At A Crossroads

My next book is coming out, and the opportunity to move in a new direction is imminent.

The conclusion of a book, in this case by publishing it, brings a sense of fulfillment, excitement, and letdown. Why letdown? Because the birth "process" is over. All the labor and worry about the way the story will unfold comes to an end. The process for The Book of Ulie took me more than seven years. Obviously, I wasn't working on the manuscript for a solid seven years. I started it and wrote it in about two, then put it aside for about four, then resurrected it to get it out of my system. Don't get me wrong. I have liked this book from the beginning A LOT. It's a good story. Catchy, infectious. (Even my mom liked it, and she's a hard reader to please.) The break from it was just life happening.

Readers may wonder: Is Ulie you? No and yes. No, she's not how I am as a person. Yes, she comes from parts of my experiences and thoughts. But, she's not the true me. I'd like to be more like her in some ways but not in others.

She's a writer, working on a book, and that's how I am now and always. My crossroads is: What should I do next? How should I change to broaden my audience? Should I write more for personal or commercial success? Ulie asks the metaphysical: Who am I? I guess I'm doing the same. 

The Bane of Earnestness

Earnestness and writing may appear to go together, when in fact the opposite seems to breed success. Too many writers gyrate themselves in the public social sphere and succeed at selling their work. Do reclusive introverts, the loners at home with their dogs, make best-selling writers? Only the damn good ones -- the really damn good ones who spend the end of their lives in seclusion, writing backstories for all their famous characters, while hunched over manual typewriters in wooded shacks, down the hill from the main house where the fifth spouse does laundry. Okay, maybe that's a hair exaggerated.

Not happening for most of us. It's a new age. Get your platform-on, sister. Jesus, I hate that word. Platform. It doesn't really mean anything. I wrote a damn book, and then another, and a few other things, and by God, my brain wants me to write a few more before my wrists give out. But I'm freakin' earnest. I'm probably not going to crank anything resembling a marketing machine into something viral.

Ego is a good asset to have to market a book. When you have a big one, it doesn't matter if pieces fall together or apart because the next sales trick will work, and so what if it doesn't? You're a genius, or so your ego says. It induces a bolder-is-better attitude and license to TRUMP the message. BUY MY SNAKE OIL.

Dog in Space.

I'm sitting here writing poems between novels (poems, for God sake) because they give me a sense of accomplishment. I can finish one in a day, an hour. Novels are gangly and complicated. (I'm sure a few poets would argue with me.)

Ariel Gore, an earnest writer who's earned literary success for her memoirs, says after her books reach the 100-page mark, they become harder to manage. The story can't be read in one sitting. It can't be diagnosed and fixed easily. That means more time, more thought, longer stretches between publication, unless you write full-time like mad. Unless unless unless. Ego, madness, kinda go together.

My next project? I'm thinking sci-fi. Why? Because the story can be out there. It can have space monkeys. But damn my soul, my book idea is stricken with earnestness. The protagonist is left behind on a dying planet with a dog. Hmmm, life and art track oddly close together.

Meat Grinder and Cookie Monster: Lessons of NaNoWriMo

NaNoWriMo (the annoying acronym for National Novel Writing Month) ended two days ago. A week before the last day, I thought I could skid to the finish. I didn't. Thanksgiving punched a hole as big as a turkey dinner in my daily word count. Full disclosure: I stopped writing the Wednesday before turkey was served and never picked my novel back up again. Just 11,500 or so from winning.

But is NaNoWriMo about winning? It's about writing, and writing isn't really about “winning” in the competitive sense. I wrote for 24 days straight, and each day I reached my word count. It wasn't easy for me. It pushed me to write more than I usually do in a day and to spend less time on making my sentences perfect. My process, so far in this noveling endeavor, has been to write as the ideas form in my mind, so my schedule might be every day or every third day. Sometimes, months go by between projects. Last month, I forced myself to write every day, including weekends, and move the story forward without looking back.

NaNo long-hand? No way.

I'm not unhappy with the product so far (vs. I am happy; I use the double-negative on purpose). I think my work is a good start, a structure. If anything, NaNo crystalized my conundrum. My writing habits have tended to evolve one way (a haphazard practice of writing when so moved), but the month showed me I could do it another way. It was harder, yet my work turned out relatively okay. Not everyone has the same experience. I asked a writing chat group what others felt about their NaNo novels, and one writer said: a pile full of crap (my words). Many writers think the idea of writing a 50K-word novel in a month produces ill-formed stories. In the throes of a bad moment or two, I could relate. Plotting has never been my weakness; selecting the words right has been. Admittedly, I wanted to run my book through a meat-grinder on a couple of nights. Or at least a chapter. A paragraph. A freakin' sentence.

However, most of the time, I was jazzed. I dealt with household/work/parenting duties during the day, and slammed out a couple thousand words between 6-10p (usually longer). Easy? No. But a foundation went up in record time for me, and once the ending is written, the book will be okay. Not a Nobel. Not a Booker. But okay. Worth the extreme schedule. It felt extreme. Hyper-focused. A little more than neurotic. Brain-freeze-y.

I ignored a lot of ordinary stuff and my pets more than usual. Piles formed. And, in a sigh of relief, I've spent the last few days focusing on the mundane. I haven't gone back to the book yet, and the guilt sets in. I've been made aware that I need to start writing every day. Probably not 2,000 words a day, because that felt a little taxing, but a couple of hours.

I'm not going to toss out a grand judgment on the value of NaNoWriMo. A couple of my “buddies” (virtual writing friends on the site) exceeded their goals in handy fashion. A fellow friend from Texas wrote 100K before I'd landed on Day 24 with my paltry 38,500. I'll never be that guy, and I'm okay not being a word monster (cookie monster, maybe). I produce what I produce and keep going. Nothing I write is “wrong” – it is just written. Maybe someone will read it. Maybe not.

The point of the exercise is to get into a routine. Allow yourself (myself) the time to do the work. It is work. The drafting, the editing, the rewriting, the proofing. It is a job. And if you want to make a living as a writer, you must do the work. Who am I trying to convince? You or me?

Take Criticism at Face-Value, An Opinion

My father didn't come to a reading I gave in my hometown.

Hoorah for Friends.

That's a sentence I'd never thought would show up here, let alone congeal in my own mind.

Let's break this down, for if a blog is worth a cent, it should be for breaking down uncharted territory (at least today it is; at least in the last year it has been for me; you do what you want on your own blog).

Fact one, my father and I have a good, if not arm's length relationship. Fact two, we love one another as finely as any daddy-daughter could love one another. Fact three, people around the small town where I grew up like him. He's a swell guy. Honest, hard-working, appreciates tools and old cars. Fact four, he loves me, loves my kids, generally enjoys retirement and reading. We don't talk by phone every week (mom and I do), but we call when necessary.

He has not read my book. Or, if he has, he has not spoken of it.

What do I make of all this? I've generally lumped it into a category another writer defined for me in 2009, the year I began writing my book -- the Silent Group. She said some people will know of your work, even read it or attempt to read it, and remain mum. Never speak of it, never offer an opinion, never a word of praise or acknowledgment or criticism. Which, in and of itself, is an opinion. It's the opinion, "The work is not for me."

I know the work is not for my dad, chiefly because I've written sex into the book. It's part of the novel. It's not all of the novel, but it is a large enough part of it to be disagreeable to him. I understand this.

One of the lessons I've learned as a writer, particularly in the post-publication phase, is that my work is not for everyone. I didn't set out to please the masses. I set out to please myself. This may or may not, in the eyes of commerical publishing interests, be a good plan for success. Genre fiction evolved for a reason: because it is pleasingly familiar and readers tend to gravitate to formulas. Just take a look at any new movie coming out of Hollywood. They're surprisingly similiar. Familiar. And, in many ways, stale.

I'm not saying my work is a grand slam of fresh ideas or craft. But I didn't stick to a genre romance formula. Partly because I didn't know enough, partly because once I knew, I didn't want to follow the "rules."

Now, I move on. My writing is evolving. It leans toward literary. Yawners, for some people. Pissy sales, most likely. Complicated characters, interior dialogue, and lack of action? Who in the hell reads books without an explosion, death, or bondage any more? I still don't think my father will read my new work. I've cozied up to the fact that he won't. It's okay. It's just another opinion.

Arrival at The End

Swoon. Boots by Tim Alden.

Hey, how are you? It's been a while since we visited. My life's been busy. How about yours? You shouldn't feel too guilty about Christmas. Listen, I'm decidedly behind on my shopping. I'm not much of a shopper anyway. I've trained myself to want something, think about buying it, decide I don't like it after I've brought it home, then never go out and buy it in the first place. Easy on the credit cards and my bank account. Except, I can't talk myself out of those pair of custom leather boots. I'm still salivating for them. As for Christmas gifts, I lean toward books and handicrafts.

The house has gone to piss lately (I did put up the tree) because I gave myself a big end-of-year gift. I allowed myself the time to finish writing my second Musketeer novel, furthering my obsession with Athos. I just finished the story of how he originally meets Milady and falls in love with her, only to watch his world crumble. To be a novelist, you must have a few obsessions (or a bankroll that won't quit) to see a book to its end. Novels are tentacles and steam coming out of a hot pot. Hard to wrestle and contain. Tangents can be killers. Rogue characters can sabatoge a good story line. Endings must have a climax and an explanation. Loose ends need knots.

My ending flowed out of me. The last one did, too. I'd been imagining The End for a month or two, in my march toward it. I've been repeating, I'm almost finished. 50 more pages. Then after I'd written a few more chapters, I still said 50 more pages. Then I wrote a few more chapters, and I decided: keep going. So a week ago, I just let 'er rip. I wrote 30 pages in a week. On Sunday night at about 10:30, I typed the six letters as satisfying as I love you: THE END. Those phrases look wrong next to each other, but they do go together.

I do love my draft. If you don't love a draft, that's a sad state of affairs. I think you must be in love with your draft because otherwise you'd throw it away and think you should seek intense in-patient therapy. Face it, there's no rational reason to write a book, or write a song, or create a painting or throw a pot. Few people start out being creative for the money. It's an expression of who you are. It's not perfect, never will be.

My infatuation with my draft will last until the first round of readers gives me input. I'll sulk and mope about making changes. Then, I'll get over myself and make them. The novel turns out even better afterward, and I'll love it again. Then, I'll start another one, which I already have.
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See more boots by Tim Alden, who in no way persuaded me to include him in this post. He's just a friend.

The Myth of December

Cold weather is good for writing. It pulls your energy inside. A writer must hold in the heat during the winter, which is good for contemplation. I've experienced some of my most productive writing months in December, the season some writers claim is worthless. They must be of the mentality of a kindergarten teacher I knew long ago, who told me school was pointless in December because the kids were too hyped up about Christmas.

It's one day.

I think the longer hours of dark cause me to sit with myself and think more. Not that I think less in the spring, summer and fall. I simply have no excuse to go out much in the winter. Too cold. Whereas inside, I can write about summer (which I am, come to think of it) in my book. I'll have to fess up that I write sporadically. Every week, for sure, but not from 5a-9a every single day, or until I've written 1,000 words or 5 pages, or whatever the going quota might be per your favorite mentor. I'm shamelessly all over the place. I've tried to change my habits, but so far, no luck. I keep telling myself, 'When I make money at it, then I'll write like a professional.' But then someone reminds me of the chicken-and-egg scenario. To make writing into a living, I have to live like a professional writer right now.  

I do generally end the week with five good pages. This takes me about 4 hours of drafting and a few hours of editing and redrafting. Then I move on. I'm near the end, so close, to the second book in my Musketeer series. I'm actually enjoying writing the end because I know exactly where the story is headed and once I type the end, I live at least three days in utter euphoria.

What a great Christmas present to myself.

Then the revising starts. The real work begins. A draft is structure, a house with a skin on it, no windows or trim work or carpet. It's halfway. I don't mind. I squat in my unfinished work for a while, covering myself with the newspaper of my story. It makes a nice blanket this time of year.

Novel Writing Techniques from 2013 Willamette Writers Conference

Snappy blogpost title, huh? The titles of my posts are beginning to sound more like newspaper headlines than hip blogger riffs. Which gets me closer than ever to trying to push out my self-help book (**) about publishing--how we're all doomed to failure in this venture called novel writing. So, maybe a few of these tricks might help you. Won't hurt.

Not enough coffee in Portland for a 10-day rewrite.

Plagiarized Writing Technique #1

(BTW I misspelled plagiarized on first pass)
It's not plagiarism when a writer gives a workshop about revising a novel and uses another writer's advice about how to revise. (I exaggerate. You know my MO by now.) Confused? Don't be.

The workshop I attended at #WWcon13 called The Ten-Day Revision presented by Laura Whitcomb (her website) included her own techniques and those of other writers. Here's one that sounded fun to me. She credited Donald Maass, (his website) who wrote The Breakout Novelist. Ask yourself before each scene: What is the motivation for each character? Then, write those ideas down. Five for each. Then flip motive #1 with another motive, make it interesting. Meaning, pick an edgier motive, or the motive at the bottom of your list, to guide your character's actions.

For instance, I've been struggling with a scene in my third novel. In it, the main character has just shared an intimate moment (read: stolen kiss) from his best friend's girlfriend. Oops. They realize their misdirected affections, but ... The next scene is him pursuing the woman he thinks he wants to marry. What are his motives for making a beeline to her? Because he's:
1. hot and bothered from having kissed the wrong girl
2. not in love with his best friend's girlfriend
3. wanting to take control of a situation that is out of control
4. directionless
5. really in love with his best friend's girlfriend

Okay, #1 was my original thought going into the scene, when the better answer is #5.

Plagiarized Writing Technique #2

Laura Whitcomb credited Noah Lukeman (his website) for this technique: change the major words in a paragraph without changing the meaning. Here's another way of saying it: rewrite a passage but make it mean the same as before. (There, I just did it.) Or more precisely: change a word from green to chartreuse. A few of those changes will stick and make the story stronger. Also while you're at it, get rid of all the adjectives and adverbs in a paragraph and see how it sounds.

Plagiarized Writing Technique #3

This is Laura's own technique, which she calls Shortcut to a Scene. She says it helps her write scenes faster. First, quickly outline what must happen in the scene. Second, make some quick notes, your best guess, on dialogue but don't bother writing the attribution/dialogue tags/dialogue beats, just the give-n-take. Finally, write a "heartstorm" (really love that word). Meaning, as fast as you can, write about what the scene feels like, sounds like, looks like, in 10 minutes or less. Now, write the scene from your notes.

Plagiarized Writing Technique #4

This technique is from a session with Danny Manus (his website), who consults on screenplays. Akin to interviewing each of your characters, he suggests:
1.Write five adjectives/traits that define your protagonist and antagonist.
2. Describe how each of these traits are shown in your characters.
3. Outline five ways your character(s) came to be on Page One.
4. Write five ways your characters will change by The End.
5. Describe your main character's instinctual response to conflict.
6. Write five "deal-breakers" for your character and break at least one of them (ie: Character B won't go on the mission with A, therefore A can't go for some reason).

Plagiarized Writing Technique #5 and final

If you have two or more instances of serendipity, rewrite those plot points.

Got all that? Okay, go write. Easy does it.

It's a Life

Eat. I write. Use napkin. I write. Do the dishes. I write. Scratch list for grocery. I write. Pour the dog some chow. I write. Find a hard-to-quit book. I write. Sell your worth to everyone you meet. I write. Take it down a notch for humility's sake. I write. Remind yourself its about loving it and nothing else. I write.

Magic Fabric or Gob-o-Something

Magic fabric. Had to spell those words for my daughter today. They go together in a hand-in-glove way.

My magic fabric, my draft, is my mending project now. Self-editing is sometimes painful. If you read this, you must know I don't edit it -- much. But the book, the book will get a thrashing. After a while, all my sentences started sounding like gobbledigook this afternoon.

My tendency is to write too much expository (the journalist in me) vs. narrative (show don't tell). I'm likely to delete hundreds of paragraphs. I've got three folders named Dead Passages already.

One highlight today, the National Book Awards. Inspiring, for the process that can blur vision and cause brain seepage.

A Shot of Something in My Coffee

Write, and be thwarted. Negativity follows writers, especially fiction writers, like an unshakeable head cold. Even (or should it be, especially) in the places where encouragement should be found. The NYT Book Review published this lead on a review, a good review, over the weekend:

"Just because something happened to you doesn't make it interesting. Anyone one who has suffered through an overly indulgent blog post or cocktail-party anecdote is familiar with this thought . . . "


Turn away now from my overly indulgent rant. God bless you, writers. Every last stinking, ego-maniacal, selfish one of you. The act of sharing is a thankless risk. The world doesn't need you, you know. The world needs more fissionable material and automatic handguns and racial rhetoric and toxic assets. We definitely need more religion and morals and pornography. And please, at least a score more talking heads and idiotic threads of user comments. So, writers, put your pens and keyboards away now. It's pointless.

Unless, big exception coming, there's room for something else. There might be room in the world for the small story you have inside. Whether it's insufferable or not. It could be one is and the next isn't. Write it. From it tumbles all sorts of possibilities. Personal fulfillment. Connection with people. Turning nuance into meaning. Transferring love. The creativity, and the crap, are worth it.

Book Gifts

Books are a good perk of being a new fiction writer. I know right away when someone is a reader because the conversation about my latest adventure immediately turns to what they are reading, which I like. Then they lend or unload. My office is crammed.

I've accumulated more books in a year from friends and acquaintances than in my entire life. I bookmark about two at a time. I'm a comprehensive reader but not a quick one. I've also become picky. If I don't get into a book by halfway (yes, I give the author the benefit), then I put it aside and start another. I'm alternating between classics, popular commercial fiction and my genre. (BTW, my genre is, right now, romance, but I'll post about that later).

A famous writer recently blogged that she doesn't read nearly enough, but once she described why, I forgave her. When you "make it," writers are in production mode. She is a monk when writing the draft manuscript. Two to three hours of sleep, writing every day, never showering, etc. Sounds like fun.

But I want to read. It expands me. I'll never complain about a book handed over. It's like a secret, and I'll honor it.