yet. It isn't good enough. The competition is better. Whatever. I am working on changing the language of my internal monologue. It is good enough. It is actually better than good enough. It is just what Agent X is looking for.
Obstacle Two: Me
Really? Why, yes. Yes it is. It's that whole stupid fear thing. Fear that once I finish this, I won't have any other stories to tell. That I will be finished. You've heard of the sophomore slump, right? That second CD or that movie sequel that never quite lives up to the debut. Yup. That's what I worry about. So I have to tell myself, codswallop! (I love that word, don't you?) My little Moleskin notebook (which travels with me everywhere) is already chock-full of new story ideas. And I have two other novels in draft. I am not a one-trick pony, thank you very much.
Obstacle Three: I'll give you two guesses
Shocker, I know. When you've worked on something for so long, something that comes from a deep place in the soul, it is hard to let go of it. But my baby is just about ready to leave the nest, and I'm not talking about my daughter. I need to push this one out the door so I can give the other babies what they need to grow into novels.
After my homespun therapy session, today was a great writing day with my group. Eight pages re-written, and more tweaked. A character name finally figured out (and it's a good one!). Resolve strengthened. Obstacles? What obstacles? I have a query to write.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Trying to Stay Motivated
Wednesday was my bimonthly writing day with a couple other writer friends. Hang on a sec...does bimonthly mean twice a month or every other month? Please hold while I check the definition. Click here for easy listening hold music:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mDeO46FwdeU
Okay, I'm back. According to dictionary.com, "bimonthly" actually means both of the above:
http://www.thefreedictionary.com/bimonthly
As so often happens in writing, I must now revise my previous statement for clarity. Wednesday was one of my twice-monthly writing days I share with two writer friends. I believe that clears things up. Now I've forgotten my point. Oh, right. The writing day. Well, it was productive. I got ten pages revised, and worked out some stumbling blocks from another four pages. Not bad for 5 hours.
My non-writer friends often ask why I would schedule a writing day with friends. "You don't talk to each other while you're writing, do you?" No, we work in silence.
"Do you critique each other's writing at some point?" Nope. I have a critique group for that.
"You're not in your own house, so you can't just sit in your robe." Well, I suppose I could, though I would feel rather foolish driving in a robe and slippers. But I do bring my slippers with me. And sometimes a little blankie.
"Do you have your computer with you?" Yes, I have a laptop that is strictly for writing. No wireless capability. Keeps me from distracting myself. Or blogging.
"Why can't you do all this at home?" Because at home I have laundry to do, bills to pay, gardens to weed, windows to wash (yes, I would really rather wash windows--how warped is that?), phone calls to make, phone calls to answer, grocery shopping to do, and a cat who wants all the attention I possibly have to give her. At a friend's house, I have none of these distractions.
"So what happens when you host the writing day?" My friends don't allow me to leave the computer until it's time for lunch. My friends keep me on task. My friends keep me motivated. They make it easier to follow the one simple rule of writing: B.I.C. (butt in chair).
Writing is a lonely business. Some people prefer it that way. But for extroverts, it can be soul wearying. To simply share the same oxygen in a room helps refuel the soul. And at the end of the writing day, when I can look at the progress and actually SEE it on the page, my motivation is refueled as well. I watch the end of the process move closer, and it becomes easier to sit down and write when I am alone, to maintain the momentum from my bimonthly/twice-monthly writing day, to make my own writing days matter more.
I don't know many writers who prefer the isolation. In fact, as I think about my writing colleagues, I can't think of anyone who actually squirrels away into oblivion to write, at least not 100% of the time. At some point, we all need the support and motivation of the other squirrels so we don't go nuts.
So thanks to my squirrels. You know who you are.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mDeO46FwdeU
Okay, I'm back. According to dictionary.com, "bimonthly" actually means both of the above:
http://www.thefreedictionary.com/bimonthly
As so often happens in writing, I must now revise my previous statement for clarity. Wednesday was one of my twice-monthly writing days I share with two writer friends. I believe that clears things up. Now I've forgotten my point. Oh, right. The writing day. Well, it was productive. I got ten pages revised, and worked out some stumbling blocks from another four pages. Not bad for 5 hours.
My non-writer friends often ask why I would schedule a writing day with friends. "You don't talk to each other while you're writing, do you?" No, we work in silence.
"Do you critique each other's writing at some point?" Nope. I have a critique group for that.
"You're not in your own house, so you can't just sit in your robe." Well, I suppose I could, though I would feel rather foolish driving in a robe and slippers. But I do bring my slippers with me. And sometimes a little blankie.
"Do you have your computer with you?" Yes, I have a laptop that is strictly for writing. No wireless capability. Keeps me from distracting myself. Or blogging.
"Why can't you do all this at home?" Because at home I have laundry to do, bills to pay, gardens to weed, windows to wash (yes, I would really rather wash windows--how warped is that?), phone calls to make, phone calls to answer, grocery shopping to do, and a cat who wants all the attention I possibly have to give her. At a friend's house, I have none of these distractions.
"So what happens when you host the writing day?" My friends don't allow me to leave the computer until it's time for lunch. My friends keep me on task. My friends keep me motivated. They make it easier to follow the one simple rule of writing: B.I.C. (butt in chair).
Writing is a lonely business. Some people prefer it that way. But for extroverts, it can be soul wearying. To simply share the same oxygen in a room helps refuel the soul. And at the end of the writing day, when I can look at the progress and actually SEE it on the page, my motivation is refueled as well. I watch the end of the process move closer, and it becomes easier to sit down and write when I am alone, to maintain the momentum from my bimonthly/twice-monthly writing day, to make my own writing days matter more.
I don't know many writers who prefer the isolation. In fact, as I think about my writing colleagues, I can't think of anyone who actually squirrels away into oblivion to write, at least not 100% of the time. At some point, we all need the support and motivation of the other squirrels so we don't go nuts.
So thanks to my squirrels. You know who you are.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
"I would love to write a book someday."
Are you kidding me? Just what do you mean by "someday"? That you'll take a week off work, sit down at the keyboard, and bang out a bestseller? Oh, please.
If you're a writer, you probably hear the same thing. The other day, I was at the vet's office with my sick cat. Before the vet launched into a lengthy explanation of what was wrong, he asked me, "What do you do for a living?" I couldn't see the relevance (later he explained that he was trying to figure out whether he should dumb down--my words, not his--his diagnosis), but I answered anyway. Well, that launched him into a soliloquy about how he himself was a frustrated writer. He had great admiration for an author who was also a well-renowned surgeon, and he would love to follow that doctor's lead. The vet has a lot of great stories to tell, you know. He had such an interesting childhood, and so much has happened in his life and in his practice. And he got good grades on his college essays.
Right. That's all you need. Stories and a couple of passing grades.
I would dearly love to disabuse everyone of the notion that "anyone can write." Okay, anyone can, but not everyone can do it well. And therein lies the challenge. Great writing, and to a certain degree even just good writing, is transparent. That is, it is so effortless to read, and so elegantly done, that it makes people believe they can do it, too. It's sort of like a clean house. You walk in, and you know the house is clean, but you don't have to inspect the corners for dust. You don't have to look for built up cat hair along the baseboards. You don't have to peek inside the fridge to know that not a speck of salmonella is contaminating your upcoming dinner. Good writing is the same way. You don't have to dissect the plot to follow it. You don't have to outline the character arc to see why it works. You don't have to parse dialogue to understand it. Good writing just IS.
But how do you explain to someone, while you are waiting for them to tell you whether Fluffy will survive, that while you are flattered that he admires your chosen profession, you do not encourage him to attempt it?
So instead I told him that I always wanted to be a vet, and that he had inspired me to pick up a scalpel and a book on kitty anatomy and fix Fluffy myself.
If you're a writer, you probably hear the same thing. The other day, I was at the vet's office with my sick cat. Before the vet launched into a lengthy explanation of what was wrong, he asked me, "What do you do for a living?" I couldn't see the relevance (later he explained that he was trying to figure out whether he should dumb down--my words, not his--his diagnosis), but I answered anyway. Well, that launched him into a soliloquy about how he himself was a frustrated writer. He had great admiration for an author who was also a well-renowned surgeon, and he would love to follow that doctor's lead. The vet has a lot of great stories to tell, you know. He had such an interesting childhood, and so much has happened in his life and in his practice. And he got good grades on his college essays.
Right. That's all you need. Stories and a couple of passing grades.
I would dearly love to disabuse everyone of the notion that "anyone can write." Okay, anyone can, but not everyone can do it well. And therein lies the challenge. Great writing, and to a certain degree even just good writing, is transparent. That is, it is so effortless to read, and so elegantly done, that it makes people believe they can do it, too. It's sort of like a clean house. You walk in, and you know the house is clean, but you don't have to inspect the corners for dust. You don't have to look for built up cat hair along the baseboards. You don't have to peek inside the fridge to know that not a speck of salmonella is contaminating your upcoming dinner. Good writing is the same way. You don't have to dissect the plot to follow it. You don't have to outline the character arc to see why it works. You don't have to parse dialogue to understand it. Good writing just IS.
But how do you explain to someone, while you are waiting for them to tell you whether Fluffy will survive, that while you are flattered that he admires your chosen profession, you do not encourage him to attempt it?
So instead I told him that I always wanted to be a vet, and that he had inspired me to pick up a scalpel and a book on kitty anatomy and fix Fluffy myself.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
A Good Night's Sleep...
...and the wooziness is over. So what do I blog about? Why would anyone care what I have to say? After all, I am not yet a writer, if you go by my list of published works. Or if you go by the reaction I get when I'm at a party and I answer the inevitable what-do-you-do question. Generally, my answer of "I'm a writer," is immediately met with, "Oh, have I read anything you've written?" followed by, "I'm still working on a revision of my novel and am looking for an agent," which leads to, "Oh, so not a real writer then."
Ouch. Just punch me in the gut, please. Quicker and less painful.
Why is it that publication is the only credential that seems to matter to most people? It's akin to the the artist who constantly hears, "Have I heard of you?" Or the actor working in commercials, or off-Broadway, who has to wait tables to make ends meet. Not a real actor at all, right? On the contrary, writers, artists, and actors suffer from the same affliction, the notion that there is something within us that needs a creative outlet, and we happen to choose one of the lowest paying, most competitive fields available.
Consider the following report from PayScale, which analyzes the earning power of a degree:
http://hotjobs.yahoo.com/career-articles-worst_paying_college_degrees-1263
For those of you who don't want to visit the link, let me sum up. The ten worst-paying degrees are as follows:
10. Drama
9. Fine Arts
8. Hospitality and Tourism
7. Education
6. Horticulture
5. Spanish
4. Music
3. Theology
2. Elementary Education
1. Social Work
Yikes.
Writing is typically considered a Fine Arts major. And let me just interject here to give a shout-out to all the teachers I know who choose this profession, even knowing that their contribution to the foundation of all civilized society is unappreciated, undervalued, and frequently the target of state and local budget cuts, while prisons remain well funded (and air conditioned, I might add).
Why do we do it? And why, if we know we are not viewed as "real" do we continue to admit it publicly? Because we can't help it. Because we are who we are, and we breathe it in with every breath. And we know that to deny our creative soul is to die just a little.
So I will continue to admit to being a writer, even when friends (who mean well) and new acquaintances look at you with just a little distrust and think you suffer from delusions of grandeur. And perhaps one day, I will be able to say, "Of course you've heard of me. I'm bigger than J.K. Rowling and Stephanie Meyer put together."
(Ring, ring! Hello, this is delusions of grandeur calling for Jennifer!)
Ouch. Just punch me in the gut, please. Quicker and less painful.
Why is it that publication is the only credential that seems to matter to most people? It's akin to the the artist who constantly hears, "Have I heard of you?" Or the actor working in commercials, or off-Broadway, who has to wait tables to make ends meet. Not a real actor at all, right? On the contrary, writers, artists, and actors suffer from the same affliction, the notion that there is something within us that needs a creative outlet, and we happen to choose one of the lowest paying, most competitive fields available.
Consider the following report from PayScale, which analyzes the earning power of a degree:
http://hotjobs.yahoo.com/career-articles-worst_paying_college_degrees-1263
For those of you who don't want to visit the link, let me sum up. The ten worst-paying degrees are as follows:
10. Drama
9. Fine Arts
8. Hospitality and Tourism
7. Education
6. Horticulture
5. Spanish
4. Music
3. Theology
2. Elementary Education
1. Social Work
Yikes.
Writing is typically considered a Fine Arts major. And let me just interject here to give a shout-out to all the teachers I know who choose this profession, even knowing that their contribution to the foundation of all civilized society is unappreciated, undervalued, and frequently the target of state and local budget cuts, while prisons remain well funded (and air conditioned, I might add).
Why do we do it? And why, if we know we are not viewed as "real"
So I will continue to admit to being a writer, even when friends (who mean well) and new acquaintances look at you with just a little distrust and think you suffer from delusions of grandeur. And perhaps one day, I will be able to say, "Of course you've heard of me. I'm bigger than J.K. Rowling and Stephanie Meyer put together."
(Ring, ring! Hello, this is delusions of grandeur calling for Jennifer!)
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
I Must Be Insane
After six years working on the same novel (and a couple others mixed in there, just so I can fill up any nagging spare minutes), I am finally starting to work on the "professional/public" persona, the one that all the agents and publishers want to know about, the one that shows that I am, indeed, capable of stringing together grammatically correct compound-complex sentences and still retain readability. (How am I doing so far?)
This is also how they determine if you have "media presence." Can I attract an audience? Can I keep it? Would I be personable enough to send out on public book signings without cracking under pressure, or making the publisher/agency look like blooming idiots for having given me a contract?
All of this remains to be seen, of course. In the meantime, for your reading pleasure, here are my own personal "brain droppings," with my apologies to George Carlin (may he rest in peace). But you're going to have to wait for the first installment. Just setting this thing up has made me woozy. I have to go lie down now.
This is also how they determine if you have "media presence." Can I attract an audience? Can I keep it? Would I be personable enough to send out on public book signings without cracking under pressure, or making the publisher/agency look like blooming idiots for having given me a contract?
All of this remains to be seen, of course. In the meantime, for your reading pleasure, here are my own personal "brain droppings," with my apologies to George Carlin (may he rest in peace). But you're going to have to wait for the first installment. Just setting this thing up has made me woozy. I have to go lie down now.
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