Musing Solitude

A rare evening alone. Time to think and dream.
My work in progress stalls. The first section cannot seem to get past itself. This is a project I have stopped and started more than once. I refuse to abandon it again.

What makes a story worthwhile? What makes one draft more important than another? This is one of those moments where a vision to the future or a handy wormhole would be appreciated. Is this worth the effort?
Perhaps that is a decision...not a reality. :)

All dreams are so powerful in the beginning. Taste, color, light, energy. Sustaining the power of the dream and riding it all the way to completion--this is the challenge. For now, I will stop trying to fight the riptide and swim sideways until I reach the shore.

Queries, Strategies, and Loss

Sending out those query letters! I have so many strategies. I second guess myself. I'm asked questions I cannot answer. What books are most like the one I just wrote? I do a search on Amazon and am even more confused than when I started.

Loss: Many years ago when I would write poems in composition books late at night I wasn't thinking about marketing or positioning myself. I wasn't thinking about success or failure. Of course, not all of my poems were brilliant, but it didn't matter.

It matters now.

My book is
My book is like

My book is a story that started in my head. I started seeing images, characters in situations. I started to laugh. I remembered what it felt like to be desperately in love with someone who couldn't love me back. I found pacing and plot. I wrote.

This is my book.

Enjoy the Journey

I've heard this many, many times from speakers at writers' conferences.

So, what journey am I supposed to be enjoying? The journey to insanity? To poverty? The journey of a potential delusion that one day I will be up on stage telling people, "enjoy the journey."




NOTE: Please realize this is a sad attempt at humor. I apologize for the cynicism.



Oh and enjoy the journey!

In the Hands of a Writer

Sometimes I have conversations with myself, and sometimes I see scenarios, little scenes play themselves out in my mind. A moment ago I thought of a man talking to a woman. There was some sort of emergency, and he said to her, "are you a nurse?" She laughed and replied, "no, I'm a writer. You're in the hands of a writer."

These characters in my mind may or may not become characters on a page, but the phrase "you're in the hands of a writer" resonated. Sometimes I think of my characters this way. I've, in a sense, created them from the muck of my unconscious and injected life into them. Now what? I'm responsible. Their fate is in my hands. Sometimes, often in fact, I make life very, very difficult for them. Conflict and challenges every step of the way...Is it fair? No, not at all. Perhaps I feel guilty. I created them after all. I do make them conquer and triumph in the end. Well, unless they don't triumph...But, always, always they learn something and walk away with something new. A perception, a piece of knowledge, a shard of hope...

All from my hands.

For the Fat Lady and J.D. Salinger

My mom started college when I was in junior high. One of her first classes was on the short story. I remember finding Nine Stories by J.D. Salinger on the kitchen table one afternoon and dove in. This was my first “adult” book other than a few classics force fed on me at school. I fell in love with the stories and was hungry for more. So I read them—all four of Salinger’s published books.
Of course I liked Catcher in the Rye. Holden was the kind of character I wish I had known because I understood all too well what it was like to be in a world of people who don’t understand. If he had asked me to run off in the woods with him, I would have done so (even if in the real world the results would probably end in something tedious and unromantic). I named my son after him though my Holden is a lot more level-headed and abstract than Mr. Caulfield.
It was Franny, however, who I connected with. Franny had challenges—a boyfriend who didn’t have a clue and a crisis within her soul. Two brothers could have helped her, but one had committed suicide and the other lived as a recluse. It is her other big brother Zooey who throws her a lifeline by reminding her of something their brother Seymour used to say to them. Seymour reminded them to do kind things—like shine shoes—for the Fat Lady. The Fat Lady didn’t exist, but it was a reminder of kindness, of purpose; Franny needed purpose.
When I was twenty-one and going through my own sort of crisis and wondering what life meant anyway, I remembered Seymour’s fat lady.

This past month my goals seem futile and my meaning comes in question. Salinger’s death today reminded me of Franny, reminded me of myself. We do things for others even if we don’t know the person—even if the person doesn’t exist. We make up our purpose.

I will continue to shine my shoes for the fat lady.

Dawn Dreaming

No, I'm not talking about a vampire book. I'm discussing the actual event, which is happening earlier and earlier each morning.

Dawn outside my window at seven.

Since I moved to Washington, I have been more aware of light and darkness. The extreme lighting shifts between summer and winter stun me more than I am willing to admit. This is the time of year every few weeks I feel, not a gentle nudge, but a jerk toward the sun. It's as though the planet earth readjusts itself in its path. Crocuses and daffodils push their green noses out of the soil, poppy seedlings dot the hillside. I keep my fingers crossed for continued mild weather from now until April.

This winter weather has been a blessing in many respects.

Just before dawn, I dreamed a story. I ABSOLUTELY LOVE dreaming plots. It's happened more than once to me, and I consider it a gift of some sort. I used to dream disasters when I was little. Then I dreamed things that would happen. Now I dream stories.

My plot is now in Word document awaiting expansion. It might be a few months, but I dreamed the book already.

Hope Stronger than Bleak

Among the headlines almost lost this week in the stories about the devastating earthquake in Haiti was an article in the Wall Street Journal about the almost luckless pursuit of publishing through the slush pile. Of course, my writer friends passed it around through email and blogs. I will not post it here because I found it utterly depressing, yet I knew the truth already: Writing is hard. Very few people become successful. Even if you work hard, write well, and submit your work, you may not make it.

Yes, yes, I know all of this!

I often try to connect writing to something else in life. Writing is like gardening, writing is like raising children...I'm sure you've heard those sweet analogies. Writing is like having OCD, writing is like belonging to a cult, writing is an addiction...The more unpleasant analogies I've found.

Yet, I keep going. Why? Sometimes I'm not sure I know. I do know children need books. Children need places to go outside of their own world, children need to know someone knows what it feels like (even if that someone is a character in a book). Children need a connection.

I keep writing for them--and for me. I need those things too.

Take that slush pile!