electric mist

the thing about guns...

I wanted to shoot a Glock, since a couple of characters in my book shoot one, and shoot really well. I've shot a 22 before at the range and was a pretty good shot, but I knew handling a Glock would be different.

What I am aware of is how dangerous handguns are, and yet, even knowing this intellectually, I didn't expect to feel so squeamish handling a more powerful handgun than what I've held before. We met our oldest son at the indoor shooting range, and had to don the safety equipment, and by the time we got into the actual range, I was feeling nervous. My son taught me how to hold the Glock (watching out for the slide) and when I took it, my first shot was dead center in the bullseye. No kidding, dead center.

But.

The recoil surprised me. It was a 40 caliber Glock, and while the kick was nothing compared to some bigger handguns (I'm told), I just hadn't expected it to be as much since, when my son shot it, he didn't seem to have as much recoil. And then I started thinking a lot about aiming and that these were real bullets going out there and through the target and them zooming to the back wall, and the more I thought, the worse I got. I finally went and rented a compact Glock (much smaller), which was also a 9mm (slight smaller bullet than the 40 caliber), and it was a little easier to hold and aim, and I started doing better.

Still, I was nervous the entire time.

Later, we ate lunch and Luke told us a bunch of facts he'd learned in his gun classes (he's applying to be in the FBI, he's taking gun classes)... and one of the things he talked about was how a 40 caliber bullet could go through something like 17 layers of sheetrock. 17. So all of those times in a movie or TV show that we see someone dodge behind a wall or a corner in a house and bullets riddle the wall? That person would have been dead on the other side.

I'm going to go back for more lessons, just so I know more about what I'm writing about when I have Bobbie Faye shoot at something. But I don't think I'll ever actually get used to it; I think that fear will stay with me. At least, I hope so.

staying original

In the comments on the "10 things" entry a couple of days ago, JScott said:

I envy people who can write and just seem to flow effortlessly across pages. I read anything I can get my hands on.. How does one keep from plagarizing due to reading SOOOO many books. How does one stay original? I imagine that it can be hard..

It's an extremely good point. If we read really good work which resonates with us as a writer, we want to dissect it, analyze it, learn from it, and figure out how whatever it was we admired could be put to use in our own writing. That is, frankly, how you learn to be a writer -- read very good work and learn from it. So how do you keep from plagairizing it?

Here are two mini examples. Each of these could easily be a whole book, so I'm just touching on the highlights here.

1) Characters

Character = story. Who your character is, what they need, what they want, what their obstacles are, what's at stake, what is painful for them, what makes them happy, how they grew up, who hurt them, who helped them, what they fear, what they're ashamed of, what they'll do under pressure, what is their core moral center... are all things which make your story unique. When you do the homework on the character, when you really know them, their choices (how they speak, how they act, how they choose, how they dress, etc.) will be unique to them. They're simply not going to do something identically to someone else in another book. Fill your story with well-developed characters that come from your own hard work, your own imagination and perception of their world, and you very likely won't inadvertently emulate another author.

2) Voice

When you're choosing the method of telling the story, you're going to have to choose the type of point of view you want to use, the tone, and the perspective. Every one of those choices will affect presentation of the matererial, particularly as the story is filtered through the character's eyes / thoughts. A rapper is not going to perceive the world the same way as a wealthy, elderly widow. A poor person is not going to comment or think or notice the same things in the same manner as a tycoon. A truck driver will have different life experiences that informs his perceptions from those of a pastry chef. When you've created a unique character and you've chosen the method of the story (first, third, omnipotent), your method will be used by the characters.

If you have, for example, two characters telling the story equally, then each section should have a voice -- a perspective of that person and their life. That will influence what they see in the world around them, what stands out as important imagery to comment on (if they do comment at all), what they think of the people and activities surrounding them.

And so on...

The question is, what drives the story for you? If you're creating, what do you find helps you find that unique story? If you start with plot first, what do you do to work out the voice, to give your own work that unique spin that you and only you could do?

BIC

In the comments section on the previous post, Lori Armstrong made the excellent point of how accomplishing anything as a writer really depends upon the writer putting Butt In Chair and working. There are tons of ways to procrastinate, and there are loads of ways to freak out about what your career will or won't be (yep, done that) and really, the only thing a writer can control is the practice they give to the act of writing.

My youngest son (bear with me) is having a really painful time right now coming to grips with the fact that he can't earn a couple of paychecks and then run out and buy the really cool motorcycle he's drooling over. I know that feeling. I want to have that instant gratification too, quite often. I want to hand in something and the world screech to a halt, startled by their joy at what I've written. (I don't have big dreams, no?) The world really doesn't work that way, and it's lucky for most of us that it doesn't. I'm glad a guy who wants to be a doctor can't just decide that as a senior in high school and run out and pick up a scapel. I'm really relieved that girl who wants to be an air traffic controller can't say, "Oooh, planes are cool!" when they're a junior in college and, after an all-night kegger, go get that job.

Some people get big headlines for having sold something, like the recent debacle involving Kaavya Viswanathan and the alleged plagiarism case buiding against her now. She got a $500,000 advance, and there are up to (and possibly more, I'm not sure) 29 passages in her book which are very very similar to that of Megan F. McCafferty's works. Instant gratification, like a sugar high, or a cocaine high, can have a price. You really can't say, "Oops, I read these when I was younger and accidentally worked 29 nearly identical passages into my own work and it is a complete mystery to me how that happened." Well, you can, but that's not only egotistical idiocy, it's a little disingenuous to proclaim yourself smart enough to get into Harvard and yet, too naive to realize that you've plagiarized when you have such identical passages. Using the "I'm a genius, I can't help but absorb so much it's hard to remember where it came from" excuse is pretty much bunk.

Accidentaly mimicry can happen. There are too many stories out there where two people came up with similar books or movies at about the same time and when they were published, one looked to be a copy of the other (depending on which came out first, usually). But, if true (and since she's apologized for it already and not denied it, I'm not sure how it could be anything other than true), the effort of copying here is pure greed. Wanting that instant gratification, wanting that acclaim, wanting that money, wanting that attention... is not what writing and work (anyone's work) is really about. If you're a genuine person -- in the sense that you care about being authentic -- then you care about what you do. Whether you're a nurse or a doctor, a contractor or a ditch digger, you try to do your best at what you do. You hope that one day, what you do will matter, will shine, and that somehow, people will notice (for we, most of us, are creatures of society and we want to be accepted, or even acclaimed, at least once or twice for our own accomplishments, I think). But if you co-opt the work of someone else and pretend it's yours, you're not only saying you have no respect for that person and the effort they put into their craft, you're saying you have no respect for the rest of us, to whom you are lying.

For me, the satisfaction is in the work. I like creating a world, building a place where people can go in their imaginations and feel like they have fully experienced that place, those characters, as if they were real. I like entertaining and keeping people glued to the story, seeing them have a moment of escape, a moment away from their lives as they enter that world. I like the hard work it takes to do these things, to build these worlds. I like that I have to push myself to continuously improve, to find better ways to express something, to find nuances to help build the characters into fully dimensional people. It's not easy. It is, occasionally, rapturous, when something goes really really well. I worked for a week on a small section of the book because I knew it wasn't quite working. It would have been easier to let a slighter effort pass because I had other stuff to do, and this was such a small section. But I knew it was important and I knew why: it set up mutliple character issues, emotions and a foundation for building of trust later in the story, and a sense of outrage when one character thinks the other has betrayed her. It's really a tiny moment, and I'm not even sure the reader will sense it when reading it. Yet, after wrestling with it for a few days, when it finally worked, when it finally just sang, I was elated. That, folks, is what's satisfying as a writer: to set a goal and then to know you've accomplished it.

Butt. In. Chair.

There is a second, equally important component to the BIC rule that many of us fail to disucss, partly because it's scary when you realize how much you're putting on the line with the choices you make... but the thing that will help keep your BIC is committment to the choice you make when you pick which story to tell. There is no one single story which is going to be all things to all people. There are stories which are serious, stories which are frivolous, stories which will wrench your heart out, stories which will make you laugh until you have to pee, and none of them could work if the author started doubting herself half-way through and worried that maybe the dark mystery would get more readers if she had some funny quips in there or maybe the humorous mystery would be better if it somehow touched on really deep, dark, important secrets (when none were originally set up).

There is nothing wrong with writing what you enjoy. Or what touches your heart. Or what captivates your curiositiy. It's perfectly Okay for other people to think that the only acceptable fiction is the kind which gets snooty awards. Whatever works for them, is fine. But if you put your butt in that chair and you start writing and you start second guessing yourself, trying to make your story all things to all people, something equally funny and sad, equally poignant and pithy, you're probably going to create mush (unless you're a stunning and amazing writer, and then we'll just cook you and eat you, so shut up). Most of us are going to learn, one book at a time. Hopefully, the first one the public sees will be so well polished, no one will see the growing pains that went into creating it. And believe me -- those growing pains are there, for every writer who really cares about their craft.

So, Butt In Chair. And No Fear.

10 Things I Know About Writing

10. You read.

9. You read a hella lot, in all sorts of genres. Quit whining.

8. You write. All. The. Damn. Time.

7. People read what you wrote. They hate it. They give advice. They usually tell you to get a job. Something not in writing.

6. You read a hella lot more to figure out where you can improve.

5. You're still writing. All. The. Damn. Time.

4. A few people sort of like some parts of what you wrote.

3. You repeat all of the above steps until you can substitute "few" in #4 with "most" and "sort of like" with "freaking love" and then you...

2. Keep writing.

1. You might sell. You might not. Odds are, people look at you weird when you say you're a writer, or they start telling you how they could be one, like, in an afternoon, if they just wanted to, and you try not to kill them (with witnesses around) and then you drink a lot and probably cry, and then you start to burn everything you've ever written and then this one piece, this one sentence, catches your eye and you start readng and you think, "You know, this is pretty good. I could do something with this." And so while they cart you off to jail or to the insane asylum, you start thinking just what you're going to do with your next story.

sludge, part deux

So remember my old friend, the sludge? Well, it's baaaaaaaaaaaaaack. I thought on Monday that I was getting pink eye because Carl had it all last week and when I woke, my eyes were all red and scratchy. But no, didn't have pink eye. That was just the sludge's opening volley for round two, otherwise known as "tortue for fun and profit." By today, I was battling a fever, which hadn't gone too high until this afternoon, when it decided that it had toyed with me enough, and it jumped up. In spite of the Tylenol I had taken, it was over a 100.

So, off to the doctor we go (since Carl has it, too), and we see him and hear how awful this stuff is. He'd taken several rounds of medicine himself trying to kick it about a month ago, and he didn't want to prescribe the Z-pack antibiotics, because they weren't strong enough. So he precribes this new antibiotic (new-ish, I dunno) that he said would really kick butt. Carl went to fill it and called me from the pharmacy. The antibiotics alone cost more than $400. That's with our insurance Rx card, which gives us steep discounts. (It's not a co-pay card, but then again, the rates can never be raised.)

$400? For antibiotics? What the hell is in that pill? A miniature Ahnold? mixed with an Uzi carrying Taz? For $400 for 20 pills, that thing better not only kill the damned bacteria causing this sludge, it should make me taller and younger.

I called the doctor, who was already home, who answered my page somewhat warily (he thinks I'm fiesty. I don't know why he thinks I'm fiesty. Can't imagine where the hell he got that idea.) I asked, "Just how sure are you that the Z-pack wouldn't work?"

"Um, well. It might work. Why?"

I told him about the cost of the meds. He said he'd call in the Z-pack, though I might have to take two rounds of them instead of one. Even with that, I'd still be way ahead of the cost of the other one.

"Damn straight," I said. And I heard him chuckling.

"What?"

"Well," he said, "I only see you when you're sick and exhausted. I'd hate to see how fiesty you can be if you're feeling really well."

Ha.

Pulitzer winners, and well deserved

I knew the reporting coming from the Times Picayune during and after the devastation of Hurricane Katrina was spectacular. They reported even when they didn't know where they were going to live, even when they each had major personal losses, both family and homes. I am so incredibly proud that they have won two Pulitzers. This is so greatly deserved!

Beautifully done.

anomalies

I just wanted to let you know that if the world ended abruptly today, I DIDN'T MEAN TO DO IT. Okay? Good, just so you know. Because I not only went to sleep before 4 a.m., which is the usual time (except it's been moving back toward 5a.m. then 5:30 a.m. for the last two weeks)... I actually went to sleep.... by 11 p.m. I know. Scary. And! I woke up this morning at 7a.m.! Awake. Actually opened my eyes, couldn't fall back asleep, the whole "get up, it's morning" sort of thing." Wow. The sun comes up in the morning. Did you know that? Kinda cool. What is it you normal people do in the mornings? Besides go to work, I know that part, but this whole wide awake thing is kinda weird. And! I have energy. I know. In the morning. Very scary. I'm expecting meteorites to hit the earth at any minute now. Really sorry about that.

In other random news, I have squirrels in my attic again. No, that is not a euphemism, thank you. Real squirrels. Or, at least, I think think they are squirrels, unless it's like last time, and a mama raccoon got up in there (I have no idea how) and we ended up rescuing her four baby raccoons and feeding them for a couple of weeks until a rescue place could take them in. (They were adorable... until they were able to climb out of the box. Then, they were cute, but the whole pooping everywhere diminished that a bit.) So... I think it's squirrels again, because this time, there are a lot of running sounds during the day time (squirrels) rather than at night time (raccoons). Last time, we caught the mama raccoon in a wire cage trap (very safe and humane) and moved her (didn't know she had babies at that point, hence the rescue operation later). I suspect we'll have to do the trap thing again. I wish we could find where the little buggers are getting in. We checked the spot we thought they were originally getting in and it's closed up.

Anyway. Squirrels. Are noisy. Very busy, with the running, to and fro, right over my head. I kinda expect to hear cheers and the scream of "home run!" any minute now. See, when I was asleep in the morning, I didn't know they were up there. They may have been there for a year, hell if I'd know. But now, it's me against the squirrels. Because I cannot write while they are going to and fro, with the thumping and bumping and rearranging up there, building a stadium or whatever they are doing. Driving me nuts.

I know, not far to go.

Don't Look Down

So Monday night, when I was stressing over the big screw up I'd managed to do with the deadline (previously mentioned), I was so freaking relieved to have a fun book to read to keep me from completely wigging. (I can be one with the stress, lemme tell you.)

I had been eagerly waiting for Don't Look Down, a Jennifer Cruisie and Bob Mayer collaboration, particularly after following their progress on their hilarious blog. (They have been blogging about both the good and the bad of collaborating and now, of their 40 city book tour, and every freaking blog entry has me cracking up. On one a couple of days ago, Bob had handed Jenny her apartment key, then hours later, forgot he'd done so and had her frantically help him look for a lost key -- and in that typical manly way, neglected to mention he thought he'd lost hers and let her assume she was helping him find his. When she finally realized what was going on, she reminded him he'd given her key to her earlier and he was so frustrated at the wasted time, he snapped, "Why didn't you tell me?" To which she replied, "Bob, you were there when you gave it to me... I assumed you knew.")

The book was a kick to read. It's a terrific blend of action, banter, great pacing, fun, well-drawn characters and loads of humor. It has Cruisie's humor (which I expected and love) and Bob's dry wit (which was great). It's being billed as a Romantic Adventure, which is a sort of experiment at coining a new genre term, and I hope it works, because its pacing and humor while keeping a mystery and action and tension throughout is similar to what the Bobbie Faye books will be. (See the "about" section, on the left.... except mine's very much action/adventure with a side order of crazy thrown in.) I particularly like the inside type of information Bob infused his J.T. Wilder with, the type of Green Beret POV that (usually) only a real Green Beret can bring to the game, and it made Wilder very interesting and not just a generic "good soldier" type. So if you want to laugh and enjoy a romp, go get it. You'll have fun.

(Note to Bob.... Ta Da. Now that's all of the talking points. I think. And there is no grim on book tours.)

The read last Sunday...

I meant to post this Monday, but then Monday I majorly screwed up a deadline for the construction company, which is just a dumb move, and by Tuesday morning, 8 a.m., it was fixed and all was completely okay, but man, I really hate doing something so blatently dumb. And it wasn't that I didn't know about the deadline, it was dumber than that: I looked straight at the little deadline notation last week, saw the date, looked at the calendar and somehow, in spite of all of that, decided that the third occurred on Thursday instead of Monday. Geez. I definitely need to be taking some of those memory whatsits.

So, meant to post about the read, got sidetracked into and then out of disaster, and now...

The read.

Was great. Really wonderful, actually. We probably had about thirty people? I'm not sure, something like that. Many of them were my friends and family, and I greatly appreciate them all coming out and, woo! buying the The New Orleans book. They were a great audience because I knew they were rooting for us to do well.

Crystal, the CRM at Barnes & Noble, had everything set up, had made announcements all week over the loudspeaker, had put a recording on their phone so that people calling in knew all week that we'd be there signing. We had others there not related to us (always a cool thing) who also bought books (yay). I think Crystal did a fantastic job getting it all set up and organized.

Dave Rutledge, one of the writers and publisher, intro'd us. Then Jette read from her terrific essay about old movie theaters in New Orleans. She had several laughs and much nodding of appreciation from the audience. I read next, and kept it very short, and people told me I did well, though I can never remember afterward. I sort of zone out. Then Sarah Inman read from hers and Ray (whose blog seems to be down right now) was our final reader, which is perfect, because Ray's piece is really funny.

We then signed books for everyone who bought them (and I love every single one of you who did that!) and then we signed the rest of the stock. We were each signing on our essay, and we got into a real groove and the rest of the stock disappeared quickly. By the time we were done, many of the people had cleared out.

(I was going to snag the signage, but forgot, and they had spelled my name wrong, which cracked me up. Never think for a minute you can keep much of an ego in this business. I went back the next day to buy a book and snag the signage, but it was already gone.)

What I loved about this event was the fun and calm I think we all felt; it was with friends and family and very well organized, which is great. Another huge plus was to see people wander over while we were reading... stay to listen... and then end up buying the book. That happened with several people, and that's extremely cool.

I hated not having more time to spend with the others from the book; we very likely won't be seeing each other any time soon. I may be able to attend the signing in Austin that Ray and Jette are organizing, but that so greatly depends on the work schedule. It was a little like watching the winding down of something amazing and important, although the book sales remain strong.

I believe...

I believe in long lazy naps on rainy afternoons, the healing power of a hug, the comfort of a warm bubble bath, and the sensuality of skin on skin. I believe in turning off the TV and talking until midnight, sharing what I have, even if it's only a little, and I believe in the incredible power of listening to the heart as well as to the words. I believe that it's easier to be cynical than it is to be positive, that honor is something worth striving for, even at cost to oneself, and that sometimes letting someone know you need them is the greatest gift you can give them. I believe in friends who tell the truth when you need it and are quick to distract you when it hurts too much, and I believe in laughter as the magic elixir for long term relationships. I believe that we already contribute to the culture, each of us just as we are, just who we are, and that the greatest gift of contribution is to be honest with that, to give what we love back, whether that is laughter or serious prose, limericks or Elvis on velvet, because the point is not to try to live to some standard of others, but to find our own and to enjoy living to the one we feel in our souls.

What do you believe?

rocking the house

We had our panel at the Tennessee Williams Festival in New Orleans. I noticed on the site's schedule that we were going to be opposite Elizabeth Berg, which meant exactly two people might might show up at our panel. And knowing this ahead of time, with tremendous confidence, I should add, meant that I was completely relaxed. I was so relaxed, that when I noticed the slight wobble in the heel of my brand new, very favorite boots, the ones broken in just right that are so cute, yet, so comfortable, I thought, no problem... I'll just put a dab of super glue on there... and didn't realize a little had run down the side... and from the angle I was holding the boot, the glue pooled in the zipper... sealing it open and unwearable. Still, I was relaxed, so I switched to the strappy sandals (and five blisters later, I am rethinking that choice)... and yet, no stress. I was zen. Completely calm. I was so completely relaxed that when I passed up the correct exit on the interstate and ended up going over the stupid toll bridge and had to circle back around, I only came mildly unglued and did not spiral into any sort of hamonic motion of fear and doom. (Hey, we take the successes where we get them.)

So, found the place very easily, found a parking space without a lot of effort, and even accidentally managed to park very near where our talk was to be (though I hadn't realized that at the time). I had time to find the place, go around the corner and sit and relax, watching the artists out on the square, drinking a cold water, sitting under the ceiling fan of a little store.

The Cabildo was gorgeous, and beautiful inside, though there were some quirks... like the elevator that opened upstairs directly into the conference room (with no way for you to realize that the very loud sliding doors were going to interrupt the conference in progress.) I thought I would be doing a good thing to get there early, which meant I traisped right into someone else's panel (oops), but they were apparently used to it, since no one seemed to notice. That's kinda like not noticing the 747 landing in your living room, it was that loud.

Anyway, their panel ended, and their people left, and our panel was sort of hovering around the back of the room, getting to know one another better. It was so great to see Ray there, and of course, the terrific publishers/editors, brothers Bruce and Dave Rutledge, as well as fellow panelist Sarah and moderator (and contributor to the Do You Know book), Jason Berry. So we were all standing around, thinking that maybe we'd actually have ten or so people, since a few people were milling around, when the elevator kept disgorging clusters of festival goers, one right after the other.

We ended up with a nicely packed room. And I hadn't had a chance to get nervous, so it all just ended up... fun. Really really fun. I tried not to answer too often (but Jason asked some interesting questions), and everyone participated well and I think we made some points that resonated with the audience (there was applause! and laughter! and much nodding of the heads in agreement!). Lots of people came up and said incredibly nice things afterward. And a few people offered to do some really important things when the Bobbie Faye books come out. That was extremely cool.

So overall:

Toll bridge fee = $ 1.00
Loss of super glued favorite boots = $ 60.00
Rocking the house on my first stint as a panelist?

Priceless.