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. :-)