Category Archives: editing

Lightning Strikes: From Whence Inspiration?

Phatman - Lightning on the Columbia River (by-sa)

By Ian Boggs from Astoria, US (Lightning on the Columbia River) [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

 

Sure, sure. You make your own inspiration and all that. You sit, you write, you create. I get that. It’s 90% of the equation.

But what about those moments that are unplanned? I know I’m not the only writer out there that’s found profundity in hot showers or strains of music (in fact, most of the WIP fell into my brain during a shower). There seem to be situations where my brain is prone to wander unseen pathways, where I make connections in stories that, on normal writing days, just don’t seem to happen. No, I don’t believe in Muses, but there is some curious power in the workings of our brains when it comes to creating stories out of nothingness.

When I was writing Rock Revival, I plugged into music. Every day. Not just my favorite bands, but bands I’d never heard of. Music that was the music of my characters. Phoenix, The Black Keys, Mumford and Sons, the Beatles, Fleetwood Mac, Queen, Tori Amos, Kate Bush, Neko Case. That’s just a slice. Driving around, in particular, seemed to dislodge whatever scene I was struggling with and bring about new characters and situations I hadn’t planned, so long as the music was blasting.

((Now, this is a life of a panster, I realize. There are those writers out there who have the talent (and, yeah, probably the discipline) to write outlines and stick to it. But my first drafts tend to be my outlines. Which is probably why I love the hell out of editing so much. It’s polishing.))

For Watcher of the Skies, the inspiration has been less predictable. Life has been less predictable. Instead of walking around with a lightning rod like I was able to do with Rock Revival, I’ve had to rely on the random moments. It hasn’t been music, this time, at all, that’s moved me to moments of writing epiphany  Instead, it’s been during sleepless nights, moments of stillness when I can’t convince my brain to rest, when Joss and his friends come out to play. It’s almost like listening to whispers in the next room. Maybe that’s weird, but like I was saying in my post yesterday, it’s as close as I get to real magic.

So my question for you out there. Are you the lightning rod sort? Or do you wait for inspiration? Or do you just make it happen regardless of the situation? What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever gotten inspiration from? And for those of you with lives/jobs/kids/responsibilities, what do you do when it strikes at inopportune times?

Welcoming Winter, Gravely

We put up the tree. An angel I love from my childhood, and one of my son's handmade ornaments. Image by Natania Barron, CC BY SA 3.0

We put up the tree. An angel I love from my childhood, and one of my son’s handmade ornaments. Image by Natania Barron, CC BY SA 3.0

It was in the 70s today here in North Carolina. After a few weeks of absolutely amazing weather–chilly and in the 50s during the day, scooping down into the 20s at night–we’re in a bit of a mini heatwave. The flannel sheets seem rather preemptive.

But I guess that makes sense. This week has been a study of contrasts, and not just seasonal ones. My husband was laid off on Monday last, his entire department vanishing into “we’ll give you some contractor hours” and that’s that. I’m trying to stave off the panic and dread (and fury; I assure you there is plenty of fury, considering everything we’ve been going through the with boy and, oh, having a six month old baby in the mix) by keeping busy around the house, which isn’t too hard considering there’s two kids around here most days. Also, we’ve started brewing beer again. We’ll have a chocolate maple porter ready next week when I get back from New York, and a hopnog (which I’m affectionately calling the “Non-Working Man’s Hopnog” in a nod to one of my favorite Fullsteam brews, Working Man’s Lunch; the brews aren’t remotely similar, but the name couldn’t be passed up). I don’t know what to make of the jobless (again) situation. I’ve been trying to avoid it by making beer and bread and crocheting and writing and crafting. As I tend to do.

Joss Raddick. Hanging out. Looking around. Image by Natania Barron, CC BY SA 3.0.

Joss Raddick. Hanging out. Looking around. Image by Natania Barron, CC BY SA 3.0.

The highlight of last week came in the form of the always lovely Cherie Priest who was in town, a last stop in a harrowingly eventful tour in support of her very awesome book, The Inexplicables. When she indicated she was up for shenanigans in the afternoon, I contemplated for a second and asked her if she’d fancy visiting a graveyard. I had a feeling I wouldn’t have to twist her arm, mistress of Southern Gothic that she is. We visited the Old Town Cemetery in Hillsborough, NC, which is one of the most hauntingly beautiful places I know. We saw the gravestones of a variety of prestigious residents, including William Hooper, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Hillsborough has plenty of Colonial roots, and having lived there once I was truck with how much I missed it. I wanna go back. Sigh.

Extra bonus, Joss Raddick showed up in the form of a lawn ornament (see picture).

The event at Flyleaf Books was great, and we stayed around and drank beers afterward. Much needed beers, especially in my case.

And now we’re turning the corner into winter. I’m going to be flying out next week to NYC to do a media tour for the Geek Mom book, and I’m excited and a little nervous. I’m going to be on television! I’ve been trying not to fuss over wardrobe, but I’ve been fussing anyway. I found a perfect dress, but now I have to locate the right size. Tomorrow, I get my hair cut a bit (not a huge amount, but it needs some serious taming, as it’s now down to the middle of my back and, especially in the static electric season, absolutely unruly).

Writing has continued on Watcher of the Skies, and it’s going well enough that I figured it was time to send out Rock Revival to my beta readers: Michael, Dorothy, and Karen. In a bout of insomnia, I read the entire draft last night and today in .epub format–which is beyond awesome. I didn’t realize Scrivener had those capabilities until just yesterday, and it makes the beta reading experience so much easier. Michael is my toughest to please beta reader. I know, he’s my husband. He’s supposed to adore everything that I do, right? Except he’s not like that (THANKFULLY). He’ll tell me if he isn’t enjoying something. Last night he stayed up “way later” than he should have, reading the first quarter of the book. This gives me significant hope, considering that I’m nearing the point of no perspective. Suffice it to say, hearing him say that was immensely and overwhelmingly welcome. Like I said, it’s been a tough week.

And that’s really it. The month of November may be over, but the holidays are approaching and, before we know it, we’ll turn the page to 2013. Our hopnog will be ready for consumption on New Year, and I can’t wait to try it. We had a sip tonight and it was divine.

Sometimes it’s the simple things that get you through. Words and the magic of fermentation. That doesn’t sound very romantic or magical, but I assure you, it is. It helps to move on and worry less, even when there’s so much uncertainty in the air. If winter teaches us anything, it’s that in the coldest, darkest places, beauty and wonder still abounds.

Watcher of the Skies and Thoughts on NaNoWriMo

from Flaxman’s Iliad – 1792. Public Domain.

So, my last post really did make it sound like I wasn’t doing NaNoWriMo, mostly likely. And apparently that’s the thing that got me going. Or something. I’m not going to try and explain it in too much details, but it goes something like this. I screwed up my back. I had to take medicine. I found out my kid does, in fact, have Asperger’s. My brain was mushy, I was in need of escape in the form of writing therapy that wasn’t going to require much editing (see: medicine), and my best friend Karen started talking to me about Joss Raddick. Readers of Pilgrim of the Sky know Mr. Raddick well, a godling of the water variety from Second World who eventually (and rather reluctantly) joins up with Maddie to help her get to Alvin in First World and prevent All The Bad Stuff. This isn’t the first time that Karen has birthed a book into my mind by just saying a few words. The entirety of The Aldersgate is due to her saying to me once, “I’m surprised you’ve never written anything with cowboys” or something to that effect, and I wrote back and said they’d have to be cowboyknights and, all that stuff happened.

The original text of Keats’s poem, “On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer”. I get giddy about the handwriting.

Anyway. The words have been spilling out, most appropriately considering Joss’s nature. The book is entitled Watcher of the Skies, and while it bears the same title as a Genesis song, it’s taken from Keats’s poem “On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer”. Last night, though I didn’t think I was going to get much done because of feeling kinda crappy, I almost got another 3K in and brought the book to 30K which is, quite frankly, a really good chunk. And this draft is surprisingly solid. Or maybe not surprisingly. I’ve been contemplating Joss’s story for quite some time, and it was just a matter of getting the details right. The book is set up in a frame narrative. The beginning features Maddie and he talking, and he invites her to hear his whole story on a rather appropriate godling level. It involves a hand full of water and mushy ice cubes and one of my favorite phrases to date: “a drunkard’s communion.”

No, this is not the book I was going to write. But it’s the book that needs to be written right now. It’s perfect timing, which I think is the way that working writers can succeed at endeavors like NaNoWriMo. I really hate the pressure people put themselves under. As a novelist, it’s not like November is the only month I can write books in, and if I don’t it somehow means less. But life and projects have conspired to make this a most amenable month of writing–and it isn’t as if I’m writing that much more than my usual 1K a day. The stars have aligned and I am enjoying myself immensely.

One of the most exciting parts is that I’m getting to explore Second World. If there’s one thing the reviewers let me know it’s that they’d wished I’d dabbled more in alternate history. Well, I’m doing just that. The book takes place starting in the late 18th century and moves to the early 20th–and let’s just say the historical/religious/economic landscape isn’t the same as you’d expert. I’m not going to be too spoilery, but there’s lots of poets, cameos by Percy and Mary Shelley and Keats and Byron and Wordsworth and Coleridge, and even mention of crazy old Blake (okay, some are significantly more than cameos, but y’know). Plus I get to explore various twains in their previous incarnations–Randall, Matilda, and Alvin are all present, sort of. Other versions of them. And I finally get to have fun with Athena. She’s a cross-dressing theatre owner of African descent. You know, as you do. I’ll have a lot more to share eventually, but for now, I’m just giddy about this book.

My pithy advice to those of you writing this hectic month is to be kind to yourself. Learning to write is like any good habit. And while it’s lovely that so much energy is poured into the month of November, it’s not the only time to write. It’s okay to step back and say it’s not a good time, professional or fledgeling or proto-fledgeling. It doesn’t make you a failure, it makes you a person who has a life and deadlines and responsibilities and maybe, just isn’t ready yet. If you want to be a writer, whatever that means, you’ve simply got to write. You’ve got to strike when the iron’s hot, and when it’s not. My issue with NaNo is that it doesn’t produce a book. It produces part of a draft. In 2008, when I “won” (whatever that means) it was very helpful, because that book did become Pilgrim of the Sky. But it’s been four years since I made an effort, and time it was primarily because of a need to escape and an excuse to keep away from Rock Revival. The timing was right for me. It may be right for you. But it may not be. And that, friends, is really, really okay.

Anyway, I have a few hours alone for the first time in almost a month, so I’m going to put it good use. For all your NaNoers out there, good luck to you!

Joss meets Andrew La Roche, Randall’s predecessor, in a tavern, while his friend William Wordsworth encounters Samuel Taylor Coleridge for the first time.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” La Roche said, taking up a cup of tea and stirring it gently. He managed to do so without a single clink against the China, so precise he was.

“It’s Joss,” I said. “Joss Raddick. I’m from Cumbria.”

“I daresay you are, it’s written all over your vowels,” La Roche remarked with a knowing smirk. “But I knew of you the moment you were born. The others argued with me, but I have a sense for these things. As you do.”

I nodded. “I felt you. Until you snuck up on me.”

“Slipped beneath your senses,” he said. “I was out of the rain, out of the river, out of the water. I dry rather quickly when I want to.”

Having no idea what he was talking about, I added, “You’re… warm. That’s the only way I can describe what I sense. Warm. Bright. Dry.”

“Hmm, yes, indeed,” he said. “And I have a particular aptitude for the healing arts. And poetry.” He said this last word with particular relish. “As you do, so I have heard. You’re a kept man, Mr. Raddick.”

I didn’t quite know what he meant by that statement. “Kept, sir?”

La Roche sipped his tea. “Hmmm… yes. You’ve been tamed, so to speak, by that curious little lake poet, Mr. Wordsworth. I’m sure he’s been a most impressive teacher, as poets are so often, but he’s using you for your light. For your inspiration. Surely you’ve figured that out by now, yes?”

I snorted. Of course I had figured it out. But it didn’t make the situation any less difficult. “He has been kind to me. He’s taught me things, about how to fit in, about how to experience… how to be a human man.”

“And what makes you think you are not a human man?” La Roche asked. “I’m genuinely curious, not attempting to pass judgment on you, Mr. Raddick.”

“Not sure what to say to that,” I said. “It’s just something I know. Humans come from women, born in a big egg that breaks open and spills water on the earth. A stream of blood and birth. That’s not how I came about.”

“Well, we have that in common,” La Roche said. “I was awakened. In a young village lad, some centuries ago. In Southern Gaul. It was quite strange. I awoke, and walked away from the family that had raised the boy. He was no longer. I entered him like water into a gourd, and have since made this body as I’ve willed it. I don’t always have to look like this, but I prefer it.”

Rock Revival: Draft Zero

Composition. Image by Natania Barron. CC BY SA 3.0

I’m very happy at the moment. This weekend I finished the first (zero) draft of Rock Revival. Now, I know, I’ve written books before. I’ve figured out “the method” or whatever of “being a writer” and all that jazz, sure. Except, since having my surgery in 2010 I hadn’t actually finished a novel. Yeah, there was that pregnancy thing that accounted for nine months. But about three weeks after the baby girl was born, I started Rock Revival to my own surprise. I mean, I had other books to write. Speculative books. Good books, surely! Yet, for whatever reason, it’s the story that wanted to be told first (in spite of my attempts to write other things).

I’ve had to change the entire way I write. Much in the same way I can’t play guitar, I can’t just sit at a computer or a laptop. All those great writing tips for busy folk and moms and whatnot? Yeah, not much help. I can’t take my writing somewhere else; I can’t write by hand. I can dictate some, but I’m still learning how to do that. And since my surgery, I hadn’t been able to adapt that into any personal longterm projects.

So for this book, I had to retrain myself how to write. Now it’s not about numbers, it’s about endurance. And, at last, I’ve figured it out. In some ways it’s really the NaNoWriMo approach. I try to clock 200 words a day, on the short end (the “no-matter-what-is-happening-do-or-die” number) and 1,000 on regular days. And now, four months later, I have a book. No to say I was perfect every step of the way, because I wasn’t; but all in all it was pretty damned successful.

The book ended up a little more than 70K, but it’s already up to 72K after deleting and rewriting a bunch over the weekend. I tend to do a Draft Zero Re-read immediately after finishing, and it helps me tie the end to the beginning more solidly. I had a lot of epiphanies toward the end of the book and it’s bee really satisfying to go in and tidy things. There’s one scene I’m dreading writing because it’s really rough but essential to the story. Then, once I’m finished with the DZR I’ll be putting everything into Pages and doing a major edit. Then comes more writing, filling in the blanks–interviews, Wikipedia articles, Tweet exchanges. Seriously fun.

But that’s not all. I mean, I see now how important this book has been to me, personally. Not only did it help me prove something to myself that I’d been living in fear about (not being able to do this again) but it helped me remember something that I’d been neglecting a while: my love of music. For a long time my dream was to be a singer/songwriter. It was an encompassing dream that I gave up only when life got too busy and I said things like, “It’s too competitive” and “Who has time?” Not that I’ve ever stopped playing music, but it became a monthly thing rather than a daily thing.

These days, I’ve been steeped in music. I even wrote a song for the book, the first I’ve written in almost five years. And it’s even good. I’m not saying I’m changing courses to become a rock star, but I am recognizing that it’s a much bigger part of me than I’d let on for a while. I played my dad’s Gibson 339 this weekend, through an honest to goodness amplifier, and hot-damn if it didn’t feel amazing.

This has never, to my knowledge, happened before. A book has never given me something so lasting and profound in return. And I’m grateful for that.

Anyway. The baby is asleep and there’s a thousand things I need to do before picking up my son, but I wanted to take a minute and smile and pat myself on the back. That elation will only last as long as that big red edit marker lays dormant. I’ll be singing a different tune in a few weeks, perhaps.

Interview with Jesse McLaren, rock journalist:

Tell us about your relationship with Tom. How did it shape your music?
Kate Styx: There’s not much to say that hasn’t already been said. I mean, I’m pretty transparent in what I write, and you don’t have to listen to much of our catalogue to hear what I have to say on the matter. I don’t usually talk too much about it, y’know? To me, it’s a short story. We were together a while, it didn’t work out, but we’ve both moved on. He’s a dear friend, one of the best things in my life.

You’ve said that “Lost and Loving” best reflects your relationship. Why is that?
KS: (laughs) I was really mad when I wrote that. We’d just broken up for good, and he was so calm about the whole damned thing. Me? I was a mess. But that song just sort of fell in my lap one night when I was feeling really stupidly sorry for myself. I had a working demo in two hours and woke James up at 4am to get his take on it. He loved it, tweaked it a bit, and we laid down the track two weeks later. Tom really is like a river, as hackneyed as that reference might be. I could tell he was sorry we’d broken up, but he just kept moving on. I wasn’t so good at it. I don’t like to talk too many details, but I still feel that same way in the song. I probably always will.

That was your second number one hit. Do you feel strange having to revisit that raw emotion every time you play live?
KS: After a while, it just becomes a song. Sure, I bet if we broke up and didn’t play for twenty years and got together again, it’d have some meaning again. You know, like the way Stevie Nicks and Lindsay Buckingham did with “The Chain” during their reunion special. The air is charged, man. The way they look at each other. I think that’s part of going through something like this with someone and then having to continue working with them. Time is weird. Distance is important. Perspective changes. But I don’t think you ever stop loving someone entirely. You share something special with them. The first few times we played the song live we had to rewrite the background vocals for Kurt so he could sing them. I couldn’t manage it. But now I don’t really think about it.

You famously ousted Sara Plummer and brought aboard your childhood friend Kurt Bastian to replace her. There’s been a lot of speculation about that. Care to set the record straight?
KS: There’s nothing to be set straight. Listen, all my music life I’ve been collaborating with bassists. Before Sara, there was Kurt. When Sara left—and she did leave—I needed someone I could trust, musically and personally. Kurt’s been playing music all his life, and he’s solid. After all the drama of the last few years we really wanted someone strong to root us through the last album and tour. It wasn’t a hard decision to make. But he’s with us for the long haul, and we’re excited to see where we go.

He’s said some unflattering things about James Vayne in the press. How do you respond to that as his friend?
KS: [pauses to think] Listen, I’m not here to gossip about my bandmates or apologize for what they say or pick apart their motivations. They are who they are. No, we don’t always get along. Yes, sometimes we say stuff we don’t mean. But in the end, it’s the music that matters. And right now, we’re as good as we’ve been in years. Ever, really. I think our earlier dysfunction was keeping us from our potential, and now we’ve moved on and we’re making progress. We’re growing.

Tell us something about the new album.
KS: Well, we’re taking a much slower pace, for one. The first three were sort of done at the speed of light. We had crazy schedules and all these big early successes. Not to say we’re not thankful for the fans or the support, but it’s been taxing on all of us. So we wanted to really take the time with this album this time around to do something that takes us back to our roots. I’m really happy with where we’re at right now.

Have the Revivals settled down? You and your bandmate Tom have made some intriguing headlines in the past, especially Tom’s battle with drugs. 
KS: Tom’s doing better. He really is. I’ve had my wild moments, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. It is rock and roll, after all.

The Middle Eight Manifesto or; Behold! The Secret to Writing!

Photo: Natania Barron, NC Botanical Gardens

Well, I’ve reached the middle eight. Almost. At least, I’m cruising just about to the 30K mark, a little more than a third of the way through Rock Revival. Musically speaking that might be where I put a bridge. Or a pre-chorus. Or something interesting. Certainly we’ve established the verse and chorus, and now we’re shaking things up.

And hoo-boy are we. It’s been so long since I’ve been this deep in a novel (I did the math; it’s been over two years, between day jobbery, health issues, and pregnancy…) that I’ve absolutely forgotten how characters can throw you for a loop. I had this planned, damnit. WTF?!

Maybe part of me really thought the magic was only apparent in speculative-flavored books, because this last scene (written about 12 hours ago, during the wee hours of the morning) really threw me a punch in the gut. You’d think a first-person narrative wouldn’t be so unpredictable, but you’d be wrong. Kate just took me down an alley I didn’t anticipate going down, and it’s horrible and wonderful and perfect for where the book is going.

So as far as fiction writing is going for me? Happy days are here again. Glad to report, this lady’s got her groove back. Quite literally. I even started putting those lyrics from yesterday to music! I’m basically squeezing every moment of time possible for myself between diaper changes, errands, cooking dinner, and loads and loads of laundry. Yes, that’s me. Covered in spit up and wearing pajamas for most of the day. Glamour!

Anyway, after talking a bit last night with Paul Jessup, a writer who’s been a friend since I started going on the Internet and referring to myself as an author, I decided I wanted to offer a few words of wisdom about becoming a successful writer.

So I wrote a little manifesto. I’m indebted to a few for this, because not all this is new (in particular Jeff VanderMeer’s Booklife and Stephen King’s On Writing). These are just the things that I’ve learned that are helpful especially for newer writers.

1.) There is only one secret to writing. And that is writing the best book you can possibly write.

2.) Writing well for you is not the same as writing well for others. Learn to figure out what it is that you write, and why it’s important to write it. Know your strengths and weaknesses. You’ll never be perfect, but awareness is the key to growth.

3.) No how-to book can teach you how to write. The only way to write is to read. And then write. Then read more. And more. And write more. Ad nauseum. You have to be in love with words and stories and characters and process. You have to be prepared to be alone, to sit up late at night and stay in love.

4.) Don’t follow agents and publishers on Twitter/Facebook/whatever until you’re ready AND until your book is ready. In some cases, I’d say to steer clear in general unless you know them personally. While their insight is helpful, I’ve seen it be more of a hindrance than a help for most writers who are too tempted to submit (unprepared) manuscripts in the face of all that social media influence. Not to mention, it’s a distraction you don’t need when writing. (After spending the better part of the last two years unconnected to the writing Twitter feeds, I’ve got to say there’s a lot less noise in my head; I keep it limited to my friends now, and very few industry folk. You can’t let the floodgates in, you’ll drown.)

5.) If you think you’re book is ready, it’s probably not. Edit it again. Share it with more friends. Leave it in a desk for a year. Let it cure. Like good bacon.

6.) Don’t even think about writing a query if your book isn’t ready. (Also, don’t even think about pitching/pestering/following/paying attention to agents/authors/publishers, either.)

7.) Make friends who are writers. Make them diverse, across genres, backgrounds, experiences, genders. Learn from them. Be kind to them. They will lift you up, connect you, support you when you need them most. Those relationships will help build your (and their) career.

8.) Don’t measure your success by your friends’ successes. Your career isn’t theirs. Keep going. While you’re at it: Focus on your own goals, and makes sure they’re realistic.

9.) Throw out your definition of success and think of a better one. It’s never what you think it is.

10.) Grow a thick skin.

11.) Grow a thicker skin. Everyone gets bad reviews. People will inevitably, somewhere along the way, hate your book. They might even hate you. If you’re not ready to face that, you’ll crumble. You’re allowed a meltdown now and again (I can speak to experience on this one) but you need to learn to bounce back, and remember that you’re a writer and you are putting yourself and your work out there because it needs to be shared.

12.) Be kind. Many writers don’t have 10 & 11, and never do. Also many writers are not kind or nice in any way. And they might be successful. Still, don’t burn bridges with reviews/commentary/criticism unless you’re prepared.

13.) Go to conventions as an attendee, then as a guest. Repeat.

14.) Enthusiasm is required. However, understand that there is such a thing as too much PR/self-promotion/spam. People will stop listening if you flood the channels.

15.) There is no easy way out. There is only one secret to writing. And that is writing the best book you can possibly write. 

A few notes. Personally, I’ve struggled with 10 & 11. I’m really bad at getting back up on the horse following rejections. Even nicer ones. Part of my problem is that I’m a very non-competitive person, and it’s honestly easier to be inactive than to get rejections. Once this current book is at Draft Zero, I’m going to be evaluating the current trunk full of novels I’ve given up on.

And listen, social media is great. I’ve made some of the best connections through it. But it’s become a mire. Half the people who follow me are self-publishing zealots spamming their feeds with their books (on sale for .99!). I mean, props to them. They’re making this a business. But their approach is not my approach. Yes, miracles do happen. Unexpected books break free and find huge popularity. But popularity isn’t success. Not for me. My biggest moment of success? Getting an awesome Library Journal review for Pilgrim of the Sky. Quite literally, I’ve never felt so downright euphoric in my writing career, ever. I was sitting in the car at a supermarket in Boone, NC, about to leave cell service territory, when I got the email from Kate at Candlemark, and I had to read it over twenty times and I couldn’t stop giggling. That made all the work feel so worthwhile.

And sure, most agents and publishers are well meaning. I don’t know. I don’t know their motives personally. But a lot of them come across as if they’re on power trips or use social media as their personal griping boards. Sure, it’s nice to know what agents are looking for. But you shouldn’t write for them. They are not your audience. They’re the gatekeepers, in some instances (though less and less so as the face of publishing is changing so quickly). And just because you get an agent doesn’t mean you’re happier. Some of the saddest people I know are authors with representation who are still going nowhere.

The thing is, the industry can and will change at the drop of a hat. The only constant is you, the writer, the content creator. Which is why the secret/no-secret is in your hands.

So go write, already! The world’s waiting for your best.

Prosaic Analysis Paralysis

In which I think aloud for a few paragraphs… pardon the navel gazing.

The burden of words. It’s quite something, I tell you. And at the moment I’m finding it to be on the verge of utterly overwhelming. I have all these stories, all these books and novels and ideas, and instead of a calm, steady stream (the way I’ve written for the better part of the last five years) it’s a frozen lake. A frozen lake filled with strange faces and whispers under the icy surface, all jumbled together, staring at me, challenging me.

And I’ve got analysis paralysis. I have too much to work on, so much so that I just don’t know what to write. Those ideas, all frozen there beneath the surface, they taunt me. Snippets of one story, the challenge of another, the feeling that I don’t want to abandon this one or that one. I can’t call it writer’s block, because it certainly isn’t that I have nothing to write. It’s the entire opposite. I have a glut of words and possibilities and I just don’t know what the heck to do. The noise of it all is intense.

Glassmere was supposed to be my focus. Working full time instead of freelance has changed my writing habits, but not that much; I’ve always been an evening writer, though those evenings are shorter than they used to be. Time isn’t my problem. Brain noise and the challenge of this book is. Glassmere is very personal, and for that reason it’s very hard to write, and I keep wondering if I’m just not up for the challenge of it, if it’s not yet time for me to write it. I want the story to be told, but so far it’s been something like 15,000 words of writing and rewriting, and I’m tired of trying to wrestle it into submission. It’s honestly exhausting.

Then there’s Indigo & Ink. I have to rewrite the whole thing. The. Whole. Thing. There’s just no way around it, and I have to admit my pride has been shaken in this instance. While I was writing it I really thought it was The Best Thing Ever. But now, after other eyes have seen it and I’ve had a chance to go through it, all I see is where it’s lacking, wanting.

Its cousin, The Ward of the Rose is the sequel to The Aldersgate. But this is problematic twofold. I want to revise The Aldersgate, and I can’t finish Ward until it’s revised and fixed. I wouldn’t even be considering revising The Aldersgate if it hadn’t been for a bunch of folks stumbling upon my podcast and demanding the sequel (nicely). I should have written the second book a long time ago, but well, you’ve already heard that saga.

Which is all not to mention other books prickling at the back of my mind. Heroic fantasy, Arthurian re-tellings. Finished books, in those two cases, but also in need of revision like whoa. And that’s not even to talk about Herald of the Morn, the sequel to Pilgrim of the Sky which is, basically, candy and easy to write and, in general, makes me feel guilty because I have so many unfinished things I should be working on. Or, also, The Gnome and the Necromancer which is decent for YA, and is also a candy book.

I know I’m not perfect. I’m acutely aware of my shortcomings as a writer, as I think we all must be in order to improve. But for some reason in the last few months I’ve felt as if the wind has gone out of my sails in terms of my own confidence. I’m thinking way too much about what I’m writing (whether it’s a period piece and I’m freaking out about language, fashion, and culture, or it’s a secondary world and I’m freaking out about pacing and style and magic). I wrote about confidence before, but I thought I had a handle on it. Yet the word count for the year tells me otherwise. The magic of previous years just isn’t there right now, and I know 90% of it is totally me.

So these are my questions I’ve been asking. Because at this point, I’ve got to dig deeper than prose. I’ve got to go ice fishing in this freezing lake and see what bites, what takes hold, and ultimately what ends up a meal, not a long day of sitting and waiting.

What makes most sense to work on from a “career” standpoint? Well, clearly Herald of the Morn is a book that’s a followup to something that’s actually being published. So, that sounds pretty smart. However, it’s a sequel and that assumes a certain amount of audience participation across the board, and that’s all risky. Gnome is definitely the most marketable (UF, YA), but is it me? No clear answer there.

What do I want to write the most? I keep telling myself that Glassmere is that answer, but I think the water’s too murky in this case. I’m exceptionally self-conscious as I write this. Wharton-influenced manor house “through the lookinglass” fantasy? Yes, absolutely I want to read this book. This is the sort of book I would love to read. But will anyone else give a crap? So even though the answer is clear on that count, I’m not sure it’s the best decision.

What do other people want me to write? Success wise I’ve reached more people with The Aldersgate than anything. And I keep getting reminders that people want to read it and its followup.

What makes me happy? Writing makes me happy. Falling in love makes me happy. Falling in love with the world and the characters and the story. Being so wrapped up in the story that the whole world vibrates with it, that every whisper and strain of music takes you there. I had that with Indigo & Ink, due in no small part to the fact that I’m a little in love with Ash Malcom and I do think with some restructuring he can really hold up the majority of the book.

Seriously, I’m almost at the point where I just want to chart all this crap out and CHOOSE SOMETHING. Because my approach for the last few weeks of writing 500-1000 words in any one of these projects and bouncing around is really not going to be good for the long haul.

Wondering if any of you out there have had similar experiences. Little time, lots of words. What helped you get through? What got your mojo back? A few considerations include: getting some readers for one of these projects and promising to keep up with revised/new work (read: accountability), tossing everything out and starting a new project, submitting a few things so at least I don’t think about them for a while, or possibly taking a break and just working on short stories for a while.

Tomorrow Never Knows: Thanks, Ann VanderMeer

The Uncanny Beauty Issue

I read with dismay this morning that Ann VanderMeer will no longer be editing at Weird Tales, a publication she helped resurrect and redefine over the last four years. When I first started writing speculative fiction seriously, I remember staring at the Weird Tales website, thinking that some day in the magical future my writing might find its way there, into Ann’s hands. And it did, it turns out. I was part of the Uncanny Beauty issue, right there with my name on the cover, barely getting my feet wet in the spec fic world, and yet welcomed. Not many people have that opportunity, and I’ll be forever grateful.

Beyond that though, with Ann at the helm, I knew that opening Weird Tales, each story would make me feel something, would inspire me in some new way, whether it be through fright or surprise or simply fascinating writing. That’s the hallmark of an amazing editor. Someone you can trust. Someone in whose name you can assign faith. And that’s not easy. It saddens me to think that I won’t be able to look at Weird Tales that same way again. A loss, all around.

That’s not even to mention what a magnificent role model Ann is, especially for women writers and editors of the weird and wonky. I finally met Ann a few weeks ago, in person, and she is as smart and sharp and funny as I expected. Meeting her only deepened my admiration of her. (Oh, and Ann: next round of Duck-Rabbit Milk Stout is on me!)

The good news is that Ann is an astonishing talent, and will do amazing things beyond Weird Tales. Her projects are always inspired and unusual, and though she will no longer be lending her expertise and enthusiasm to Weird Tales, it will go elsewhere…

…though it doesn’t make the situation suck any less right now, I know. Right now it still doesn’t seem possible or fair or sensical at all. Right now is just sad and frustrating.

But: tomorrow never knows. Here’s to better days. Thanks, Ann. For all you’ve done, and all you have yet to do.

The Perils of Early Success: Or, Writing With the Pointy End

So I started blogging “as a real writer” at the very beginning of 2008 in order to share a draft of my novel, The Aldersgate, with the world at large. I had already written two drafts, and then decided to start again and record the new chapters and launch them out into the world for feedback. It’s a steampunk western sort of fantasy story, with low magic and high politics and many point of views. You know; as you will.

While I commenced blogging in that first year or so, I had pretty immediate success with my short story writing and network building, and I felt like I was on top of the world. I was writing very unfettered, gamboling around in precious little Snowflake land (though I’d never have admitted it).

I was simply sharing my story. And I honestly believed that everything would fall into place. Having listened to a bit of Cory Doctorow I felt that, as long as what I was putting out there was good (which I was convinced it was) someone would find it, and I’d ride that golden pegasus out into the sunset and become a True Published Author.

People did come, it turns out. Wonderful readers, writer friends. And wouldn’t you know, but a year and a half later after I’d just about finished the entire podcast of the novel (and attracted quite a few positive responses which made me feel Truly Awesome) I was approached by an editor at Ace/Roc who wanted to listen to my story and read the manuscript. At first, I was entirely sure that the whole thing was a hoax and that someone was trying to mess with me. But no, she was totally legit. So in a state of utter glee and terror, I sent the manuscript to her, expecting to hear back in a few months. I knew that publishing was slow, so I didn’t expect a fast turnaround from a very busy editor. I was willing to wait for glory… or rejection. Either way, I prepared to wait.

No, I didn’t commit the first sin of writing. I didn’t stop writing. In fact, I wrote a few more novels: Pilgrim of the Sky, Peter of Windbourne, Indigo & Ink, and Queen of None. But the entire time I waited, I froze as a writer in many ways. To be honest with you (and me!) I don’t think I thought I had much room for improvement. After all, my book was with a Big Publisher. While I was realistic with myself, even preparing for rejection, I got lazy. Everything seemed to live in the shadow of that hope.

It’s been two years, now. And since you haven’t heard me jumping up and down and shrieking about a contract with a big publisher, you can imagine the result. Actually, I never heard back at all. I pinged the editor a few times, but never heard so much as a peep. Just… silence.

It takes a long time for hope to die. I can still tell you that I sent that manuscript out on June 23, 2009. For the first year, every 23rd was like a new mile-marker bringing me ever closer to the possible answer: yes or no. But by the 18th month, I was starting to doubt that it was ever going to happen at all. (I don’t even think about the editor and that hope these days, albeit in a passing, wistful sort of way.)

The thing is, well, life went on. Life got hard. And as life got hard, writing got harder. And it got harder to look at my own writing and be absolutely honest with myself, even after I stopped believing in the muse!

It’s funny how much something like this can impact one’s entire writing approach. Writing The Aldersgate was a mighty powerful experience. I was smitten with words, high on storytelling. And I think that comes through in the draft that’s out there on the internets (I’m not ashamed; the story has a lot going for it). People seemed to love the characters*, but the nuts and bolts of the story really need work. Work that for the last two years I haven’t given it. (Even though, on occasion, I tried.)

But I’ve always been someone who worked best with tough love. I was smart, but lazy, during school. I never pushed myself until teachers pushed back. “Any other student would have gotten an A on this project, but this isn’t your best work.” Even a resounding rejection of the manuscript would have most likely lit a fire under me.

But nothing? NOTHING? Nothing left too much room for hope.

Hey, I have lots of excuses why things have not gone as well as they did in the magical year of 2008, writing-wise. I have enough excuses to fill a damned book. But the only real reason that I didn’t grow as a writer is because I wasn’t honest with myself. I let hope cloud my better judgement.

Sure, I spent a lot of time editing and rewriting. But rewriting isn’t editing. Rewriting isn’t taking a cold, hard look at the way you write, which is the only route toward improvement and, well, success by extention. (Thankfully I’ve had the pleasure of working with some fantastic editors in preparation for Pilgrim of the Sky’s publication that really wonderfully helped in that respect, as well as advice from a seasoned pro writer friend that helps toward this rather jarring realization on my part, but that’s another post…) Rewriting is simply making another draft. Granted, it’s practice, and practice is part of the improving part, but editing is essential. You know, those fancy book editors don’t rewrite your book. They tweak it.

And that’s not to say that being a taskmaster is the only way to go. It’s got to be a combination. The successful, holistic approach to writing, revising, and editing, is a balance of fact and fancy. The fancy drives it, but the fact improves it. To use a martial simile: Your arm is the fancy, the creative drive, the raw excitement and energy and thought–but fact is your sword, cutting and shaping and ultimately turning your strength into something more. They work together, y’see? (It takes practice, but soon you’re carving through like a Braavosi.)

There is no easy path, it turns out. Would I trade early success for early struggle? I don’t know. But the thing is that early success can be maddening and counter-productive in its own right. (I’m admittedly  still a baby about rejections, probably because I didn’t get enough early on!).

My only hope for myself is that I achieve balance, and, more than anything that I find fancy again. Since I started work in December, fancy has been hard to come by; the muscles have gone weak. Fancy has to come first, before fact, otherwise progress can never be made. But it doesn’t always linger in familiar places. Sometimes you have to summon it up.

We all know that writing books is hard. Finishing books is harder. But the hardest part of all comes after all that. It’s being honest about the draft. And that honesty will usher in growth. For without growth, in any career or creative endeavor, nothing magic can happen.

* Much of this post was inspired by finding a trove of “pending” comments in the Aldersgate blog. For all my lack of growth, the experience of reaching readers who really felt a connection my story is not something I take lightly. I will finish the story.

July July July

Edith Wharton

Life has been spinning by at a trajectory altogether too fast for me these days, but that’s what happens when you smoosh an actual career in between being an author, a blogger, a mom, a sister, a wife, and an editor. It’s really unfair of me to complain, since it’s the bed I’ve made, but thankfully our summer beach vacation is looming just around the corner and I am looking forward to a week with as little technology as possible, and basking in the sun reading books and maybe (just maybe) doing some writing.

Which is not to say I haven’t been writing, only that the writing is slow. Instead of writing at usual breakneck pace, I’ve been reading quite a bit in preparation for writing Glassmere, and am currently about three quarters of the way through Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence (which won her the Pulitzer Prize in 1921 — the first time it was awarded to a woman). I’d read Wharton before, in college, during a modern novel class. We read The House of Mirth and I was rather depressed after reading it. And at the time I was pretty much opposed to anything American and modern, so I really didn’t read her as I ought to have.

But that’s the joy of growing up and continuing to read. I am absolutely besotted with Wharton at the moment, and in love with her ability to turn a phrase and move me with words. I often speak of Keats as being delicious to read — that is, his words seem to taste good when you read them. There’s a musicality to Keats, to his careful words selection, that just makes my brain vibrate. Wharton is very similar, though obviously through prose. Take this bit, for example:

“It would presently be his task to take the bandage from this young woman’s eyes, and bid her look forth on the world. But how many generations of the women who had gone to her making had descended bandaged to the family vault? He shivered a little, remembering some of the new ideas in his scientific books, and the much-cited instance of the Kentucky cave-fish, which had ceased to develop eyes because they had no use for them. What if, when he had bidden May Welland to open hers, they could only look out blankly at blankness?” — Book One, Chapter 10

The book deals with many of the same issues I’m working through on Glassmere (though it’s set in the 1870s, much still holds true). And the tone is just… well, it’s very similar to the tone I want to achieve with Glassmere. Initially I attempted a more complicated tone, hopping from character to character in that English style, but I find it doesn’t achieve what I want it to. Part of it has to do with the fact that it’s a historical book, and the readership now isn’t familiar with the setting–adding even more complication with multiple points of view just muddles it up. So, even though the book has made a decent start, I’m going to rewrite it all again strictly from Evelyn’s point of view. Wharton does this with Newland in The Age of Innocence to great success, with a narrator following him closely and revealing his innermost thoughts. However, the narrator’s voice is distant enough and strong enough to be able to zoom out on occasion to comment on the society at large, which would work far better in the context of Glassmere as well.

Glassmere needs to be smooth, especially considering where the story ends up (low, low magic, but it’s there). And Evelyn is the heroine of the story, even if entirely unconventional.

Still, what strikes me the most about writing this book is how much reading I’ve done just to make the first 10K. Between the diaries of women written at the turn of the century to the countless historical articles to the novels of the period (most notably lately The Edwardians and Howards End – two very different but marvelous books) I’ve spent the majority of my spare time these last few months ensconced with books. It even inspired me to buy a Kindle for my birthday, which has proven wonderful for reading all these public domain books (and it doesn’t cost me a penny past the purchase of the device!).

But enough about that. Additionally I have been following the creation of the book cover of Pilgrim of the Sky by my friend and astonishingly talented artist Brigid Ashwood. Her ability astounds me, and to see Maddie come to life in vivid color (down to the mille-fleur jacket!) has got to be one of the most exciting moments of my writing career to date.

The book is slated for December, but in the mean time I am also working on a bit of a novelette that will accompany pre-orders for the book, which is an epistolary addendum to the book. It’s written between two of the main characters and serves as a sort of appendix to the book, by explaining some of the more complicated magical workings of the twains, while revealing some back story. For the first time I’ve been able to slip into first person with Randall, who serves as Maddie’s love interest in the book, and I’ve got to say it’s immensely enjoyable. And easy. Some characters have such loud voices that writing them seems to take no effort at all.

And there, a post. There are many other things going on in the realm of the real, where my father is preparing for a second heart surgery (very risky) and work is eating me whole. But the written word is a solace in the storm, and even if I don’t have time to write it I’m doing as I’ve always done: reading. Just as when I was little, curled up with C.S. Lewis for the umpteenth time, so too will I weather this… clutching my Kindle.

Adventures in Editing

Last night I turned in my book to my editor, Kate, over at Candlemark & Gleam. This is a first for me. You know, editing a novel that will actually get into the hands of readers. I’ve spent lots of time editing my own books, and I generally enjoy the process quite a lot. I know many writers find it tedious and awful. And it can be, absolutely. But I have a good feeling about this draft; the second I sent it off to Kate, I missed it.

As I saved the file, I thought of the last two years. In late 2008, I completed the first draft of Pilgrim of the Sky; it was somewhere around 65,000 words. It grew from a flash of an idea: a female protagonist getting sucked into a Neo-Victorian/steampunk world that’s a near mirror to her own. Now, in 2011, that one idea is a 93,000 novel.  A real novel. And it encompasses so much more than steampunk now; it really doesn’t even fit into a genre. Speculative, sure. But it’s got elements of fantasy, the Gothic, romance, and some heavy mythology and philosophy. It’s layered, like a painting, which makes sense since Maddie, the main character, is an art historian. Her eye is tuned to read into things, and so the book–told in a very close third person–reflects that.

But the book itself has undergone a journey, and most of it has been through editing. I submitted the novel in 2009 to another small press, and it was rejected on some rather curious reasoning. You can read the post I wrote, “Novelfail: Facing rejection with grace, or learning to” if you want more of the story. At the time it really did feel like the end of the world. I was furious at being rejected for such a stupid reason. Yet now, thinking on it, I am so glad the book was rejected. Sure, at the time it was a good 80K of a book. I’d beefed it up since its first draft, and done a significant amount of editing. But it wasn’t there yet. And thankfully I’ve had a brilliant editor help me get it to where it needs to be.

And that’s the thing. Editing isn’t just about dialogue and grammar and pacing. Yes, those are all important things. But editing gives you a chance to dig deeper, to find the themes that you might have missed the first time, that bring the book from good to truly complete.

The editing process didn’t just help me fix dialogue and tighten up the plot. It revealed a better story. This last edit was no simple run-through. It took a ton more research, and an editor who had the ability to, on one hand understand the book, and on the other challenge me to make it better. There are elements in the current draft now that would never have been there if Kate hadn’t made me sit back down with the draft and consider a few things. Of course I went a little deeper than she probably expected, but it’s only because I found so much room for improvement, so many places to make broader or more delicate strokes.

And most importantly, in this almost final iteration, my main character is someone I’d actually like to take out to coffee. The first draft, Maddie was so acerbic. She was crass and had a foul mouth, and as a result wasn’t a terribly compelling heroine. But that changed in the course of edits. She became softer in some instances and stronger in others. And most importantly, I dedicated a whole new section of the book to her truly discovering her own power. Before, she was passive; now she’s active.

Anyway, that’s a long rambly way to say: pay attention to edits. Take the time. Work at it. Use your editing time to push your novel to its limits, to stretch it far beyond your initial imagination. There are bits of magic hidden that will only out with work. The book will reward you in the end, I promise. It will make you a better writer, and it will surprise you at every turn.

That’s the magic of creation. People so often bemoan the difficulty of it all. And yes, it’s a tough world out there. Publishing is rarely rewarding, and the book industry is turning on its head right now. But you have the power to do remarkable things, to be better at every turn, regardless of the details out there. Writing and editing are in your control, completely. And that is power. You can always get better.