The Art of the Matter

Portrait of a young man. Marie Ellenrieder [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Since beginning the journey of writing Watcher of the Skies, I’ve spent a great deal of time looking at things. Yes, I did the same for the previous book, especially considering that the main character herself was something of an aesthete. But because this novel takes place over decades, and the first was just a few weeks (depending on your particular perception of time, of course) it takes a different approach. Not to mention it stays in the secondary world the entire time (well, mostly, ha)–and so, where with Pilgrim I was describing the world from her eyes, as a visitor, I’m steeping myself in Regency/Romantic stuff.

One of the pathways I’ve found myself trotting down again and again are female painters and artists of the 19th century. Art–literary, musical, and visual–holds a special place in my books, being a kind of golden thread that connects all the worlds no matter how they may differ. There is always a melody in common. But women are so often forgotten or else relegated to foot notes. I’ve found a great deal of inspiration in looking at their artwork.

And every once in a while I portrait or a picture jumps out at the page, like this portrait above. It is a face lost to history, but it is very much the face of La Roche (the Apollo of this story). So much so that looking at it rather gives me a sense of light-headedness. I’m an exceptionally visual person, so this is really not surprising, I suppose. I guess I just feel there’s a certain poetic balance to finding inspiration from these often forgotten women.

Have you found anything surprising during your research that helped you make a breakthrough or gave you unexpected joy?

Exploring the Edges: Writing Outside the Boundaries

Rupert Bunny [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Poseidon and Amphitrite. Rupert Bunny [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Write what you know may be the most hackneyed advice out there. And, well, it really isn’t that well informed. Yes, writing the things you know about–especially when you’re starting out–are safe bets. Keeping to the zone of your knowledge means that you’ll likely not be called out as a fraud and that you’ll keep going because, well, you already know about it. And as writers we have a tendency to cluster around the things that inform our existence. It’s why I wrote about New England in the beginning of Pilgrim of the Sky, even though I haven’t lived there in over a decade. It was part of my own origin story, a place I could walk around in the dark.

But getting stuck in what you know will plateau you as a writer. I noticed, in my writing, that I was falling into a bit of a pattern when it came to main characters. Cora from The Aldersgate, Marna from Indigo & Ink, Anna from Queen of None, and even Maddie from Pilgrim of the Sky all have some similar characteristics. They’re smart women who like to talk. They tend to fall in love with strong men. They explore the worlds around them from unusual perspectives. They grow on a similar trajectory in the narrative; most of them discover unseen worlds. Oh, they’re very different in other respects, but they’re characters written in my comfort zone. Not exactly Mary Sue variety, but more in a certain realm. I believe women need their stories told; I’m a woman. I tell the stories of women. (Kate from Rock Revival doesn’t share these characteristics, so I’m leaving her out; but she does share a lot with me in her background story, though our personalities differ greatly.)

One of the reasons Watcher of the Skies has taken a little longer than anticipated has to do with the time I’m taking to create Joss as a narrator. I don’t typically write in first person, and I don’t typically write novels that could be considered coming of age. And I don’t typically write male protagonists. But with Joss I’m not just telling his origin story, I’m building up character page by page. He’s telling the story, yes, but the character of Joss within the tale also changes with each chapter.

Now a couple of things have made Joss a challenge for me, personally. He’s a dude, in as much as godlings are dudes or chicks (which is a complicated post in and of itself). And he really digs the ladies. He’s physically enormous (over six foot three, which for his day, makes him a giant; I’m five foot five). He never asks questions in his dialogue, he simply states facts. He also doesn’t talk much, especially in the first three quarters of the book. Everyone around him does the talking. Here’s a quip from one of the later conversations he has with William Wordsworth, before he goes on his way:

“I was brusque with you, dear friend,” he said, sitting on the bed. I had come in from the roof and was still covered in rain, but he made no mention. He was quite used to my strange outdoor antics by that point. “I don’t know what came over me. I was drawn, almost inexplicably, to Mr. Coleridge. And we shared so much, as poets, that I was rather rude to you.”

“He doesn’t know me at all. I’d never steal from you,” I said.

“This is Londinium, I’m afraid,” William said, “and I worry that I did a terrible job preparing you for it. Samuel lives in a world, here, where there is so little trust between people. The streets are packed with thieves and there’s a swindler on every corner. You must understand, he was simply making a point.”

I nodded, not wanting to discuss it further.

“I just hope I haven’t scared you off for good,” William said, and I could hear the desperation in his voice. “You’ve been such a friend…”

“It’s been good for your poetry to have me around,” I said, voicing my fear for the first time.

William tried to say something and then looked down at his hands, which were still speckled with ink. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Meeting you has somewhat increased my poetic capacity, but I don’t think…”

“I’ll not leave,” I said. “But I’ll need some space, you understand.”

He sighed like the bellows and agreed, though I could tell it pained him to do so. “Yes. I suppose that’s fair.”

After twenty years he meets up with Wordsworth again, and while he isn’t exactly a chatterer, Joss manages to command the conversation in an entirely different way.

“I’m sorry,” I said, for the first time feeling guilty as I should have. “I met a friend. And he…”

“He was like you,” William said. He held up his finger in a gesture of winking knowledge. “I saw you, that night. The fellow with the golden hair. Quite a picture. And you never looked back.”

“I thought of you often. I followed your career, when I could.”

William gave me a doubtful expression. “At any rate, my heart is glad to see you, though I suspect that I may not have the chance to again. You did come here to say good-bye, didn’t you?”

I nodded. “I did. I’m leaving, soon. For the New World.”

“Ah, you are escaping this den of sin and pestilence. You must leave me here among the mad young poets and crazed politicians.” He said it with mirth in his eyes, but I knew it was deeper than that.

“Don’t get lost,” I said, feeling the pull of tides as Aneirin had for so many years. I could feel what would happen to William. More sorrow, but more of a mental mire. He would get lost among the weeds and struggle to find his voice, his heart, until the very end.

“I fear I already am,” he said, and took my hand.

It’s interesting on a number of levels. The lack of questioning means that I never have scenes where Joss is asking what’s happening. He’s never lost. He, instead, says things like, “I don’t understand,” or, “I don’t know what you mean/where I am.” It dynamically changes the dialogue interchanges in the book, which with some characters (the loquacious La Roche who is the previous twin to Randall Roth from Pilgrim) isn’t terribly difficult. With other character interactions, it is. But Joss is an observer in every sense. And sometimes merely stating what he sees gives him power–more and more as he grows through the course of the book.

Joss is a fish out of water (literally and figuratively). He never manages to fit in with the godlings, most of whom are older and more conniving than he is, and he never manages to get on with the humans in his life, who either die or disappoint him greatly (or, uh, he kills…).

Which is all to say that writing out of my comfort zone has helped me think a whole lot more about the craft of writing this novel. It’s literally opened up a whole new arena for me to improve as a writer in a way that no other project has before. I can feel myself getting better, if that makes sense. And taking the time to make it as good as possible has been both challenging and exciting. I had a huge turning point in character development yesterday, and I could feel it happening. It was truly thrilling.

So, in short, take a chance. (No, I’m not qualifying this as writing advice, rather writing experience… or something… not a “how to” but a “what if”) Bleed over the edges. Step back and look critically at what you’re doing and see yourself in the words (I promise, you’re there even if you try to hide). The best thing you can do it be honest; through honesty comes growth.

Lightning Strikes: From Whence Inspiration?

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?

Spring cleaning, and making sense of nonsense

Tintern Abbey in 1900. Image in the public domain, via Wikipedia.

I am buried in boxes. Literally. The view from the laptop is approximately 80% box. We’re moving. To a very cool house. And we’re throwing crap away. And, predictably, I’ve decided to tidy up the blog a bit.

Why change, you ask? Sure, the last design wasn’t so bad. It had a nifty slidey feature thingie (technical term). But it was a bit too noisy. Functionality is fine so long as it does something, but I’m not a news blog. I’m some writer gal who talks about food and mythology and rock music. I wanted something that was more content-centric, and after trying about fifty different templates on for side, decided on this one. I like that it’s got Tumblr-esque posts (i.e. images, quotes, statuses, etc.) that sort of add some fun to the mix. Plus: BIRDS. But it’s also just simple. And calm. And I need both of those things right now.

I’m just about to cross the 80K line in Watcher of the Skies after hitting a bit of a block. I had to think my way out of a transition, and then I had to kill someone I hold very dear. In fact, my favorite character in the whole book.

“Oh, but just don’t kill him! You’re the writer! You’re in control!” shouts the chorus.

Oh, if only. I was in bed, not sleeping (as so often is the case these days) and the last fourth of the book crystallized. And I realized someone wasn’t in it. And I also realized that I wasn’t going to get to the New World until the very end, and that I was going to have to go to Rome.

Writing this alternate history epic tale of Krakens and godlings and albatrosses, I’ve thought a great deal about where I diverge and where I don’t. I have to have a little bit of flexibility creatively, a little hand-waving, as it were, for things to come together, but I’m a little obsessed with creating the validity of things. I don’t want it just to be. I want it to be because something happened. Take languages, for instance. I mentioned before that they don’t talk exactly English in Second World. It’s Frenglish (or Gaelinglish), meaning that the common, proper tongue, is a romance language with French and Gaelic influences and less Anglo-Saxon. But, there were Germanic tribes in Britannia in Second World–they were just indentured servants and/or lowborn. So the language “of the people” isn’t the common tongue or legal tongue (Latin) but a sort of Anglified-Frenchified-Latinified language: almost like English!

Oh, but you’re using poets. And poetry isn’t the same in other languages. You’re right. It’s not. But the Lake Poets/Romantics, in this iteration, use the language of the common people to compose. It’s rather revolutionary not to be writing in Latin, which almost everyone else did. So it’s similar. But it’s also magical. Yes, in my books, poetry is magic. The images and meanings and even the sounds and rhythm are magical, and they connect people (godlings and human alike) and help the eight worlds keep spinning. ::waves her hands around::

No, not all of that makes it into the book. But I don’t want to write uninformed alternate history. It’s nonsense, in some sense, but it still makes sense. Or, at least, it’s on the plausible scale. The paths diverge, but only to a certain point.

And I leave you with a bit of that magical poetry, from William Wordsworth. From “Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey”:

On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye During a Tour, July 13, 1798
Stanza 3

And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.

Albatross

From the WIP:

There was a time where I could change back and forth to a fish as easily as passing wind, but the years had left me rusty. And I was afraid. Still afraid, after so many years, that I would lose control. And it wasn’t just fear, really, it was temptation. That’s the problem more than anything—it wasn’t that I hated being uncontrollable. There was a dark, welcome power there that would lurk with me always, part of my true self, my ancient self, that craved blood and destruction and death.

Knowing that my friend was in danger threw me into action. But I kept turning into a fish. Not a bird. But finally, after two straight hours of moving my body and slipping back and forth between forms, I managed to find myself in a shape that allowed me to breathe without challenge and had, thankfully, feathers and wings. Years later I’d learn to change to water, to use the rivers as pathways quicker than flight, but it was the best option I had.

I saw my strange reflection in the moonlight.

An albatross. I should have guessed.

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

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.)

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.

Why I Don’t Give Writing Advice

This is a jellyfish. Image by Natania Barron, CC BY SA 3.0.

I started blogging almost five years ago, somewhere in 2008, when I decided to focus on “being a writer”–whatever the hell that means. To illustrate a little: being a writer meant actually writing every day, finishing books, and apparently telling the world out there that I, in fact, have Things To Say about Being A Writer and Fiction and Steampunk and Narrative and all these Fun Capitalized Things. I had a great deal to say on the subject, filling not only this blog but another one, along the way.

I used to write a great deal about how to be a writer. How to leverage social media. How to not be a jerk, etc. Yes, I got pageviews and retweets and I made friends and all that, which isn’t to be scoffed at (and I don’t mean to). I’ve made friendships and connections through my blog that are priceless. It’s only now, five years later, after publication and more success than I expected (and earlier than I expected) and plenty of heartbreak, I’ve found that I really don’t have a lot to share. Part of this is because nowadays, people practically make a living off of telling would-be writers what they Ought To Do To Get Published. And the platform has become a signal fit to bursting. Twitter, G+, Facebook, they’re straining to keep all the self-published, Kindle authors and “buy my book it’s only .99 cents and some obscure guy gave it five stars!” Anyone can be a bestseller, apparently. All you have to do is say it’s so.

What I’m saying, I guess, is at the moment, anyone can seem like a published author. I could, at this very moment, take a draft from my considerably large pile of novels, convert it to .epub, and voila! Become a published author. But that doesn’t mean that I’d be a good author. Or that my books are any good.

So, publication is nebulous. And success is nebulous. Success is absolutely different from person to person. If self-publishing makes you happy, great. If writing in private until you die makes you happy, great. If writing one book and then moving on to your PhD in astrophysics is what you have in mind, power to you. In order to be successful as a writer you, well, you have to write obviously. But you also have to define your own goal. Me? I had a very silly goal of being published by 30, which I did. But I went about it my own way, and it’s really unlikely that if I told you exactly what I did that you could repeat it.

No matter what your craft, it really only comes down to two things: work and passion. It’s a balance of both. I don’t believe that everyone can be a writer. I think everyone can write, with enough effort. But will you keep going if you don’t have passion for it? Probably not. When it comes to “being a writer” it’s about learning to harness your passion and leveraging your work. It’s often writing through really sucky situations. I will admit, when I was working a traditional, full-time job (and pregnant… which had a lot to do with it), I hardly wrote anything. I didn’t take my own advice. Work sapped my passion and ideas, and the strain of being a breadwinner meant that the only things I could really focus on were the immediately paying ones. Could I have focused more? Probably. I had story ideas, many of them. But I was so exhausted most of the time that the idea of sitting in front of a computer for another five minutes was nothing short of nightmarish. It was like having computer PTSD, and it came at a huge cost. Not to say that had I stayed in that situation I never would have written again, but it wasn’t the ideal situation. I lost track of my goals. I missed the forest for the trees, to use the old hackneyed phrase.

Which is why I’m saying I’m not giving anyone writing advice. There are other, far more qualified people out there to do that sort of work. And far more unqualified people, but it’s up to you to decide if they’re legit or not (IMHO, there are many who fall into this category, so beware!). Not that I’m not ever EVER going to give advice again, but in general… it’s not the focus of this blog, and it hasn’t been for a while.

Listen, here’s my thoughts: life is challenging, and either you write through it, or you don’t. Telling stories is inherent in some of us. I’ve been doing it since I was old enough to staple pages together. But it’s constant work, and it’s work that always changes. There’s no program, no map, no GPS to tell you the way. To each, their own journey.

So here’s my last bit of advice:

Define your own success, realistically.
Do what you love. (Do it a lot, even when it’s the last thing you want to do.)
Become an expert.
Don’t be a jerk.

Does it mean getting an agent and writing an effective query and becoming a bestseller? Does it mean writing “to the market”? Does it mean self-publishing? Does it mean waiting ten years? Maybe. Maybe not. I will say that if being a bestseller is your end goal, you’re probably missing a piece. If you don’t care about money or reputation or traditional publishing, what’s stopping you? It works for some people. It’s not exactly predictable or reliable, but it’s a possibility.

For me, it’s not about selling. It’s about reaching people. Yes, money is nice and awesome and I’d love to be able to make an actual living as a writer. Royalty checks and advance checks are awesome and have saved our asses more than a few times this year. But writers don’t get salaries. Even one or two bestsellers, with a few exceptions, aren’t going to bankroll you for life. It’s fickle and awful in that respect. So wealth is usually not in the cards. But for real writers, those with the right blend of talent and passion and work, it can be more than that.

Being a writer is simple: you either do it, or you don’t. If you do it, you’re a writer. If you don’t, either you’re in hibernation (which can happen) or well, maybe you should stop telling people about that great novel idea you’ve had for the last decade and move on to something else.

As for me, I’ll be over here. Writing. Instead of writing about writing.

A quick one while I’m away… 2012 to 2013

Image by Natania Barron – CC BY SA 3.0. I saw no Daleks. Not a single one.

The holidays, man. That’s really all I’ve got to say. The holidays and unemployment and all, conspiring to make me a mental mess.

Aside from all that, I guess all’s well. (GUH.) I went to New York City. I’ve written a bunch of non-fiction article stuff. I’ve crocheted a ton. I’ve made jewelry. I’ve made fudge and pies and cakes and roasts and all manner of edible and potable creation (including two batches of very fine beer). I’ve done a good job of pushing aside the dread and fear of unemployment and two kids and mounting bills and student loans and just… yeah. It’s a good distraction, anyway. Plus, I have the most amazing kids on the face of the planet. And my daughter, right now, and her ability to smile in any situation, is seriously a daily inspiration. Not to mention I’ve finally gotten into Dr. Who. (Season three, sans Rose, apparently seemed to do the trick.)

Not much writing has happened. I’ve managed almost 10K this month. Which, actually isn’t that bad. But my dreams of finishing Watcher of the Skies in December just ain’t going to happen. And I’m perfectly okay with that. What I’ve written I feel pretty good about. In fact, this whole draft feels more solid than anything I’ve written in a while. And I’m looking forward to sharing this new chapter in the godling cycle with my beta readers, friends, and editors, as the case may be.

I’m not going to write a year-end review post. Seriously? 2012 can go do uncomfortable things to itself, thankyouverymuch. All I’m doing next year is writing more. Reading more. Walking more. Being more. Laughing more.

Allons-y, y’all! See you in 2013.

And that’s that. Farewell, NaNoWriMo 2012.

Even though I honestly had no intention of doing NaNoWriMo, as of this evening it appears I have “won” said writing frenzy. I have brought Joss Raddick from a little tadpole of a man to a Kraken. He is currently on an island, about to enter a Synod with a few other godlings, and he has a big wedge of iron lodged in his skull. He went on a rampage as a Kraken, he met another crazy Kraken, he sired a poet, and he was swindled more than once. He also made some friends. And more than anything, I’ve had such pleasure writing this. Joss has always been one of my favorite characters ever (I remember wondering at one point before writing Pilgrim if I’d gone that whole book just to create him). Maybe it’s where I am right now, I don’t know. But this hasn’t felt like work, really. It’s been entertaining, exciting, and very, very much needed. It’s been joyous, every step of the way.

As far as writing a whole novel, no. I’d say I’m solidly in the middle of the book–there’s much more to happen, including the move to Kentucky… but in the mean time I’m going to celebrate with the above pictured adult beverage. Apropos to say the least.

Celebrations aside, this last month has been really, really hard. And, not for the first or last time in my life, I am beyond grateful for the escape writing gives me. Just this morning we learned that my husband has to look for a new job. In short, today sucked. And tonight, when I looked at the 3K ahead of me, I wasn’t sure I could muster it. I wanted to wait. I have time, after all. And let’s face it, I’m a pretty gimpy writer. I usually force myself away after about 2K, for fear of regretting it later. What’s 50K other than a number? Let’s just say, when push came to shove I realized just how much I needed a little sense of accomplishment today.

So yes! Congratulations to all of you who put pen to paper and brought worlds into existence that weren’t here before November. Because really, that’s what it’s about, isn’t it?

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.”

Natania Barron

Musings. Melodies. Mischief.

Category Archives: WIP