I haven't written in my writing blog since May? Holy crepes.
Anyway...
Harlan County Horrors is available for preorder. If you spread that fact, you can win some cool Harlan County stuff, like a copy of the excellent documentary "Harlan County USA." Here are the details.
This has been week two of toughness, of seeing my attempts at good deeds go rather punished. Wow. Stepping back it's so fascinating to watch the very different angles and reasons we all come at things. I have had to face myself very squarely and see just how much I still want gold stars and kudos from my efforts and it's a trait I'd really like to let go of. I want to learn to move forward looking more for my rewards from within.
Everything is a process. There is no arrival. We hear this and think, "oh yes, I get it." But it's hard to own, hard not to keep looking towards a brighter future when we've accomplished "x" and then "x" and "x" which will finally make us feel accepted, real, fully adult, whatever.
But in reality you accomplish something that you thought would be the end all be all and it's usually it's just not. It's just a moment, often one you don't remember to celebrate because you're too busy to remember that it was so important, or as in my case these past two weeks, others are so disappointed with a particular aspect that it really ruins the fun and pride.
So yes, time to focus less on kudos possible from within and focus instead on those from within, and of course, my own private project - the book.
I am struggling through a revamp of my 3rd and 4th chapters of the novel and I think I need to strop struggling and let them be where they are right now. Inspiration comes to be slowly, unfolding in dreams and walks and conversations and internet searches. And that's okay. I love writing. I do. Sure it gets lonely and boring sitting here staring at the screen, and I find a myriad of ways to distract myself, but still I love it. I like to see what I've put on the page, and then I like to go back later and check if I still like it.
And amazingly sometimes I do. Now if my lines of writing could feel to me as beautiful as the above rows of lavender, or one of my very favorite songs called, "The Lines of My Earth" by Matthew Preston Slocum of "Six Pence None the Richer" I'd be pleased indeed.
I am on a journey to write a book, my very first book. I have been
published in portions of another book, in print and online, but I have
never completed and published my own book. And it's one of those things
in life I really really want to accomplish, just for me. Oh sure, I'd
love it to be a best seller. I'd love to finish the first book and have
the publisher like it so much I receive an advance for the second one.
That is the dream. So that I could go off to Europe and do deeper
research on someplace other than the Internet.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Right now I'm on the journey of daily writing the book. Of daily thinking about the book. Of daily wondering about the book. And it's quite a journey, one that I'm only a quarter of the way or so into.
I have had a big struggle from adolescence onward to really show up for myself, to follow my own bliss, my own creative drum. I so love the collaborative process that instead I would usually jump on someone else's creative process in order to be included, in order to participate, feeling that I could earn my way in to being worthy by hard work and good feedback. This would be my trick with romantic relationships as well. And I'm sure you've already guessed, it didn't work out so well.
Oh yes, I did end up enjoying the creative collaborative process quite a bit, but it wasn't truly mine - so I had to constantly fight for the space to have a say, and frankly, I often pushed those who simply weren't ready to go where I knew they could go. Because I had the vision, because I knew how to get there. And in the end, though much good was done, it always ended badly. Because it wasn't really mine, and I knew that in my gut.
It's not that I haven't had my own creative projects all along, but my dedication to following my own creative drummer waxed and waned. I was not consistent. I kept thinking someone else's project was so much more legit than mine, so much more important, so in need of supporting first. I couldn't follow my own dreams first because I felt I hadn't been given a permission slip from God. That's my phrase for it that I've used for a long time.
But God doesn't send down a white photo copied form that you remember from school, he/she sends the yearning, the longing, the ideas, and when you pick up the pen and begin the journey support comes. Now I have thrown down the gauntlet to myself, the challenge - do your own thing, write your own book. Give it a total go, see what you can do.
And a fascinating thing happened, something that blew a big hole in the wall of my fear and resistance - two friends from my past have shown up and are showing support. One is my best friend from grammar school and she found me via the Internet about a year and a half ago, the other is my best friend from High School who found me via facebook about a month ago. Both have always supported the idea of me as a writer - and both love the genre I'm writing in - young adult fantasy (focused on girls).
Much of the book is plotted out, I'm now working on second drafts of the first six chapters (1 & 2 are done). It's moving, it's going, but it's still a challenging journey. There is a hole in the wall, but now I can see just how far I've got to go and it's daunting - like LOTR at the end, where it feels like Frodo and Sam will never get there. But they do. And now I just have to keep remembering that it will only happen one paragraph at a time, one page at a time, one chapter at a time and not get ahead of myself and full of worry that it won't be enough when I finally reach the end. The doing needs to be enough in itself.
Well, you want it alphabetically or in order of importance?
Specifically, this is how it is:
I was just making a spreadsheet to help me keep track of my WS queries. I sent what I thought were "a bunch" on Sunday. Turns out I sent six. But I put in a lot of research as well, which is probably why it felt like a bunch. Of the six, one is closed to subs through June 1. That info wasn't on the agency website so that was a bit of a surprise. I'll try again June 1 if I haven't heard from others by then. I don't expect to.
So anyway...
I decided I'd use my RFM queries spreadsheet as a template. The date on my most recent query-related activity? 5/15/08.
WTF is wrong with me? I sat on two completed mss for a year? Granted, I was revising and also doing fresh writing on Nine, "Inheritance" and some other shorts, plus articles and editorials and TC editing. But still. What am I waiting for?
At least I can say I have some queries out there now and if/when rejections start rolling in, I have to remind myself to kick my own ass about staying with it.
Harlan County Horrors is a regional based horror anthology edited by Apex Magazine submissions editor Mari Adkins. It will feature stories by Alethea Kontis, Debbie Kuhn, Earl Dean, Geoffrey Girard, Jason Sizemore, Jeremy Shipp, Maurice Broaddus, Robby Sparks, Ronald Kelly, Stephanie Lenz, Steven Shrewsbury, and TL Trevaskis.
Publication date: October 1st, 2009
Pre-order before October 1st and save nearly 20% off your purchase.
I made a Wordle of the whole WS ms. Vox doesn't like HTML markup so I have to link.
I am one of those people who has always had a vivid dream life. No, not a vivid daydreaming life, I'm not really good at daydreams, most likely because my dreams at night take up all that kind of energy. They are vivid, colorful and dramatic. Sometimes I have dreams within dreams. Some are realistic and some sound completely crazy once I try to describe them to someone else. For years I secretly enjoyed my dreams but felt as if I was a bit of a freak for having so many...until I accepted that a) that's just the kind of creative intuitive sort I am and b) my dreams are my own personal emotional language telling me what's really going on with my psyche. Of course others had been telling me this for years, but you know how the intellect and the emotions run on two different tracks, so there you have it.
I also have several kinds of recurring dreams that remind me of issues that are challenging for me. When I change my behavior in one of thesereoccurring dreams I know I've made real progress in my waking emotional life.
One of the things I'm learning to do right now is speak up for myself in a constructive way. I've never been a total doormat, but I've lived much of my life trying to be a people pleaser, thinking that if I just worked hard enough on behalf of others I'd get an invitation to the right party, I'd be loved, accepted etc. But of course we all already have our very own special invitation to the party, it's up to us to decide what kind of party we want to attend. Love and acceptance shows up in amazing ways when we learn to love and accept ourselves, as fluffy bunny as that sounds it's not at all easy, but it's true.
For years I dreaded dreaming of my High School boyfriend. They always signaled a sort of stress occurring in my life, something I wanted to run away from. He was pursuing me, wanting to get back together and I was frightened. No, he never abused me, but he cheated on my constantly and I would keep getting back together with him. At the time I had no idea that I was acting out my own parents rather torrid relationship. We were literally behaving as they behaved (and perhaps as his own parents were behaving, I'm not sure).
When I finally realized he didn't really represent himself so much in my dreams as an aspect of myself that I was dreaded I was able to look at what the dreams were telling me. He represented my fear of not being able to stand my own ground and speak up for myself. Over the last week I've dreamt of him again twice after years of not, and both times I told him, "no, no thank you, I'm not interested."
What is really interesting in last night's dream is that he didn't want to listen - not only that I didn't want to get back together but to why. It was a non-issue for him. My reasons didn't matter. And I realized this was a good warning to me to be really clear when I'm in situations with people where my happiness, my needs, my intentions (whether in a work, friendship, or romance) just can't be taken into account, where they just can't hear me because they are so full up with their own situations.
It was a good reminder that I can't always play ball with who I might want to, because I just don't matter in the way I need to.
And it was a good reminder to me that I can be this person at times too. I can listen but not hear. I can listen half heartedly and project what I think the person is saying rather than what they really are. I can run my own conversation in my head when I'm listening to them instead of listening to them full present. Sometimes we do this because we're bored, and sometimes we do this because we're afraid we won't have a clever enough response at the right moment. Whatever the case we're not really here.
All in all I was very heartened by this dream. I have had a terrific week, but the sort that makes my head hurt from getting wound up, so I'm doing my best to slow down this weekend and just be here now.
I had absolutely nothing to complain about yesterday (except some tiny
grumbling about the heat), I slept well, and yet from the moment I woke
up this morning I knew I was just sort of well, off. I was
filled with a sort of physical and emotional dread that overcomes me at
times, a sensation close to that of when you're coming down with the
flu, but not quite so physical.
So I decided to be a little more kind with myself, and even more kind to my body. I ate. I stretched. I slowed down and worked on easier projects first.
At times during the day the feeling would really rear its head, to the point that I had to get up and walk around. One time it felt so strong I checked my bank account to see if I'd made some kind of horrible adding error. Nope. Then I found the beautiful photo above at my favorite stock photo site (while doing research for another client) and just posting it on my website in honor of earth day made me feel better. Staring at it made me feel more calm and serene.
My client and I went back and forth on the article. We found a groove we both liked and were able to finish the piece. My brother really liked his birthday gift today of a little website I put together for his band, and I was able to chat briefly with a dear friend about the novel I'm working on. The feeling of dread hasn't totally left me, but I know it'll pass. Whenever I remember that feelings are waves instead of constant states I'm able to ride the rough ones out with a bit more serenity (a bit), and to just bask a bit longer in the happy ones, remembering that this too shall pass.
People have asked me a lot over the last couple of months if I'm nervous or anxious about the contest. Sometimes I have gotten anxious. Right now I'm trying to channel that anxiety into reading mss for friends and working on Nine.
If you think about the contest like "American Idol," for example, my theory is this: I don't have to get up once a week and write a new story. My part is done. Once I entered, it was out of my hands. It's in Jake's hands now (the narrator). It's his job to engage a reader, tell a story and entertain. I'm the parent sitting in the audience biting my nails while I wait to hear what the judges say.
I have lived with some version of this story since my first undergraduate writing course in Spring 1991. The challenge was a five page story with "a setting you know," after half of us turned in our first assignment set in New York (or New Orleans), myself included. At the first class meeting after passing out our crit drafts, the professor (the marvelous Dinty Moore) asked how many of us had stories set in NYC. Easily half of us raised our hands. Then he asked how many of us had been there. Maybe two people. Maybe. He said that it showed. His advice was that the setting is another character in the story, that even if it's one we invent, we have to know it as well as any other major character. When we launched our Toasted Cheese, I asked to write our first Absolute Blank article first because I had a particular one I wanted to write: "Setting Yourself Up."
So anyway...
For the assignment, I wrote a story I didn't like and took a draft in on the due date (a Tuesday). I showed him that I'd done the work and I said, "I'm not happy with it. It doesn't feel right." I'd set it in a fictionalized version of the house where I'd spent my teen years, kind of a haunted house mystery thing. I asked if I could have until Thursday to write something else. He quickly looked over what I had and said, "Do something with a wildly different setting and see how it goes."
I moved around a lot as a kid, every couple of years. One place where we actually spent more time than anywhere else was Perry, Florida. Perry has problems, like any small town, but I loved my experience there and there's something that feels very homey to me about it. There's a reason I choke up when I see spanish moss dripping out of live oaks or how easy it is to slip into a Perry (read: south Georgia/north Florida) accent. When Hawk was sick... well, dying actually... in November and I was living in the ICU waiting room, my mind was so absolutely elsewhere that I barely paid attention to what I was saying much less how I said it. Then people started asking me, "Are you from Texas?" I looked down at myself thinking, "Wha?" I say I'm not. Then I got "South Carolina" and I thought, "Why are people assuming I'm from the South?" Then I realized: I had my good ol' Perry accent going on. The very accent my brothers discouraged but my mother liked my picking up b/c it mean that I called her "Maaaa-mah." It used to come out when I got angry or excited. I don't know if it does now. In everyday speech, I'm far more Pittsburghese.
So anyway...
I wanted to write about Perry... somehow. At least about the South because I knew it and I knew it through physical setting as well as through people and my own experience.
Then I thought about a constant no matter where we lived: there was always some house in the neighborhood that we kids were forbidden to go near. It had a History and there were Secrets. I thought, "I want to write about that house."
Who's in the house? I based my character on a lady who lived next door to us in Lake Wales (central Florida by then). Very old school Southern and steel magnolia-y. Her name was Gwen so I named a character after her and the name "Baker" popped in there and voila. I needed a narrator so I made it be a little kid but the kid was an adult looking back. Way too To Kill A Mockingbird, I know. But I was 19 and I wanted to write what I wanted to write.
In the original short story -- I've forgotten the title -- in a little dust speck of a south Georgia town in 1938, Miss Baker has just died in her big red house at the end of the street. The narrator -- JD Dawson -- is trying to find out why the lady everyone vilified when she was alive is suddenly everyone's saint. His dad is a little condescending to his mother (I didn't know that at the time; I thought he was just wise) but he talks the truth to JD. The family -- JD & his parents, Wilkes and Thaddea -- go to church the following Sunday and the minister is pissed off about everyone having treated Miss Baker badly when she was alive. He's angry and ashamed about the congregation's behavior but he also doesn't expect it to change. I forget how it ends but JD's obsessed with the house & finding out who Miss Baker really was.
A couple of years later, I picked it back up and I thought, "I could write more about this." So I did. I turned in entirely too many short stories for upper level undergrad writing classes at FSU that involved this story. It became a lot about the kids and it was fun to write but really, I had no end point in mind.
A couple of years after that, I'd been laid off from the weekly newspaper I wrote for (it closed) and I thought, "I have the opportunity to write a book." So I started working on this again and studying what I'd done. I'd established that the minister (now the age of JD's parents, not the old fire and brimstone minister from the first draft) had grown up with JD's mother in a little town called "Lucy's Cotton" closer to the Florida border than where the main action is set.
I thought, "What's their relationship like?" The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I was far more interested in the minister (Pastor Jake) than I was in JD or Miss Baker or anyone else. So I started over again and I let Jake tell me his story.
He had a lot to say. Right now it stands at 106,000 words, including Maggie Baker's diary entry. I changed Miss Baker's name for literary purposes but I kept "Gwen" for another character. I kept the big red house at the end of the street, with its Mystery and Secrets, and I kept that twisted little love letter to the flawed but beautiful little southern town that inspired it.
And thanks, Dinty, for those extra days and the assignment and the advice. It paid off.
The Publisher's Weekly review of my novel (not just the excerpt) has been posted:
From Publishers Weekly
Every town has skeletons lining its closets, and Blooming Tree, Ga., is no exception. Set in the 1930s, this novel examines the dark past purposefully shrouded by those who live there. When young Baptist pastor Jacob Buchanan is sent to Blooming Tree, he faces the challenges of overseeing a parish (namely appeasing the First Redemption Parish Ladies’ Society) and ends up living on the same street as his former lover, Thaddea, and her family. Since the murder of popular Pastor Joseph in 1909, Blooming Tree’s parish office has had a revolving door. When the purported murderess, Maighdlin Baker, gives Jacob her diary, he is confronted with a conflicting appraisal — villainous, lecherous — of Pastor Joseph. At first doubtful, Jacob struggles to uncover the truth while confronting his own demons and complex feelings for Thaddea. Though the voice loses some clarity in the diary excerpt, it is more of a hiccup than a trend, and, overall, the narration is engrossing and the plot careful and suspenseful, culminating in some satisfying twists.
I need reviews, please. Review activity is important in this round apparently. So download the free excerpt (it's the first chapter), read it (it's a 10-20- min read, max) and treat it like you would any Amazon product, review-wise.
