The New Year Ahead

I don’t make resolutions as such; if I decide to change something I do it no matter when it is. What I do instead is make statements of what I want to happen during the coming year. I used to call them wishes, but that sounded too iffy and as if I were waiting for something or someone to grant them.

I do think that there is someone or something out there that does some wish granting, but like that old lottery joke I believe you have to help. You don’t know the joke? It goes like this:

A man prays long and hard about winning the lottery. Finally God appears to him and says, “give me a break…buy a ticket.”

I love that joke because it acknowledges the divine yet it also recognizes your part in achieving what you want. God, the Goddess, the Force, the Source, The Unknowable, whatever you call it can’t help you unless you help yourself, and that’s where declarations come in.

So. I begin every year with these sorts of statements. Here is how I do it, although I don’t in any way say it’s the only or best way.

1) Make them positive. You can do negative, as in I don’t want this to happen anymore, but I believe positive ones are more powerful.

2) Make them about you and your behavior. You can’t control others (or publishing companies and literary agencies), but you can control you.

3) Make them specific. It’s hard to work towards a nebulous goal, and if anyone is listening out there, do you really want that something to guess what you want?

4) This one might sound like a contradiction to three but I don't think it is...allow the Universe to intervene. What you are asking for may not be in your best interest. Or, there may be something better you never imagined.

Being a writer means you have to be very focused. If nothing else, declarations help you to do that. At best, Pinocchio’s Blue Fairy will bring you exactly what you want in the coming year. :-)

Blog Format Change

When I first started writing this blog I wasn’t sure how to go about it. I looked at other writer’s blogs and my publishers had some ideas. One suggestion I received from a couple of sources was to review books.

I never was entirely comfortable with that. Even though I clearly state the reviews are my opinions, who am I to give one? I’m not an expert. All I know is what I like. Fair enough, but should I really put that out there in a public forum? The second thing is that I would never, ever want to hurt someone’s feelings...the author, or his or her fans.

But I went ahead with the reviews, trying to compliment as I was critiquing, which I never had a problem with… until last month.

Someone gave me some books I really did not like. (Scores of friends and family recommend books so I’m not identifying anyone here.) When I say I did not like, I mean I really didn’t like: not the setting, not the characters, not the plot, and not the writing style. I tried to like it. I started book one twice to make sure. I gave it to my husband who said the same thing. It was bad enough to return the books saying they were not for me when I knew this person loved them. I couldn’t bring myself to review them on my blog.

Because no matter how much syrup you dribble over a critique, if you diss someone’s woo no matter how nice or fair you believe you are, it can feel like you are questioning their taste.

I have recent experience with this over my (gasp) Twilight infatuation. Someone will say something nasty about the books and then a quick, “oh…you like those. I forgot.”

I have found myself in the odd position of defending these books. What I realized was that I wasn’t so much defending Twilight as I was defending my right to like whatever I want without my literary acumen questioned.

So. I’m not going to review books unless I totally fall in love with a story. From now on I’ll leave critiquing to the experts or for people who love to do it. Neither one will ever be me.

The Paparazzi's Holiday, Part Deux

I've had a couple of people ask where I found the picture of the gingerbread house with the pooping deer.

I made that house. Well, not me entirely; I baked and decorated it with my husband and some friends.

OK, I mostly ate candy and watched , but I was there. And that story popped into my head when my twisted friend placed that deer in the front yard. :-)

Old Story, New Look

One of my short stories, Upon a Midnight Clear, is going to be re-released by my favorite publisher, Wild Child/Freya's Bower. The new cover is below, by Posh Gosh designs.



It should be available soon, but mostly I wanted to show off the fabulous artwork.

http://poshgosh.yolasite.com
http://www.wildchildpublishing.com/

The Paparazzi’s Holiday

See, Santa didn’t always have the posh digs he has now. That super-sized Mcmansion was an acquisition only after he and the misses proved themselves to their sponsors. Hey, those toys don’t make themselves. They aren’t constructed by elves, either. Those poor saps have enough to do getting the big guy ready for his yearly deliveries. And I heard that scoop right from the source.

I captured this photo on one of my regular visits to the ski slopes. We get ‘em where we can find ‘em, and snow towns are ripe with celebs. I can only hope to snap Paris falling into a drift. But anyway, there I was, a paparazzi down on his luck, on the edge of a second rate lodge.

There wasn’t even a broken down botoxed star anywhere within a ten mile radius, so to console myself I’d found a tavern where the beer and women were cheap. Maybe it was holiday magic, but after a couple of cold ones who should stumble in but two short men dressed all in green. The regulars ignored them, but my radar engaged. You never know. Pretty soon I heard them griping about their boss… mostly about being worked to death. One of them moved his hat around to scratch and I could have sworn those ears were pointed.

I followed them outside when they left. They complained all the way back to a hovel of a house: shingles falling off, haphazard decorations, and a fat surly reindeer pooping on the front lawn. It wasn’t pretty, but the place smelled of vanilla and candy canes. Weird. I peeked through the window, and there he was: the fat man himself, dressed in a ratty bathrobe trimmed in white fur. He caught me staring, put a finger to the side of his nose, and shook his head.

I took a picture anyway. Any pap worth his salt would have. But no one would buy the photo. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. I couldn’t really blame them…who’d believe it? I wasn’t even sure I did. Don’t know if he used the old place to take a break, couldn’t let go of his past, or if he used the location to take advantage of his workers where no one could see.

What I did know was I never got nothin’ for Christmas after that. That’s life in my profession. Paris doesn’t send me a card, either. I might go back, though. Maybe I could catch the misses in a hot tub…

The Gift Of The Magi

The Gift Of The Magi, by O Henry, is, in my humble opinion, the best holiday story ever written. For those of you who have never read it, enjoy. For those who have, read it again. I do ever year around this time.

The beautiful water color is by Lisbeth Zwerger.

The Gift Of The Magi

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pierglass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

THE BEST CHRISTMAS PAGEANT EVER

My niece, Ruthie, is in yet another play at Buck Creek.

Oh and BTW, she is directing a musical (Oklahoma) in 2012. Yes, that's directing, the youngest director ever at Buck Creek. :-)



From the Buck Creek Players website:

THE BEST CHRISTMAS PAGEANT EVER
a holiday treat for the entire family by Barbara Robinson

The Herdmans are the worst kids in the history of the world. They lie, steal, smoke cigars, swear and hit little kids. So no one is prepared when this outlaw family invades the annual Christmas pageant. Their interpretation has a lot of people up in arms, but it will make this year's pageant the most unusual any one has ever seen and--just possibly--the best one ever.

December 3-4-5, 10-11-12, 17-18-19, 2010

Harbinger

Yesterday my husband and I finished our holiday decorating. Today I completed my last edits on my new book, The Prodigy. Next week I will be sending it to a publisher.

Many writers don't submit during December because they believe no one will look at it until the new year. Probably true, but I have a holiday fantasy that goes like this: a lone assistant editor the night before Christmas pulls out yet another manuscript from the slush pile. She's mad about staying late. But the story intrigues her. She can't put it down...

Yeah. Something like that. :-)

I'm hoping that the Harbinger of Joy depicted on this vintage postcard will bring me luck...and anyone else who has a manuscript out there.

Over the River and through the Woods

Over the River and through the Woods by Lydia Maria Child is one of the few Thanksgiving songs I know of. Sometimes people make it into a Christmas song by changing a couple of words, but it was written for Turkey Day.

Thanksgiving was never a big deal in my house growing up...the holiday was more of a Christmas pre-start, as my mom decorated anything that didn't move. After I became a vegetarian about twenty-five years ago the turkey part certainly lost its luster, and I never was a stuff-until-you-drop kind of gal. Unless you're talking about Skittles, but that's another story.

I love this song because it is so very Americana: the food, seeing family during the holidays, snow, and enjoying the great outdoors with a cozy interior just around the corner.

Although my Thanksgiving in many ways is not traditional, I do use this holiday to consider all of my blessings. When many in the world don't have enough to eat or drink and worry about their safety, I have the luxury of being able to write fiction. I will never, ever take that for granted.

Have a good one!!

Over the river, and through the wood,
To Grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh
through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river, and through the wood—
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes and bites the nose
As over the ground we go.

Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring, "Ting-a-ling-ding",
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river, and through the wood
Trot fast, my dapple-gray!
Spring over the ground like a hunting-hound,
For this is Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river, and through the wood—
And straight through the barnyard gate,
We seem to go extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait!

Over the river, and through the wood—
Now Grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

Cleaning

My sister dubbed me a clothes horse years ago, and as Garfield the cat would say, I resemble that remark. I retorted that I found my stuff on sale, the Goodwill, and more recently on ebay …there’s nothing like the thrill of finding designer jeans , tags ON, for a song. She replied back well yes, but that doesn’t change how much stuff you have. Very true.

So now and then I do a giant sorting and clearing out. It’s no fun to do, but it feels good when I’m done.

I do the same with my writing records. I’ve finished editing my new book, The Prodigy, and that same sister is now editing it. (She is my first and best editor). I’ve completed the synopsis and cover letter. I’m not ready to start a new book…the contemplation phase is still going.

So what to do…besides holiday stuff? It's time to do some cleaning. I check over where all of my manuscripts are, and how long respective peoples have had them. One needed a polite ahem, are you still looking at it? Another had passed the allotted time with no answer (unless you are dealing with a particular person or you have sent materials, silence means no). So I found another place to submit that one.

Being a writer means you own your own business, and no one but you is going to remind you that these tasks need tending to. A manuscript in limbo is a story that isn’t published. And it gives a sense of control to a business that often feels like the writer has no control.

Just like eliminating those beautiful, designer shoes that hurt my feet. :-)

Kinda Wow…

…is how I’m feeling this morning. It isn’t a big wow, perhaps more like a quiet woo. :-)

I finished another book: The Prodigy. I still have some editing to go. But it’s done.

I realized as I was checking for overused words and phrases, mistakes of spelling, punctuation, and consistency, that I’ve finally found that writing groove: idea gestation, compose, DONE, edit, submit, sell. (Or course, there is another whole list of stuff to do after you sell, but this is my list.)

I’m very happy I have another one under my belt. I’m satisfied to see my writing technically improve with every book…I don’t have to edit as much, yea! I’m looking forward to the contemplation and cogitation that comes with starting a new story.

But what I’m most glad about is that I finally feel like I’ve settled in. Yeah, still waiting for an agent and still very much wanting to have that best seller, but in the meantime, I feel like a writer.

A real one.

How My Life Inspires Me

This is not going to be a deep moving story. But it is an example of how I often use my own life to draw from in my fiction. The following tale will make it into a book.

My husband and I got married on Halloween. This year he gave me a beautiful ring, and knowing my penchant for long baths, a bath bomb. For those of you who don’t know what that is, picture a giant cellophane wrapped ball that fizzes on contact with water. This one was named Candy Corn. Nice and Halloween-y. Last night I gathered up all my bathing equipment and planned a nice evening.

Short intermission: Gary and I have not always lived in our cozy condo by the lake. We once resided on what could only be called a homestead; a gorgeous 1920's “fixer upper” house on a huge track of land. We both realized after ten or so years that while we liked the idea of a country estate, the practicalities of said living arrangement were not so great. At least, not without garden minions. And maybe Mike Holmes. Anyway, we downsized and moved, wanting to spend our free time on things like, say, writing.

We shared our country house with various uninvited critters: mice, termites, centipedes, flies, and spiders. Big spiders, like those huge ones you see in the garden and think wow, I’m glad it’s outside. Once when I was taking a bath I swirled the water around and lo, floating atop a mound of bubbles, was one of those spiders. It was dead, but still.

So back to the present; I threw in the bomb and watched it fizz away. I took a sip of wine and looked again…thank the stars I wasn’t in there…and saw a giant spider bobbing along the warm currents. I screamed and Gary came running. Bug, I yelled. (We have an equal relationship. But in my opinion, it’s still the Man’s Job to kill insects.) He leaned over and burst out laughing.

The spider was plastic. Apparently, the makers of these bath bombs thought it would be hilarious to insert a spider into the Halloween ones. Hardy har har.

It’s funny now. And great story fodder.

Samantha

I love the TV show Bewitched. Yes, I know it’s dated; the eternal question of why such a magical, beautiful, talented, and smart woman would give up everything to marry a rather cranky and ordinary man seems old fashioned and perhaps a bit sexist.

But Samantha, in many ways, was a ground breaking woman. I never once believed Sam felt trapped. She chose to be with her mortal husband. And I do believe this was the first major representation of a pretty witch, aka, a woman who was powerful and sexy in the same package.

But she did struggle to balance her need for love and her desire to express her natural gifts, something women were just beginning to address back when this show was created. And still do today.

This show inspires me. My female characters are always strong. They can take care of themselves. But sometimes they long for someone to take care of them.

I consider myself an independent and capable women. But there have been times in my life I wanted someone to swoop me up on a white horse, although I would have never admitted it. I would bet many women have had similar thoughts, if only for a fleeting moment.

One could argue this female see-saw is nurture or nature and I’m not sure it really matters, at least, as far as writing goes. Woman, because of their unique internal battles, make fabulous protagonists.

Thanks, Sam.

Book Review & What Is Young Adult Fiction, Anyway?

I’ve been reading The Den of Shadows Quartet by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes. I’ve finished two of the books so I’m doing a review now. I like them. But I don’t love them. I’ve spent a large part of the weekend trying to analyze why.

Ms. Atwater-Rhodes tells a good story. Her vampire world is unique. I even like the characters. But I didn’t fall in love with these books. Which has caused me to contemplate just what is young adult literature? The most common definition is that the protagonist is a young person. Wow. That covers a lot of ground.

I read a lot of what would be classified as YA, because I need to for my career since I write a lot within that genre, but also because I love to read it. For me, I’ve discovered the following dividing line: there seems to be YA books that are written as if the protagonists really are teens, and those that are written as if the teen is an adult in teen clothing.

NOTE: Not all teens are “typical” teens. ;-)

The Den of Shadows would be the first category; these teens are teens. Vampire teens yes, but their focus seems to be finding friends, getting a mate, wedging themselves into the correct clique, getting even when someone has wronged them, fighting with parents. I think the Artimis Fowl books by Eoin Colfer are also this variety. These are excellent, fun, books, but I didn’t fall in love with these, either. The main teen, Artimis, is brilliant, but what is he doing mostly? Trying to prove himself by getting away with stuff his parents don’t know about, and often is involved in petty fights with his friends.

The other YA is very different. In these books teens behave more like adults and are dealing with adult problems. Twilight is this variety. Belle, in many respects, IS the adult in her family; her mother is flighty, and even her father who is more stable, needs to have his dinner made for him. She isn’t concerned about fitting in with other teens. The Harry Potter books fall into this realm. Even though Harry does have some normal teen problems, the main focus of the story is not trying to impress his parents (dead), and he certainly doesn’t care what his adoptive parents think. Cornelia Funke's Inkheart books I would place here, too; Meggie does not behave like a typical teen. Her relationship with her father is more like a friend. And her biggest problems are not teen ones.

I’ve read that middle grade books deal with internal family strife while true YA should be external to the family struggles, and perhaps this is some of the difference I’m seeing. The best YA, in my opinion, does deal with some teen problems yet blends in adult concerns as well, hence the mass appeal of books such as HP…kids AND adults find themselves within the pages and both groups love them.

I’m still figuring all of this out. And to be clear, I don't think either variety is right or wrong, better or worse. I can see why teens would like to read stories in which teens act like teens.

All I know is what I like to write. And to read.

Maxfield Parrish

A reader asked if I did the painting from my last post. Um, no…but thanks. I wish. That wonderful painting is by Maxfield Parrish, my very favorite painter in the world. He is, in my opinion, THE painter of light, even though a modern artist has claimed that title.

He was a famous illustrator in the early 1900s into the 20s and 30s and even worked late in life. His paintings are still loved today. He dabbled in many subjects, including fairy tales. The painting I posted last time was his version of Cinderella. I like the way he portrays Cindy, young and lovely yes, but this Cinderella is not a teenager, she is a woman...a woman who knows what she wants.

Parrish portrays all of his woman like this…beautiful, but you can see personality there, too. His women can be powerful, free, strong-willed, fun loving, or contemplative, you know, like a human being instead of just a gorgeous woman.

Check these out. These are just a few of his many many paintings and illustrations. Like a good book, Maxfield Parrish takes you somewhere else, somewhere magical. Sigh.

When the Clock Strikes Midnight

There comes a time in every novel that I call I Don’t Want To But I Have To. This event usually arrives ¾ into my book; the proverbial story “arc,” where all of the plot points meld. In my books this means all the protagonist’s foibles merge, and then she or he gets a big whack. After that comes the exciting conclusion (hopefully) and final resolutions.

The trouble is, I don’t much like writing the big whack. But it is absolutely necessary. Let’s face it, it’s not too interesting to read about someone living a stress-free life. Conflict is more exciting. You don’t hear much about Cinderella’s life after she gets married, for example. Small domestic squabbles don’t make for page turners, at least, not for me. I’m guessing Cindy and Prince argued over how many dresses that silver tree shook down for her. In the original tale. Read it sometime. Much better than the Disney version.

Anyway, I know there must be a story arc, I know my protagonist must reap what she has sown, I know this makes for exciting reading after the sad part is completed, but I don’t want to. By this point I care about her. I want her to be happy. And perhaps she will be, but first…WHACK!

The other interesting thing for me as a writer is that I know in general terms what the learning will consist of, but I never know for sure until I write it. That’s uncomfortable, because sometimes those scenes are more debilitating, horrifying, or unexpected than I had ever imagined.

But I must. Connor, my detective from my new book, must plow into what my readers will know she is heading for even if she doesn’t. To do otherwise wouldn’t be fair, and wouldn’t make for a good read.

I’ll try to be gentle.

Quiet

I’m a quiet person by nature, an introvert. For those of you not familiar with personality typing, introversion is not a bad thing; it simply means one is internally motivated. Behaviorally, most introverts listen more than they talk. I chose a career as a psychologist because my introversion played into this natural tendency.

But I worked in a corporate arena, which is very different from private practice.

In corporate America quiet people are often labeled as less smart or capable. So I developed a fast talking, sarcastic, morbidly witty persona. This wasn’t all bad. I became very good at public speaking. I learned how to defend myself. And most importantly, the executives I worked with responded well to dark wit; they wanted quick solutions to their problems delivered in a humorous manner.

But that persona was never me. After I left the corporate world, I interacted less and less with people who appreciated that personality overlay. And of course, I had never used it with my friends and family. I worried for a while that I was loosing my “edge.”

My husband and I were taking a walk the other day and he asked me if everything was OK. I was surprised. We were strolling through the woods, listening to the birds, admiring the beautiful fall colors and bright blue sky. I asked him why he asked. Because you’re so quiet, he said. I just smiled and said everything was wonderful.

Paying attention to my own thoughts and observations was my first step in reclaiming the quiet. I had doused my internal voice for many years. Step two has been listening to other people’s thoughts and observations without necessarily trying to fix. I’ve realized that fixing has been a way for me to prove my worth and my intelligence, and that usually people don’t want to be fixed, they just want someone to listen.

This change in my thinking has caused me to understand people in a way I’ve never done before. Good for personal growth of course, but it also gives me a huge pallet upon which to paint stories. Humans are endless fascinating. And everyone has a story to tell.

It’s amazing what one can hear when not talking. :-)

Halloween is in the Air

Today I'm bringing in the outside chairs and umbrella; I leave them out until October, always hoping for one last day on the porch. And it never happens.

Don't get me wrong...I love fall...but there's a tinge of sadness as the last warm days fade into the coming winter. Living in the Midwest displays the turning wheel of the year in a way that cannot be ignored.

As a writer, the changing seasons remind me that I only have so much time to get down on paper all the stories that whirl about in my head. I must balance that hard cold fact with living in the moment, as that is where my inspiration comes from.

I never want to forget that life should be fun, and is often funny. I found some wonderful Halloween invitations that capture that humorous feeling. Check them out: a ghost and witch tug-of-war, and a bunch of elves helping a witch get ready for a party. Doesn't get much better than that.

I Love You Because

My niece, Ruthie, is in yet another play at Buckcreek. She isn't onstage, but she served as stage manager and worked with props. Check out the broccoli and everything else you see the actors handling. That would be the work of Ruthie.

Here's a bit about the play off Buckcreek's website:

"Premiering for the first time in Indiana, the new musical I Love You Because is a modern-day retelling of Jane Austen's classic novel, Pride and Prejudice with the gender roles reversed. Described as "a modern day musical love story," this new work boasts a rich and tuneful score by Joshua Salzman with book and lyrics by Ryan Cunningham. This slightly nutty take on modern dating is set in New York, the city of romance where relationships end badly, and where those on the rebound fall for the wrong person."

Book Review

I just finished The Shadow of Your Smile, by Mary Higgins Clark. This author was recommended to me by my sister Quinn, and because I’m writing a mystery right now I decided to read one. This author is quite successful. My sister says her plots are always the same; the perp is in fact a sociopath…someone who can blend into to society but wait…he or she is really a killer. Quinn thinks the fun is guessing who it is.

And she was right. I began the book with a ho hum sort of feeling; it’s a traditional mystery, third person, a rather detached sort of style, lots of people introduced, big on plot less on setting and character development. No magical bits. :-)

But then I couldn’t put it down. I had to know Who Done It. Without giving it away, I guessed only half the ending. I was really trying. And Ms. Clark still fooled me.

Masterful.

I’m glad she’s written many books.

Feelin' Groovy

I’m smack dab in the middle of my new, as yet unnamed, book. Well, maybe not exactly in the middle, but pretty darn close. This one’s going fast…I love writing mysteries. It’s such fun creating a puzzle and then solving it. And although I do enjoy writing for young adults, it’s also interesting to compose a story with an adult protagonist.

Today I finished a chapter, sat back in my desk chair, and realized how happy I was. Even though I’ve got a lot going on with books and publishers and agents oh my, it’s a good busy. The writing lifestyle, while hard, is also wonderful.

Yes, there are pitfalls, yes it can be disheartening. But writing is also exhilarating. And writers are rarely bored; there are always new characters and plots popping into my head. I feel very lucky to have the time, the inspiration, and the tenacity I need to write.

I’m not much of a take a break, bask in the now, gather up roses kind of gal. But today, just for a moment, I understood how much fun I was having.

It was a great couple of minutes. :-)

Back to work.

Slow down, you move too fast
You gotta make the morning last
Just kickin' down the cobblestones
Lookin' for fun and
Feelin' groovy

Hello lampost
Whatcha knowin'?
I've come to watch your flowers growin'
Ain'tcha got no rhymes for me?
Doo Bee Doo Doo,
Feelin' groovy

Got no deeds to do
No promises to keep
I'm dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep
Let the morningtime drop all its petals on me...
Life, I love you,
All is groovy

Paul Simon

Wild and Wooly

It’s been a little crazy lately.

Right now I have a complete manuscript with an agent. She did not specifically ask for an exclusive read, but that’s pretty much understood. Another asked for the same book, but only wanted the synopsis. I sent the synopsis. However… after reading the synopsis if he wants the whole thing, I must wait until the first agent responds. (The thinking is the first agent is putting a lot of time into reading a complete manuscript while the second agent only has a page or so.)

It is perfectly acceptable to query more than one agent. If is also OK to query agents and a publisher about the same novel. If you sell it you can tell the agent hey…I sold it to a big publisher, want to represent me?

So. While the agent stuff is going on I sent that same complete novel to one publisher. Another complete novel is at a different publisher. Yet another publisher asked to see a synopsis of a different book, which means I can’t send that book anywhere else, even though they only have the synopsis. Publishers and agents have different rules.

This is all par for the course. Agents and publishers have unique wants and requirements; some want the whole thing right away, some want queries first, some ask for partials. Add to this mix...exclusive requests at different times in the process.

Yes, that’s a lot to keep track of. I have a document that I meticulously keep notes of where everything is. But I’m sure I’ve made mistakes. I don’t know specifics, I only know in the hundreds of documents I’ve sent I’m positive that I have. I try not to worry about it. Editors, agents, and publishers are, after all, human. What I hope is that if I’ve queried an agent more than once, he or she will smile and say that woman really wanted me. :-)

But since I do want to be professional, I do my best. I think all writers should. The tracking system doesn't have to be fancy; mine is a word doc with every book's comings and goings.

Remember that if you’re feeling like you are in a bit of a writer’s whirlwind that’s a good thing; you have a bunch of stories out there and a number of people who want to consider said stories. As my husband would say, chill, relax, breathe.

And keep track.

Taking It

Take it like a man. Just get over it. I was only joking. Don’t be so thin skinned. I’m just trying to help.

Heard any of those? Our society says one should be able to “take” a joke, meaning one should be able to laugh at oneself. I whole-heartedly agree with not taking yourself too seriously. Let’s face it, we all do silly things. To pretend otherwise is to deny your humanness.

I have a hard time defining the difference between a playful jab and a stinging slap. But like the famous Supreme Court judge and his definition of pornography, I know it when I see it. For me, when someone is “teasing” me about things I am insecure about that is no fun. Sometimes even if I am secure, if I hear about it over and over it becomes tiresome.

Unless it is a big deal I just ignore it. That way when something really bugs me I know people will listen and hopefully cease.

As a writer, “taking it” most often occurs when your book is being edited. An editor’s job is to find the mistakes. You WANT them to find mistakes. Another part of their role is to suggest changes and additions. Again, you want their advice. The tricky part is knowing when they have gone too far.

I’ve worked with sweet editors, ridiculing editors, picky editors, and editors who want to completely change my story. I don’t say anything to Mr. Ridicule or Ms. Picky; I ignore the bashes and follow their rules, even if I don’t agree.

A couple of times I’ve been asked to change something I felt would destroy the integrity of my story. Because I usually do anything an editor asks without question, they listen when I politely ask for a discussion.

Just like ignoring minor teasing, you must know when to pick your battles. If you argue over a word choice, for example, you may have no chips left when a truly important issue comes your way.

One last note: I thank every editor I’ve ever had, even the interpersonally challenged. Every one has worked hard, and every one has added much to my final outcome.

But I put the sweet ones in my liner notes. :-)

Cross Pollination

I've started my new book. It feels good. This one has been rolling around my brain for some time. The main reason for the wait was because my husband started a ghost book a year ago just about the time I would have begun mine…about ghosts.

The two tales had similarities; both first person, both female detectives who could see ghosts. Especially since this was his first book I didn’t want to steal any thunder…or his idea. After his was safely sold (coming out next year), I decided I could write mine.

I told him about it. He reminded me that all stories have been written, and that my telling would be completely different from his. He thought it was silly that I even mentioned it…or to have waited.

I’m lucky to be married to such a wise man.

He’s right, of course. Taking one example, how many books recently have been written about a woman choosing between a vampire and human lover? Let's see, Stephanie Meyer with Twilight, but then there’s Laurell Hamilton’s vampire series, and Sunshine, by Robin McKinley. All of these books are VERY different, yet all contain a similar theme.

There is no way a completely original idea is possible. And even before the written word, there were stories told around ancient campsites. Human archetypal memory is very old.

The way it emerges, however, is completely the author’s own. And that is impossible to copy, because no one could duplicate another’s soul.

Ahhhhhh.

Hope

Hope is a good thing for anyone to have. I think writers need an especially good dollop of the stuff.

I’m an adequately confident person, by which I mean I believe I’m a good writer, but I also know I can always improve my craft and/or a particular story. In other words, I think I’m pretty good at distinguishing between bad advice and a bad story. I’m also an “up” sort of gal, practicing being happy with a vengeance, as I firmly believe the concept of happiness is a verb, not a noun.

So I’m mostly positive in general and about my writing career. Do I get down? Ever react in a silly, illogical way? Have disgusting pity parties with my stuffed lion? Yeah. I do. It’s embarrassing. But I’m writing about a recent melt down because even though I'm confident, happy, and have had success, I don’t always practice what I preach. ALL writers, I’m convinced, have their black moments. It’s a hard business.

So. After publishing with small to medium publishers I’m now trying to 1), sell to a big publisher and 2), get an agent. I sent my newest book, Chimera, to a big publisher who actually accepts non-agented stuff (few do). Usually it takes four to six months to receive a form letter rejection…I know this because I’ve submitted other manuscripts. You can guess where I’m going. After three short weeks I get the no go.

I was really sad. I decided that this publisher had my name in big bold letters posted in the mailroom: ATTENTION! ANY BOOK BY KELLY MADDEN SEND BACK! And perhaps in a smaller script: but if you want a good laugh read, then shred. (Here’s where that writer’s overdrive imagination does us no good.) My husband, bless him, didn’t make fun, but calmly stated that perhaps someone IS looking out for my stuff and reading it right away (knowing it would be good) in the hopes it would fit with this year’s portfolio.

I would have none of that. I moped all evening. Then right before I went to bed I checked my email. And lo, an agent from a well-respected agency wanted to read Chimera. I know that this agent looks at many manuscripts and so this is certainly no guarantee of representation. But being asked means someone who knows about writing and the industry picked MY manuscript out of the hundreds of partials she receives every month was…hope inspiring.

I don’t know if she will like the completed book, think she can sell it, or if we will “click”. But being asked was an honor. And the request came at a point when I really needed it. Divine intervention? I don’t know. But I never have believed in coincidences.

At any rate, I’m using the fresh infusion of hope to start my new book. Zero to sixty in five, four, three, two, one…

Book Review

I just finished Year's Best Fantasy, 9th Edition edited by D.G.Hartwell & K.Cramer. It was the worst of times, it was the best of times. Sigh.

I have noticed a tendency of late, and not just within the written word, for what seems to be deliberate confusion on the part of the creator. I recently saw the film Inception. I don’t want to make a practice of reviewing anything other than books, but this movie captured exactly what I’m talking about.

I will say that the movie was brilliantly shot and some of the best visual effects I’ve seen. I LOVED the scene of the woman bending the world around, for example. Some of the acting was also quite good. The film also caused me to think deeply about the subconscious and how it rules us even when we think it doesn’t.

What I disliked was what I perceived as deliberate confusion; you are dumped into the world headlong. Lovers of the movie call this complex, but no matter how layered the plot became it didn’t seem deep at all, just…confusing. Perhaps this subterfuge is laziness; I guessed the ending within the first five minutes.

But no matter the reason for this plot device, whether faulty talent or creative license, I don’t like it. I do like being surprised. I enjoy figuring things out. I love twist endings. But I don’t want to be lost in a maelstrom of artiness. And many of the stories chosen for Year’s Best Fantasy were of this variety. Plunked down into alternate universes without a map isn’t fun to me. How can I care about these people (or aliens) if I don’t know anything about them? How can I like the story if all I get is an oh…you are REALLY inside a bottle in the middle of a desert?? (I made that up.)

And then, thankfully, Peter Beagle rescued me. If you don’t know, Mr. Beagle is one of fantasy’s best…he wrote The Last Unicorn. And The Rabbi’s Hobby is a fine example of his work; a page turning mystery, compelling characters, and an ending so sweet yet not sappy I cried. There were other good stories in this collection. The Queen of Sunlit Shores by Liz Williams is elegant, if a story can be elegant; gorgeous prose, beautiful descriptions, and a delicate plot that is both warm and icy. Lady Witherspoon’s Solution, by James Morrow, is the creepiest feminist story I’ve ever read. Caverns of Mystery, by Kage Baker, is modern yet old fashioned, a bittersweet coming of age tale. I also enjoyed Gift of a Spring by Delia Sherman, a lovely story about an older woman (not often represented in fantasy)…or is she?

In every one of these above mentioned stories there was something that caught me by surprise. But I also was engaged by fine character development and settings, and ….a plot. Confusion for confusion's sake isn’t for me. I’m glad to see some authors…and editors…agree.

Focus

As I was starting my dissertation my committee chair asked what my topic was. Here’s the conversation:

I want to do it on trust.
Uh huh, that’s rather big. Narrow down.
How about trust in organizations?
Still too big.
How about executive trust?
Of what?
Trust of the company, trust of each other, trust of their employees.
Too big. Pick one.
Ok, of the company.
How will you test that?
(I roll out three research methods.)
Pick one.
(I choose comparing executive trust of the company to a well known trust theory.)
That theory has three parts. Pick one.
I wouldn’t.
He sighed and said all right, but you will have a mighty long dissertation.

Boy did I. The thing ended up being three hundred pages long. And of course, I had to defend each and every part of that theory comparison. I wished I had listened to my chair and picked one component.

The tendency to Go Big has carried with me into my fiction. I’ve come up with plot lines so big that only a huge book or a trilogy could fullfill them. I’ve written more than one sequel…without selling the first book.

I also tend to jump before really thinking about everything the book idea might entail. For example, I’ve dived into traditional romance before realizing I didn’t really want to write sex scenes. I’ve started books and gotten bored half way in.

Not to say that going big or jumping is all bad: I believe the ability to construct an over-arching plot for three or more books is a good thing. And even though my last book, Chimera, was a whole lot harder than I thought it would be, I love how it came out even though I didn’t consider the work involved.

I’m between books right now. So what am I doing? The first thing is to flood myself with input: books, movies, TV shows about new things, and interesting conversations. I receive flashes of insight from seeing other’s creativity, anything about nature, or listening to people’s thoughts and opinions. I jot any and all book ideas down so I don’t forget them.

The second thing I do is look again at what is selling. This changes constantly. I find editors and read up on what they want. I peruse Amazon. I talk to people about what they are reading.

The third thing I do is relax. Being without a book to work on is unsettling. In a way it reminds me of when I was between boyfriends. I felt free and full of possibilities, but also lonely and scared. But I knew if I embarked on a new relationship too soon I might not be ready.

As my husband often says to me, breath, chill. The book will come.

But I hope it hurries up.

Writer’s Mark

When I worked in corporate America I wore “plastic clothes”, a moniker I bestowed to denote both the fakeness I felt wearing them and the material of said garments. Not to say the time spent was all bad: I made a good salary, I have a nice retirement, I met my closest friends there. I worked hard and was successful, but I never truly belonged.

On the weekends I wore my freak flag proudly, donning my weird and (to me) wonderful clothing. And then there were the tattoos. Like most, I started small, placing one on the inside of an ankle so it would be hidden. Then I got another on my shoulder. Followed by a big one on my lower back. All safely covered by those plastic clothes.

I’m getting another tattoo next week. But this time it’s rather obvious…on my right wrist. My husband, although never telling me what to do, noted, that will be in plain view, you know.

I know.

I was going to wait on the Official Writer’s Tattoo for when I made it big. Then I could truly say I was a writer. And writers can have tattoos any place they want. But I was thinking the other day if I truly believe I’m a writer, then why have I placed such an arbitrary standard on myself?

Usually if asked what I do for a living I would say I’m-a-retired-psychologist-from (insert big name company)-but-now-I’m-trying-to-be-a-fiction-writer, in one breath. I realized I was doing that because 1)I needed the “smart cred” and usefulness justification from my old profession, and 2), I didn’t feel as if I were a “real” writer unless I had a best seller.

But something happened a few weeks ago when I was asked. I started to say my line. Then I stopped, looked the person straight in the eyes, and said, I’m a fiction writer, you? We had a lovely conversation. And I believe she will be buying some of my books.

Next week I will get that new tattoo. Each one I’ve gotten so far has been in response to some sort of life change. This one may not seem like so much of a milestone externally, but the internal shift it represents is tremendous.

Of course, now I have to come up with something really cool when I do have that best seller. :-)

Supporting Fellow Artists

Artists sometimes only have each other to lean on, and that's why I believe we should all support each other whether we use paper, computers, or words. My niece, Ruthie, is in yet another play, this one titled Alice In Wonderland Junior.

If you've never been to Buck Creek Theatre in Indy you should. Every play I've seen there has been top notch.

Especially the ones with Ruthie in them. :-)

A very merry unbirthday
To me
To who?
To me
Oh, you

A very merry unbirthday
To you
Who, me?
To you
Oh, me

Let's all congratulate us with another cup of tea
A very merry unbirthday to you

Now statistics prove that you've one birthday
Imagine just one birthday every year
Ah, but there are 364 unbirthdays
Precisely why we're gathered here to cheer

A very merry unbirthday
To me?
To you
A very merry unbirthday
For me?
For you
Now blow the candle out, my dear
And make your wish come true
A very merry unbirthday to you

Writer: Robert B. Sherman Lyrics: Robert B. Sherman

Editing and Underwear

I can only hope this post did not come up on some weird internet search. But I believe in the comparison.

I hate spending money on underwear. I know some women love it, but for me anything frilly, fancy, and sexy means scratchy, impractical, and uncomfortable. Basically, I want my undies to be functional and disappear from sight and my mind when I put them on. In conclusion, my idea of good underwear means if they are doing a good job I shouldn’t know they are there.

Same with editing. I’m in the midst of editing my newest book, Chimera. I won’t say how much I detest editing again. Oops. :-)

Editing, if done expertly, should never make itself known. Doing a good job means no one knows you spent hours doing it. It’s sad contemplating all of that toil is never noticed unless you miss something, much the same as a trying on a million bras only to discover it shows through your garment, but that’s the way it is.

And that goes for over editing as well. Yes, I believe one shouldn’t use too many words such as “was,” but sometimes, as Freud would say, a was is just a was. Even though it’s subtle, “was walking,” is slightly different than “walked,” especially when using first person.

Ditto for fancy verbs, again, especially using first person narration. Since you are writing as if inside a person’s head think very carefully before using too many interesting words. Would a normal person say “I galumphed over to the closet?” Probably not, and that verb would be distracting to the reader.

Just like underwear, functional practicality wins over lacy and racy. Usually. The mark of a good writer is knowing when to pull a surprise out of the drawer. Heh heh.

My Baby

My husband and I attended a party last night; most there were younger than us, what we like to call Prime Baby Years. Three of the women were pregnant, the others had small toddlers running about. They were all very cute (the kids and the pregnant women), but for the most part that’s what the conversation revolved around. My brother calls this phenomenon see-the-baby-hold-the-baby-touch-the-baby-the-baby-the-baby-the-baby. :-)

My husband and I are happily child free, although we do very much enjoy inhabiting the aunt and uncle role, and I occasionally befriend an external child. We do like kids. And we understand that when you have them they are, especially at first, your entire life. They should be! Raising the next generation to become productive and loving humans is the most important job in the world.

But there are other pursuits, and other worthy endeavors. I’ve just finished a novel. The gestation, if you can stand the metaphor, was hard. There is still much work to do in rearing it to adulthood. And I’m as proud as proud can be, although I have no pictures of it.

I was bursting last night, hoping someone would ask me how I was. I admit it; I wanted to brag. But no…all conversation was about earthbound, or yet to be earthbound, children.

Unless you are an artist, or think of your work as creative, you don’t name what you produce as the children of your soul. Additionally, some people will believe your offspring isn't special. This is particularly true for a writer. Often people volunteer that “they always wanted to write a book”, or “they have a book in them if only they had the time.” (These same people often think they can sing. Try it. Ask them.)

By the end of the party I was OK. I don’t have to have people asking about my baby. It’s a secret love. And fortunately, a love I can share with my husband and sister, both of whom are writers.

Good enough for me.

Done!!

And after I gave myself permission to take a break and did actually relax, I finished my new book, Chimera, in two days. Funny.

Now the real work begins.

Taking A Break

I was talking to a friend the other day about breaks, specifically, I didn’t think she was getting enough time to herself. But I love my family, she said. You still need time alone alone, say I. Everyone needs a break…even from things (or people) they love.

Physician, heal thyself.

I’ve been flagellating myself lately for not moving as quickly as I think I ought on my new book, Chimera. I’m plodding along, but not at the frenetic pace of my last two novels. As I’ve said before, this one is harder because of researching an unknown (to me) setting, but there’s more to it than that.

Lately I haven’t felt like it.

So I berated myself for not hitting it harder. I examined myself for morose moods ala my last two happiness posts. I even wondered if I needed to pick up some side work if I wasn’t churning out words. Then I had an epiphany when I told my friend she needed a break; I wasn’t sad, I wasn’t lazy, I didn’t need more stuff to do…I just needed time off.

I think about writing all the time: my current book, future books, editing books, marketing books. I get up with these thoughts and I go to bed with them. Wherever I am, whatever I’m doing, characters pop into my brain with a nagging hi there, and, what have you done for me lately? This isn’t bad, but like my friend and her family, even though I love writing we could use some time apart.

It’s summer. The weather is lovely. I’ve spent some nice days on my porch doing…nothing. I read and drank wine and listened to the birds. I’ve visited with friends and shopped with my mom. I’ve worked on several paintings and created a new style. I’ve glued rhinestones on my dance clothing. I’ve watched movies on the couch with my husband.

When I worked in corporate America I took breaks. They’re called vacations. And I never felt bad about that. As a writer, vacations and breaks look different than two weeks on the beach, because I’m finally living my dream career and don’t need that long to recover.

However, writing is a job. I believe I wrote a post about that. :-) Some writers say they write daily. That’s cool, but it’s not me.

Now where did I put those sunglasses?

Happy 4th

May you find inspiration, literary or otherwise, in the fairy-like sparkles and glittering showers of this day. Happy Fourth of July!

Doin’ The Happy Part Two

I received an interesting question based on my last post about happiness. The reader asked, but what if you try and try and never have a best seller? In other words, what if I do all of those things I listed but my writing plans don’t work out?

Perhaps I should add one more category for happiness: resiliency.

Dr. David Burns wrote a fabulous book called Feeling Good. It’s meant to help people with depression, but I think it’s good for anyone. I read it often. Even Kelly Sunshine needs a tune up now and then. :-) Anyway, he quoted studies that state people pretty much stay at the same emotional equilibrium (either born with or developed) no matter what happens.

That said, he acknowledged when bad things happen people are sad. Period. But after awhile people right themselves to their own particular level of happy…or not happy. He even studied people with terminal diseases and after the initial shock and grief, they reverted back to where they had been before the diagnosis.

As Lincoln said, everyone’s about as happy as they make up their mind to be. And Lincoln had many sad events happen to and around him.

So what do you do to get back on track? Here’s what works for me.

One. Acknowledge bad things will happen. No one lives a charmed life except Samantha, and even she had a cranky husband most of the time.

Two. It doesn’t help much to compare yourself to others. You can always find someone worse off and someone better.

Three. Talk it over with a friend or family member or get help if you can’t shake it off. I don’t think there’s anyone who couldn’t use a good shrink at least once in their life.

Four. Either except or move on. Complaining about how you wish it was does no good. Well, a good whine now and then can be therapeutic, but not if it turns into the never ending story.

As I writer, here’s what that means for my happiness resiliency.

•I must accept bad things will happen, e.g. rejections, writer’s block, a stupid editing mistake that goes into print before I can stop it.

•I understand that comparing my progress to Stephanie Meyer will only decrease my happiness.

•If I have a really bad time I will talk it over with my husband or my sister; they both love me AND they are writers. I will keep moaning to a minimum and be happy with what I’ve done.

•And if I come to a place where I’m tired of beating my head against the wall, I will do something different.

But I don’t think I’ll have to. See? Doin' The Happy.

The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. -Robert Louis Stevenson

Doin’ The Happy

The Happy is what my sister and I call being positive. She’s says I’m a natural at it.

I do think some people are born with a naturally sunny outlook. I may be one of those. And overall, it’s pretty cool. But like everything in life, a “good” trait always has a down side, just like a “bad” trait always has a good side.

If you are a positive person sometimes you are not allowed to have a bad day. As a writer, I have them. Sometimes, gasp, I have a pouty week after a particularly hard rejection. If I do complain which I rarely do, what I often get back is “oh you’ll make it. You always make it,” as if I never suffer.

Also, some people equate cheerfulness with a less than stellar intellect. As a writer, (and this is true for all arts), many people believe you must wallow in the depths of despair to produce Great Work, as if writing about happy things is less important, or that a positive person can’t write about sad things.

Finally, some folks just don’t like being around happy people. I think the saying misery loves company has more than a grain of truth. Happy can also be seen as fake, as in there’s no way anyone can be that happy.

Even with these downsides I’ll take my Pollyanna outlook. Being happy is, well, wonderful. I get up every day excited about what might happen. Usually. And after coffee. And I do think everything will work out for me.

I had a friend ask what I thought the components of being happy were, in other words, how does it work? How can anyone, even those born to be Eeyore, be more like Pooh?

Here’s what I think. Like many behavioral descriptors, “happy” does not function as an adjective, but as a verb; that’s why I call it doing the happy. It doesn’t just plunk into your lap.

So. Number one. You must consider carefully what does make you happy and do more of that, but just as importantly, jettison stuff that doesn’t. This sounds simple but in practice can be very difficult.

Which is why number two is the putting into practice part. As a writer, I can say writing makes me happy. OK, then I need to do that. But I ALSO must get rid of unwanted activities that may thwart my writing. What else? Getting published at major house would make me happy. We all know the answer to that is much marketing work and perseverance, which may make me happy in the long run, but sucks in the present.

Which brings me to number three: dividing time between the present and the future/past. I believe this is crucial for happiness, and a delicate balancing act. Many spiritual teachings say that only in the now can true happiness occur, and I agree that feeling the sun on your face, snuggling with your partner, or a enjoying a sport are in the moment activities that bring pure joy. But…if you never consider yesterday’s lessons or plan for the future, you will never enjoy accomplishments or feel the thrill of reaching a goal. Not to mention paying the bills, which will certainly impact the here and now.

Number three is the hardest. For those of you who have never heard Jill Taylor speak, the video below is worth your time; if you can’t spare twenty minutes then forward to the last five. She describes finding that magical space between the present, the past, and the future better than anyone I have ever heard.

I’ve never met Jill, but I know her father, Hal. They are both explorers of the mind. Enjoy. And may you all find your happy place, writer or no.

Review: The World’s Finest Mysteries and Crime Stories, edited by E.Gorman & M.H.Greenberg

World's finest? Really? I always chuckle when I read an anthology with this sort of title. Why the world’s finest? Because theses editors thought so, that’s why.

I certainly can’t tell you they are the world’s finest because 1), who am I to judge, and 2), I don’t read a lot of crime fiction, but overall I enjoyed the selections. Crime fiction, as I have stated in a previous post, is hard on the psyche. Someone usually dies and that’s sad. Also, especially in noir crime fiction, the detective or policeman solving the crime isn’t much better than the perpetrator, which can be depressing. They don’t call it noir for nothing.

So it’s taken me awhile to finish. I did have some favorites. Just favorites. Not the world’s finest.

I liked Blood, Snow, And Classic Cars by J.Hansen. The story was well crafted, but the reason I enjoyed this one so much is because of the detective. I admired the detective because he neither glorified nor debased the human condition. The fictional town contained an assortment of genders, orientations, races, professions, etc. While folks around him were making the usual stereotypical judgments, the detective did not…but at the same time, didn’t think anyone was above the crime. At first, the detective seemed ho-hum, just doing my job, miss, sort of guy. But bit by bit I realized there was so much more to this man, and by the end of the tale I loved him.

I also enjoyed Star Thief by B. Dubois, one of the best psychological mysteries I’ve ever read. It could have been written in a chilling way, but instead this author chose to present the killer as pitiable and sad. This is the only story that made me cry. Masterful.

Finally, Beautiful, by J.Deaver, put the most fascinating spin on a stalker story ever. It is very sad, yet powerful. This one totally caught me by surprise at the end, and I love that.

This collection would be great on a snowy day in front of the fire, sipping brandy. Just make sure you’re at a happy point in your life.
:-)

Guesses

This post, as do many, came from a conversation with a family member. I have a creative and intelligent family. A bit quirky, perhaps, but weird and wonderful. Most of these discussions tend to be with my sister Quinn, but the other day I had one with my nephew Ben.

He, in partnership with my sister, has written a fabulous book…and I got to read it first! I loved it. One of my compliments was that I guessed some plot points, but didn’t others. Ben immediately wanted to know where and what I had guessed, as if guessing is a bad thing.

I thought about that for awhile. I decided there are three main reasons for guessing a plot point:

1) The plot is too predictable.
2) The author has “shown a gun” and used it later on.
3) The plot is following an archetype.

Obviously number one is a “bad” reason for guessing a plot point. Fortunately, Ben did not have any of these. However, he did have some twos and threes. These numbers are not "bad", and in fact, are “good” reasons one should guess.

Number two says essentially that if a writer talks about something more than once (you may have red herrings, after all), he or she should actually do something with it. It’s not fair to readers to discuss at length a magical whatsit and then never use it.

Number three is more complex, and relates to my last post about tapping into the universality of human existence. Jung called these archetypical experiences, and later on Joseph Campbell wrote about observing these themes over and over again in all sorts of media, such as the Star Wars movies. For example, the relationship between Luke, Leia, and Han Solo.

Even if Luke and Leia were not brother and sister, Luke would never have ended up with Leia. Luke had a quest to fulfill. And even though Han Solo may have seemed to be the stronger, more adventurous one, it was Luke who had a destiny to fulfill, with little time to devote to romance. So, watching the movie, most people probably guessed Leia would end up with Han. It’s a gut feeling based on a universal archetype.

Ben’s story had a similar triad, and I correctly guessed who the girl would end up with. This is not bad. It gives the reader that “ ahhhhhhhh” feeling at the end.

I remember in one of my first novels I went against archetype. My female protagonist was on a quest. The quest archetype says very clearly that in order to fulfill the quest something must be given up. At the end of the book I knew this, but I couldn’t stand to hurt a character I had grown to love…I wanted her to have it all. My sister called me on it, and I changed it. It had to be.

Archetype guesses feel good. They keep us connected to what is human. But of course, small twists and new ways of telling an old familiar story is what makes an author special. And yes, Ben did that too.

Oh to be an Aunt to such amazing kids.