Category Archives: Rock Revival

Perception, Imagination, and Experience: “Stairway to Heaven” and Melodies Unheard

Led Zeppelin acoustic

Image CC BY SA 2.0 by Y2kcrazyjoker4 via Flickr

I didn’t hear “Stairway to Heaven” until I was about 18. I’m not sure how that happened, exactly. I was a huge classic rock fan, and musician to boot. I found Zeppelin when I was about sixteen, and had listened extensively to their first and second albums (which I had on vinyl and had copied over to tape). I remember standing in the kitchen at our house in Massachusetts, cooking something (as usual), and my dad telling me to take a break and listen to the solo in “Good Times, Bad Times” because it was one of the greatest in the history of rock ‘n’ roll. He was right, of course. But how I never made the leap to other albums, I’ll never know. It’s sort of like loving the Rolling Stones but never hearing “Paint It, Black” or “Satisfaction.”

But “Stairway” eluded me. I was a Beatles fan, and primarily listened to them during those teen years, only dabbling occasionally into other rock albums if I found them at yard sales or scraped together enough money to buy a casette (the only Beatles albums I ever bought on CD were the Anthologies). I didn’t like radio much. The only reference I had to “Stairway to Heaven” was in the movie  Wayne’s World (a movie which I still know by heart), when Wayne goes to the guitar store and starts playing the opening notes only to be pointed to the sign: “No Stairway? Denied!” (They’re actually not the opening notes, and more on that here. No wonder I was confused.)

no-stairway

Image via Amazon

So, in my mind, “Stairway to Heaven” had a completely different feel. It was Zeppelin, so I assumed it was pretty gritty. I thought there had to be some blistering solo, lots of drums, heavy vocals complete with panting and Robert Plant’s signature orgasmic keen. It’s like, in some alternate universe, there’s this song called “Stairway to Heaven” that I made up that, well clearly, is virtually nothing like the actual song.

I know where I was when I first heard the song. I was at a computer. I believe I was listening to an early iTunes radio station (as music got easier to access, so, too, it got harder to avoid). The song was introduced, and I remember thinking: “Okay! Here goes!” and then… wait, what?

“Stairway to Heaven” might be one of the most recognized songs in the history of rock ‘n’ roll, but having avoided it for almost twenty years makes my experience completely different. Since this was before the huge popularization of the internet, I never searched for lyrics. I didn’t know there were Lord of the Rings references. I had no idea how gentle and emotive Plant’s voice was, nor how magnificent the solo during the bridge would be (and yet restrained and longing and perfect); the rhythm section is crazy good, and the whole song peters out in echoing longing like nothing I’d ever heard before. It was an experience, to say the least.

But it wasn’t that song that was in my head. That song, like so many of our imagined realities, doesn’t actually exist. Or maybe it might someday. Maybe on another plane, some alien with a space-guitar is playing the notes of that song. I might never hear it, but it somehow exists. Even though it doesn’t.

This is all to say I’ve been thinking a great deal about perception, imagination, and experience. As writers and creators, we are a mishmash of these three facets. Just because we experience something doesn’t mean we perceive it; and just because we perceive it, it doesn’t mean it is as we imagined. When writing characters lately, I’ve been working very hard to think about these facets in their stories. Both are first person narratives, and both are telling their stories. Kate in Rock Revival is writing her story down for her daughter; Joss in Watcher of the Skies is telling his story to Maddie.

But their experiences are not mine. And even if, like Kate, they share my experiences, their perceptions aren’t the same. And their reactions, depending on how they imagined things going or not going, also differ greatly. What might be old and busted to me, may not be to them. Joss starts out the book as a godling in a man’s body, unable to tell clothing apart from skin. But he learns quickly, even if there are still some holes in his learning. He’s gifted to understand human emotion on a deep level, but that often gets him in trouble–just because you perceive something, doesn’t mean you should mention it (which he has a problem doing). And Kate, for all her tough talk, is an active alcoholic for the first third of the book. And even though it almost kills her, she still doesn’t really perceive it correctly. She’s unreliable, especially when it comes to her own faults (aren’t we all).

But back to those unheard melodies. Yes, I’m bringing it around to Keats again. There’s two stanzas in “Ode on a Grecian Urn” that talk precisely about what I mean about that unheard version of “Stairway to Heaven”:

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

The stories he’s making up in his head are better. All that panting, excitement.

That’s not just the scene on the urn, that’s Robert Plant! That’s my song. The one that doesn’t exist. It’s also every book I’ve yet to write. It’s every song and melody I’ve yet to play. And no, it’s unlikely that it’s ever going to be as good as the one imagined. But, with each successive attempt, it gets better. It gets closer. That’s what makes art and imagination so mind-blowing. We are pulling something from nothing, bringing art into the world through our eyes and hands. And nothing will ever be just like it.

And because it’s so awesome, here’s Heart covering said song recently. I can’t love this more if I tried.

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.

No, no, NaNo!

Stuff from my yard. CC BY SA 3.0 — Image by Natania Barron

So I’m not saying I’m not doing NaNoWriMo. And I’m not saying I am. I’m going to be mercurial and special about it, so there.

Life is moving in about a thousand different directions as we speak (I haven’t written much this weekend but… I collected pine cones from the yard, and spray painted them and made a wreath and a tree sculpture thing and designed and painted the Steve head from Minecraft for my eldest kid, while he critiqued every brush stroke and also dealt with his total meltdown at AC Moore–all while still trying to process that he’s likely got Asperger’s and “something else” and there’s nothing that I did wrong, but it’s still going to be this way for a long time, and it’s never going to be “easy” and how the hell am I supposed to get everything done with this teething baby and… oh, look… shiny pinecones!), and while writing has been happening in some capacity it’s not exactly, um, as fluid or as streamlined as I’d like it to be (read: I wrote 7K this last week, and deleted 2K, and… most of it has happened after 11pm). I just got over one of those humps during the editing process. You know what I mean. I just got tired of my own writing. I started to contemplate abandoning ship, taking up the mantle of another job altogether, and moving on. Of course this is natural. Just a few days ago I was contemplating how great the book is, how much I love it, and how I can’t wait to share it with the world.

This is why I started using the #writecrazy hashtag this week. It’s been like that. Also scotch. And wine. And chocolate.

Anyway, writing for the month of November won’t be NaNoWriMo numbers. I’m mixed, to say the least, on the approach, but I can’t say it hasn’t worked for me (considering my only published novel started its infancy as a NaNoWriMo book, even if only about 20% of that original draft made it into the final round).

But! What I’m doing for November is changing the tape. Flipping the disk. Going to side B. I’ll be putting down Rock Revival and starting up again with The Other Country. I had been stuck for quite some time with TOC, and I let it go during my pregnant months. Then, last night, awake while I was supposed to be sleeping, I started “playing the tape” of the book in my head and seriously considering where it might go. And lo! Just like that, I knew the next scene, after months and months of scratching my head. It’s going to take some heavy lifting. Unusually for me, I’m having a tough time with the main character. The current draft has his name as Charlie, but that’s totally not staying. Or maybe it is. I don’t know. I have to get to know him better.

And maybe that’s one of the reasons I’m choosing this book. I feel like Charlie and Kate from Rock Revival would like each other. They’d get each other. Right after I finished Queen of None I started working on Pilgrim again. And I had this odd hitch where I felt like Maddie and Anna hated each other. And I was seeing Maddie with Anna’s eyes and… yeah. #writecrazy all right. That’s not to say that everything is connected. But I think it’s perilously important to choose complimentary work when you can. Charlie and Kate’s stories couldn’t be more different, but they both still are my “kids” if you will. And I need to make sure everyone plays nice. Especially at this moment when Real Life and Everything seem too big and pressing and overwhelming to be of much help.

So, anyway. I’m not not doing NaNo. Not exactly. Good luck to those who are. Or aren’t. Here’s to those telling stories every day and those who do it just one month a year. The most important part is the telling, after all.

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 of Octember.

Image by Natania Barron. CC BY SA 2.0

These -ember months do seem to pile up rather quickly, don’t they?  Last week I went away to the West Coast, spending some time with family. I don’t know what it is about me, but every single time I make a trip like that I somehow think I’m impervious to jet lag. The truth is, I’m terrible with jet lag. Eastbound is nuts. It’s almost been a week and I still haven’t acclimated, not even close. So the last few nights I’ve been up well past 2 AM, then up again at 3 AM with the little girl. So lucidity is not exactly my strong point at the moment.

Anyway, in spite of all that I’ve still managed to find the time to write. I’ve had to give up on the novella, half because the novel won’t leave me alone and half because I know I can’t give at the time that it deserves. I hate having to say no about something, to walk away. But that’s one of the realities of being a grown-up! You really have to learn how to manage your time. Or else nothing gets done. I spent the bulk of yesterday working on taxes and putting together a family budget. I much would have preferred to do something creative. But thankfully, even though it was late, I got my thousand words written.

This past weekend we visited the coast, where my in-laws live. On the ride home I had a chance to speak to my husband about the novel and some of the frustrations I’ve been going over in my head. At first, I really thought the love story was going to be central to the book. But then it sort of fizzled. It’s a whole lot less about falling in love, and a whole lot more about letting yourself fall in love. The relationships in the book don’t define Kate, she isn’t better because she’s dating or not dating. She’s not a romantic. As she says in the last scene I wrote last night, she’s gotten to the middle of her 30s without having a relationship that lasted longer than a year. And at the end of the book instead of jumping head over heels, she just meets someone that for the first time she can see herself staying with. Michael helped reiterate what I already knew: the book isn’t about romance and squishiness. It’s about music and confidence and overcoming the obstacles preventing Kate from being true to herself.

Anyway, the book is nearing the end. It’s almost at 70K and that’s without the supplementary articles, emails, conversations, and snippets that are going in later. Likely it’ll bring the size up another 10K once it’s done. I was dreaming about an interactive app. Cart, horse, etc.

Kate spends the first half trying to get over Tom, who she briefly had a thing with–but after years of pining for him. He gets born again. They both, for the mean time, beat addiction. I think I like this scene the best. They’re in Paris, about to go on stage, and for the first time they actually sit down and talk about how hard it is to move beyond, to tour without drugs and to face the people they used to be.

He sighed, looking down at our twined hands. “It’s hard. It’s… I mean, I want to be able to let go. To let God take care of it, to make me new. You understand that more than anyone, I think, even though you’re not… exactly practicing.”

That was a mild way of putting it.

“I know what you mean, at least,” I said.

“I just… do the shadows ever go away?” he asked. “Ah, shit. You’re the last person I should ask, considering what you’ve gone through.”

“We’re a pair,” I said. “But in answer to your question, I don’t think so. I don’t think we can ever rid ourselves of the shadows. We just have to learn to live with them. Eventually, maybe—hopefully—they just become part of the furniture after a while. You’re not struggling to stay in the light every damned day like some strung out vampire. You wake up one morning and, for the first time, you don’t think about it.”

“And if I fail?”

“You can always start again. But, and I can speak from experience, it’ll be harder. It’s like starting from level one all over again in Super Mario Brothers. No extra lives. No save state.” That was, perhaps, the best metaphor I could have ever given him.

He perked up a bit, his eyes getting a mischievous glint to them. Forget that it was also his “I’m horny and I’m about to jump you” look. It was still endearing. I had to battle a thousand memories and haunted strains of songs I’d written about him, pining away like some lovesick teenager. I hated how long I’d taken to let him know how I felt, and hated even more that we’d never manage to get together. Not really.

Our was not a love of the ages, that’s for sure. I was pretty much at my worst when I was with him, and likewise for him. At the time, moderation just wasn’t in our vocabularies.

We walked slowly back to the venue, his arm around me.

“There is something I noticed,” he said as we rounded the corner and the breeze picked up. “About your songwriting. I mean, I  know I’m not exactly Mozart when it comes to composition, but you’re changing.”

“I am?” I asked.

“Well, for one thing, none of the songs are about me.”

I laughed. “Not directly.”

“Well, it’s the first album you’re not writing love songs to me, cleverly hidden–or hate songs. They’re about bigger things. Better things.”

I felt embarrassed to be so transparent, but grateful that he’d been able to see through my creative guise.

“You know,” I said. “Three years ago… that’s what I wanted. More than you in bed or you as a boyfriend or whatever. I just wanted you to notice.”

He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “We all notice. You’re—what’s it that James calls you?—the fulcrum. That’s it. Your the very center, the sun. We’re just the planets in gravitational pull.”

“You’re totally mixing your metaphors.”

“Which is why I don’t write much, of course. I’m just the pretty voice.”

I squeezed his waist and felt, for probably the first time since we’d broken up, that we understood each other. That whatever had passed between us as lovers had changed; we’d managed the near impossible: we’d become friends.

Words are flowing out like endless rain inside a paper cup

Image by Natania Barron. Ben Folds Five – Live in Cary. CC BY SA 2.0

Fall is here. This makes me happy giddy in a thousand ways since it’s my favorite time of year, and here in the South we’re getting a final respite from a very humid summer. “They” (as my mom says) are calling for a cold winter. And by cold winter, that probably means it’ll snow once. Or maybe twice. And we will dub it the Frostocalypse.

But I have been doing lots of fall stuff, including harvesting persimmons from two trees on our property (and amusing my son by climbing a ladder) and making exactly one jar of persimmon jam.

Exactly one jar.

I have been meaning to work on The Wind Through the Wheat, but my brain and the characters in Rock Revival are telling me otherwise. While I initially had plans to finish this at the end of August, it now seems highly probable that it will be finished at the end of September. It’s been so long since a book took hold of me that I figure I need to pay attention. It’s never happened with non speculative fiction, and as a result every time I get in the car and listen to music I’m getting new ideas about the next scene and strings of dialogue just start running through my brain. I fall asleep thinking of hot lights and chord changes. It’s pretty amazing and wonderful.

At the moment we’re in the lull before the end. The band has just played their first live gig in more than a year, and Kate is still trying to figure herself out and how to live without drinking everything away. I started this book thinking about religion and rock, but it’s become a lot more about addiction and rock. It’s more a “revival” in that, well, Kate nearly dies. The band nearly dies. Two of the principle characters are raging addicts, and that really puts a whole different spin on the central themes of the book.

The live show is a disaster, from Kate’s eyes anyway. She has no musical chemistry with their temporary bass player, and she’s got zero confidence (and really, very little of an idea as to how to perform while totally sober). This rough bit is sort of at the heart of what Kate’s journey is about. Finding herself, expressing herself, like a normal person, instead of running away:

For years I thought I’d only cried when I was angry. But then I realized that, when I was drinking, I basically boozed it up instead of let myself feel sad. Or boozed up while feeling sad. See: nearly dying a few months back.

And you know what? It felt strangely cathartic when I was done crying. The night had not gone well. We were off to an inauspicious start. But we’d failed, and I’d felt it. I hadn’t numbed it away, I’d let it just happen. No one came to rescue me, but the cold drizzle did enough to wake me up and remind me that I’m not the only one in the band with problems, nor the only one who screwed up the chords and forgot to sing.

Now, personally, I’m not an alcoholic. And really, it’s only by virtue of missing out on genetic Russian roulette, because both sides of my family have their share of them. My  mother’s brother even took his life after struggling for decades. I’m acquainted with the power it has over people, how it can utterly change them. And this book–since it’s told in Kate’s voice–has a lot to do with her exploration of the world outside of her own addiction, trying to find out exactly who she is now that alcohol isn’t always in the mix.

As a writer, writing a first-person, I’ve done a lot of thinking. Musicians do write their memoirs. But this isn’t a memoir. It’s not about setting the record (pun intended) straight. For Kate, it’s the act of telling her story that’s important. It’s putting  it down in something more lyrics, to piece it together. She’s a writer, too, but she’s different than I am. I’m obsessed with the role of women in rock and roll and she doesn’t care. I’m generally a warm, inviting, friendly person; she’s extremely guarded and hesitant. She’s not a very reliable narrator sometimes because, even though this is written after the fact, she’s struggling to make a story out of her life. And I think that’s one of the challenges I’m  having as a writer. Sure, it’s a contrived plot. But writing this as something written by a “real” person, I don’t want to force plot points into submission. I just want to tell her story. Which, by extension, keeps going well after the book is over. But I also realize that as the storyteller I need to maintain certain narrative expectations.

Anyway! If you’re curious, I’ve been building the playlist for the book, and I’m up to over 450 songs. If you’re at all intrigued as to what’s been playing a lot around here lately, take a listen. I swear, the book’s written between the notes.

I’m working on another post about bassists brought on by watching Ben Folds Five last weekend in Cary (see the photo at the top) and remembering (and hearing) just how amazing Robert Sledge is. Bassists are a big theme in this book, and I think it’s probably the most overlooked instrument in any given rock band. But it can really make or break the success of a group, and really can define (like in Ben Folds Five) a certain sound that can’t be replicated (like on Ben’s solo stuff).

“You and your bass players,” James said as we left the practice space the studio provided the night before the Roundhouse show.

We were walking the rainy winter streets, and in spite of the copious holiday decorations draped over every possible surface, it still felt cold and lonely out there. Especially leaving the warm comfort of a well-rehearsed set.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

James laughed into his scarf, elbowing me. “You think you’re a gentle instructor, but really you’re a pop music dictator.”

“Am not.”

“Did you see Azir’s face? Love, you treat him like he’s six.”

“He was being sloppy.”

I had to defend myself, but I knew James was right. The problem with Azir was that he wasn’t Sara and he wasn’t Kurt, and as much as I hated to admit it, I missed both of them tremendously. Neither of them required much in the way of schooling when it came to getting the music right. As it was, constantly hearing the wrong notes from the current bassist made focusing on my own playing really difficult. I had sort of snapped at one point and told him I’d just sample the right bassline and play it on the synthesizer if he couldn’t get himself together.

I may have been a little bit of an asshole.

Rock Revival:

In the trenches between pain and progress.

Image by Natania Barron, CC BY SA 2.0

So. This is me trying out the new dictation for Mountain Lion. Why am I dictating? That’s a good question. You see, I had a lot of fun in prose. Too much fun.

It’s definitely a mixed bag. I’m really excited to be writing again, but it’s been difficult. Just when I started getting in the groove my hands gave out. Thankfully there is such a thing as dictation software. But it’s far from perfect. It isn’t so bad that writing has come to a complete stop, but it’s enough that when it comes to things like blog posts, I figure it’s probably worth it to save the fingers (and wrists, shoulders, neck, etc.). Not to mention dictation is notoriously bad with fiction, especially anything remotely speculative.

Anyway, on the writing front things are going pretty great. I can’t really complain that there’s any kind of  imaginative drought like I experienced after I finished the last novel in 2010. Yes, for those of you following along at home, that’s two years ago. I have a list of excuses a mile long, including full-time work, children, pregnancy. But the fact of the matter is: it was too hard. It’s not that I wasn’t writing at all, because I have been. It’s just that fiction wasn’t happening.

Work was a big reason. I eluded to it on the last post, but the big life decision that I made last week was regarding a possible job. I had a really great opportunity to take a professional, high-paying position, but it was something that I knew would take up a large amount of my time. My last job really left no room for writing and minimal time with my family. And right now, my kids (particularly the boy) need me. The stress of the last job, along with being the single breadwinner for much of the last two years, really put a dent in my imagination. At a point, it’s just about money. And that isn’t a good enough reason to change your life. Again.

So, in a way, it’s really good to be back. I have about 60,000 words written in last few months alone, almost 8,000 in the last few days. Most has been written in what I call “the fringes”. Trust me, it’s not like time comes in battalions these days. I just write whenever the hell I can find time, which is usually snippets in the morning and late night. I have two kids. I keep house. I wash lots of diapers. Some days I don’t even get to shower, let alone to “schedule” me time. At very least I’ve committed to 200 words a day for the low threshold and, ideally, 1,000. And it’s been working really well, and goes to show that the drought earlier had nothing to do with time and, in theory anyway, brain space. Or lack thereof.

Anyway, this progress rocks. But after writing about 5,000 of them the other day, I realized something. The pain makes me afraid. It’s hard to exactly explain. The thing is, what I love doing most in the world causes me pain. Physically. No matter how you look at it, that’s depressing. In spite of my best efforts, including surgery and massage and vitamins and ergonomics, the pain is just something I have to live with. And that’s really challenging. I don’t want to admit defeat. I want to be strong, I want to be able to write until I fall asleep with my head on the keyboard. I’ve already had to give up playing guitar, and that’s felt like a huge sacrifice. Anything more seems kind of hard to swallow.

But people have it far worse than I. And I need to stop complaining and feeling sorry for myself.

Finishing Indigo & Ink was really a big deal for me, even if it ushered in a period of the doldrums. I was plagued with some of the worst pain in my life during that time. But I kept writing. Even when it prevented me from sleeping. It’s no surprise that one of the main characters is tortured! I really felt like that. But sometimes when you get in that fever pitch during the writing process, stopping feels impossible. And I fizzled for a while. I can’t let that happen again. Slow and steady… that’s my mantra.

So I guess this post is kind of meandering. I’m still wrapping my head around dictation again. But the gist of it all is that I am elated that the writing is happening, but frustrated that it’s not as fast as I like it. I will say this: never take for granted your time or your health.

And one more thing. Writing advice is well and good, but the truth is that you’ll find what works for you. When I first started writing my blog was chock-full of how-to pieces. Maybe I helped some people, I don’t know. But really I was just talking out loud. When it comes down to it, no one can tell you how to write. Everyone’s life is different. Everyone’s imagination is different. Thankfully.

The truth is there’s only one rule: write. And then write more. Lather, rinse, repeat. Even if it’s 10 words a day. Even if it just describes the view outside your window. If you want to be a writer, if you want to get published, you just have to write.

Escapism of all stripes

The view of the Lucky Strike tower, Durham, NC – Photo by Natania Barron, CC BY SA 2.0

It’s been a busy weekend here in our household, with my husband away at the Escapist Expo most of the time, and me wrangling the babies. I did have a panel there yesterday on geek parenting, and it went rather well–a great audience and, as usual, more questions than we had time to answer. The Expo is really impressive for a first-year con (reminds me of ConTemporal that way) and I’m super excited that it’s right around the corner! This area of the world is quickly becoming home to some fun geek conventions, and I highly approve.

Anyway, once the kids have been in bed I’ve used the time for writing because, well, let’s face it: it’s escapism, I’ve been incredibly stressed, and I need to get back in the groove. Not to sound selfish or anything, but sometimes one’s own endeavors have to take precedence (especially, I may add, when one’s state of pregnancy last year pretty much eradicated any fiction creation to speak of). Especially considering this week which was full of OMGHUGELIFECHANGINGDECISIONS.

Rock Revival is once again shoving its way to the forefront–so instead of fighting the tide I decided (partially since it’s moving so fast anyway) that I’d move The Wind Through the Wheat aside for a few days until I get through the next few scenes in the full novel. I’ve been listening to a ton of music lately (primarily Mumford & Sons and Starsailor) and it’s just been impossible to put Rock Revival aside. Driving around with the music going and the novel starts writing itself in my head, and since I’m a terrible outliner I know if I don’t write it down immediately I’ll lose it. Which is the short way of saying that between the hours of 10pm and 1am, I’ve been typing furiously away at the keyboard.

A few cool things. Since relocating the band to the UK, I’ve been able to explore a few of the places I visited while I was there and learn new fun tidbits. The last scene I wrote took place at The Thekla, a rock club that’s on a boat in Bristol Harbor. I mean, I just happened to be Googling rock clubs in Bristol (since I know the music scene there is generally considered quite cool) and like the sound of the name and, behold! What an amazing setting. Not to mention that I made Tom’s house in Kent an oast house which has been converted into a home and studio. Until two days ago I had no idea what an oast house was, let alone that it would prove so perfect. I found it, literally, by “walking” around Lamberhurst, Kent, in Google Maps (my dad lived there briefly as a kid and my family visited in 2000, staying at the Chequers Inn and walking to Scotney Castle on foot–one of the most amazing days in my life) and noticing an old house with odd architecture called something or other “oast”.

Anyway, the fun of writing a place you know (and, I should add, desperately want to visit again) definitely helps lift through the mid-to-late book slog. The drama of the book is mostly over, and all that remain in the band’s original lineup are Kate, Tom, and James. Yes, this book is about a band breaking up. But it’s about more than that, too. I’m sort of hitting the blaze before the fall as the meteorite crashes through the atmosphere. It’s going to be great for a while, the band will go on tour, the album will sell, but then… well, things will change.

Today we’re heading back to the convention–I almost sold out of Pilgrim of the Sky books at the Bull Spec table, so that was exiting. I also had a great time chatting with local author JL Hilton about everything industry, bookish, and girly (in a good way).

Anyway, here’s a sizeable chunk of the Lamberhurst stuff in draft mode, followed by the word count.

We drove along the windy, hedge-high roads and through Lamberhurst itself—charming brick houses stacked along the side of the road with their squat little chimneys—before taking a sharp turn down a dirt road. It was horrifically bumpy, and just the thing for my motion sickness to start kicking in. We drove about half a mile before I noticed the house in the distance. It was about as typical as you could imagine, white washed and sprinkled with ivy and chimneys and roses. Except there were three conical parts to it that I couldn’t quite make sense of, painted white and black at the top. Not quite a castle, not quite a farm. Something else?

There was a Bentley in the driveway, which had to be James’s, and some kids playing games with sticks in the adjacent field. I noticed some outbuildings, too, with other, smaller, practical British cars, and wondered if there was an actual staff. Not that the house looked big enough to accommodate it, but I sort of figured it might be the way Tom had structured things.

And someone did meet me at the car. He was in his seventies, or so, with a cap and t-shirt and dirty jeans, sprigs of curly white hair over his sizable ears.

“And you’re Kate,” he said, laughing. He peered around me and into the car. “And here I was expecting someone else along with you. The other lad.”

“Kurt,” I said, for some reason looking into the car after him, as if somehow Kurt would still be there. I cleared my throat, trying to stifle the emotions rising up. The house, the air, the birdsongs, it was all a little much. In the distance, the sun was starting its descent, and the tall grasses behind the house were dancing in the breeze. Seriously, you can’t make this shit up.

I realized I hadn’t answered the man’s question. “I mean, Kurt went back to London. He’s… got another gig.”

The man nodded. “Oh! And my manners. But I’m Mr. Chesley. Tom’s dad, as it were.”

Of course it was Tom’s dad.

“Glad to finally meet you,” I said, being as polite as possible. Tom really hadn’t spoken to me much about his parents in the years we’d known each other, but I certainly had never expected this veritable hobbit of a man. It was then that I noticed that Mr. Chesley’s old t-shirt was, in fact, a Revivals tour shirt from 2004. Our first tour together. It was so faded that it was almost impossible to tell, but you could still see the second half of our name and the triangle logo.

“Well, let me show you ‘round. The boys are locked up good and well, and I’m sure you’ll be wanting to join them soon enough.”

I followed him into the house, which had to be hundreds of years old by the look of it, and it smelled like cider and sawdust. The renovations were extensive; I mean you could just tell by a glance that things were new, it’s just that they kept with the old style. I wasn’t sure how much of a hand Tom had in it, since this was a place in his family and all, but the outcome was pretty spectacular. White walls, dark wood, a smattering of antiques, posters, statues. It wasn’t the cluttered coziness of James, that’s for sure. Almost like a museum, or a house out of some architectural digest (which, I think was actually in an issue a few months later).

“What kind of house is this?” I asked Mr. Chesley as he took me down a narrow hallway.

He looked over his shoulder and said something that sounded like “oats” and, not wanting to sound stupid, I just nodded and laughed as if I knew exactly what he was talking about.

“This is yours,” he said, opening a heavy latched door and gesturing inside.

Apparently, my room was in one of the cones. So, basically, I had a ceiling that went up like forty or fifty feet. The walls were white painted brick and crisscrossed with thick wooden beams. In the middle of the room was a bed with blue linens, simple and elegant. There was an upright piano, a guitar, and a bookcase fit to bursting with books. Plus, a writing desk and some chests of drawers. The floor was sealed concrete, a sort of brownish gray, and carpeted toward the middle of the room with a rustic yellow knotted rug. I’ve never been a decorator or cared much one way or another how a room looks, but it was impressive, nonetheless.

I went over to the bed and smoothed my hands across the bedspread. There was a note, scrawled in Tom’s childish script: “Make sweet music, Cakes!”

“Been in the family for a long time, but none of us has ever had the time or the money to do much about it. When Tom told me he was thinking of turning it into a live-in studio, and that he’d be coming back home for a bit, well…” he trailed off, clearing his throat.

“It’s amazing,” I said.

Rock Revival:

Burning down the house. Again.

Image by FEMA – public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

If you’ve been following this blog for any amount of time, you may notice that I occasionally redecorate. Well, I did it again. The last template was okay, but I wanted something cleaner that had a similar look without the clutter. I’m happy where it is, now! It’s not finished completely, as I’m working on a nice custom header graphic and whatnot. But the layout works, the fonts make me happy (which is a big deal) and… I even changed the blog’s tagline. It’d been a long time coming, and I wanted something that represented the multitude of things I write and post about. So, voila!

Writing has been slower, due in no small part to raising a baby and a very challenging six year old (you can read a little about what we’ve been going through here). I’m still not entirely back into the groove, but thankfully I had a few hours to myself yesterday in which I actually cleaned up my office space to allow for sitting. Even though I share the office with the baby now, it’s still as close to a place of my own that I’m going to get (she says typing as quietly as possible while the baby naps).

I’ve been writing in Rock Revival rather dutifully, and I’m proud of where I’ve gotten — while I wanted to be done (*insert maniacal laughter track*) by now, I realize that’s not possible. And that’s… deep breath… okay. I’ve got a novella to write which, potentially, could actually generate revenue and it’s a nice trip back into the world of the speculative. Also a nice trip back into the world of The Aldersgate which, hasn’t been traditionally published, was really the book/project that got me a foothold into all this to begin with. The novella is a prequel, taking place fifteen years before, give or take, before. There are a few familiar faces, but the majority of the novella follows Robin Creekwise, the diminutive inventor otherwise known as the Professor, and how exactly she got herself excommunicated from Queensland to Vell, a backwoods town in the middle of the Territories. It also tells the story of Queen Maelys and Kaythra Bav, and how their love and subsequent hatred tore things apart both politically and theologically. Tentatively it’s called The Wind Through the Wheat.

Anyway… Rock Revival currently stands at 37,000 — just under the halfway point. The band has boarded a plane for Kent, and they’ll be finishing up the album there. It feels like a natural place to pause while I work on this other project, and I’ll pick it back up in November.

Other things? It’s almost autumn, and I could not be happier about that. Yesterday I made pumpkin flax bread which, for my sister and I, is as close to summoning up the spirits of the season as can be. Filling the house with the scents of cinnamon and ginger and nutmeg? Yeah, it makes me want to dance around in a field of crisp leaves or something.

Rock Revival:

The Wind Through the Wheat:

‘Cause I’m Short On Time, I’m Lonely and I’m Too Tired to Talk

Image by Natania Barron — CC BY SA

The above lyric is from Keane’s “Can’t Stop Now” and it’s apropos for more reasons other than I just like the song. Life, in short, these days, has been nothing short of OMGWTF. I really don’t want to go into the details, ’cause honestly, this blog ain’t that sort of thing. We’re okay. We’re managing. But I hadn’t been able to write a lick in the last almost three weeks due to the insanity of life as of late but… BUT! (Oh, shit, she’s whippin’ out the caps) I wrote last night and came close enough to the middle mark in the novel that I will call it 50% finished. Close enough for rock ‘n’ roll, as they say.

Anyrot. Music has been one of the things I feel like has been keeping me going the last few weeks. I am so grateful for it. It’s been something constant in my life since I was a child. No, even before I was born; music was around me in utero. When I was less than two, I used to rest my head on my dad’s knee while he played guitar, listening to the vibrations. It really is a part of me. Something that runs in my blood. It’s a marvelous, marvelous gift.

Rock Revival has taken some curious turns in the last few weeks, including the almost death of my heroine, a visit to rehab, and a total detour in the ways of love that I hadn’t anticipated. I’m realizing that sometimes the best stories are found when I veer as sharply as possible from romance and the expected. It’s a good thing.

A bit of an excerpt, and a live version of “Can’t Stop Now” with a very sticky Tom Chaplin being very rockstar with the crowd.

James greeted me at the front door; I’d managed to avoid him entirely since I got back, sneaking late into the studio and corresponding mostly by text, and sparingly at that. He smelled like cardamom and was wearing a way too warm wool sweater that scratched my face when I hugged him. He hugged me for a long time, long enough for me to take in the smells of curry and roasting meat and hear the sound of the rest of the guests in the back of the house. It sounded like more people than just Kurt and Tom.

“Please don’t hate me for this,” James said, pulling me away and holding me out by the shoulders. “I tried to keep it intimate. But Tom’s got some ideas, and he really wanted everyone here.”

“Everyone? Please tell me this isn’t some fucked up musical version of ‘This is Your Life’…”

“No, hah. Nothing like that. Just everyone that’s, you know, part of us. This. The band.”

“Fun.”

“And it’s a dry party — so everyone will be sober.”

I blinked at him.

“Please don’t leave,” he begged.

I didn’t leave. I followed him like a dog shamed after pissing on the carpet, and saw that indeed, “everyone” was there. Kurt and Tom, of course. And Dusty. And Jeff and Ian and Clarke, our engineers in Nashville; also, Peter and Clive, our producers in the UK, Denny our agent, Ralph our head roadie, and our own personal label executive, a chick by the name of Kelly, who, in attempt to look casual, had donned a lovely J. Crew ensemble to set off her positively middle-American girl next door looks.

There were hugs and well-wishes, and some tears, but really I could see through it all. Likely Dusty got wind and wanted to use this as some kind of proof to the label folks and everyone else that we’re working with on the album that I’m not dying, or dead, or incapable of working.

The food was really good. James had my favorite Indian restaurant cater, and so we all ate way too much. There was zero alcohol to be found anywhere which, I knew, was an attempt to keep me from feeling weird but, honestly, it just made things feel stranger.

Do you ever have those moments where life just seems to turn a page? You know, it’s like you’ve just reached the end of one chapter and started a new one. Even if you’re in a familiar place it’s like you wake up, or turn around, or open a door and everything just looks slightly different. That was that night in a nutshell.