Elevating to the Profound

I nightly enjoy another episode of Outlander and I'm awestruck by its brilliance (except for one or two episodes out of dozens), about how they lift the everyday into the extraordinary. They’re always elevating things to the profound by invoking standing stones, oceans, the passage of time, life and death, etc. There’s also a lot of blood (because she’s a surgeon, and because of battles) and sex, which seems to ground everything into the most basic and relevant things. I am daily humiliated by the brilliance of what Diana Gabaldon has done, and I think every day. Ditto The Weight of Ink, the book that Unlocked might have been.  I can either give up and feel bad that I’m not as talented and skilled as those authors are, or I can make it happen with the best I’ve got. That’s how I get back to my desk every day.

In other words, feeling your pain, and seconding it.

I’m also really aware that it’s not appropriate for all works to constantly hark back to that level of the elements, eternity, profundity, etc. Every work is different, so there’s plenty of room for us to create our own blend of brilliance... :-)

Strength, patience, and perseverance to us all!

Storm Petrel

SOTQ Blog: Grand Canyon

“The English novelist J. B. Priestley once said that if he were an American, he would make the final test of whatever men chose to do in art, business, or politics a comparison with the Grand Canyon. He believed that whatever was false and ephemeral would be exposed for what it was when set against that mass of geology and light…”
― Kevin Fedarko, The Emerald Mile: The Epic Story of the Fastest Ride in History Through the Heart of the Grand Canyon

These two sentences express a truth so close to my heart it had never occurred to me to express it. But as I prepare to send off my thirteen-years-in-the-making book, I realize I’m holding it to this standard. Are the characters and story line true and worthy enough to give readers the tiniest hint of the feeling of gazing at the Grand Canyon? That awareness that things are much more beautiful and awe-inspiring than you recalled, and why hadn’t you looked up sooner to notice? The feeling that you always want to carry this awareness with you, because life would be emptier without it? That’s what I want people to feel when they close the back cover of my book.

P.S. The Emerald Mile, if you haven’t read it yet, is an amazing mix of historical exploration (first third), politics and hydrotechnology (second third), and adventure (last third) that shouldn’t work but does because of great writing. It passes the Priestley Grand Canyon test for sure. Also, the non-fiction characters just happen to be better than any we fiction writers could invent. 

 

--Stormy

 

It's a Great Life If You Don't Weaken

by Nib

Anticipation 

Spring is here! As soon as the snow melts, anyway. I have to admit it’s been a tough few months for me. I didn’t winter well. I struggled with dreary days in a cold house. But I developed a routine, determined to persevere. I scribbled my way through one completed manuscript, ¾ of the way through another, which will probably remain unfinished. And finally settled in to write the first in a series I’ve been thinking about for a while. The first draft is nearly done on that puppy.

I kept myself to an ambitious daily word count, even if some of those days I resorted to only writing description because I wasn’t sure where the plot was heading. In addition to that, I forced myself to get outside on all but the blizzardiest days for at least an hour. I knew that eventually spring would arrive and I’d finally get to plant my vegetable garden and enjoy the sunshine.

I sought out inspiring messages. I read all those clichés on Facebook about positive thinking and counting blessings. I did my best to create a positive attitude. It didn’t always work but it didn’t hurt.

In a faith-validating way, April swung around and I planted a vegetable garden. And now it’s growing and I’m heaving a huge sigh of relief. I don’t have to put so much effort into feeling happy. Hearing the birds sing, waiting for the first burst of color from my peonies, and feeling the sun on my face is all the inspiration I need.

Today, I’m going to share one of the bits of inspiration I tacked up last winter to remind myself to buck up. I saw it online someplace and printed it out. It’s from Doe Zantamata.

We believe what we tell ourselves.

Tell Yourself:

Everything will work out.

Things will get better.

You are important.

You are worthy of great things.

You are loveable.

The time is now.

This too, shall pass.

You can be who you really are.

The best is yet to come.

You are strong.

You can do this.  

My father-in-law used to have a saying I love: It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.

I often resort to one of my favorite lines I first saw on a greeting card: It’ll all be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.

Look at their sweet newborn selves!

Now as I happily trip through the sunshiny spring and summer of growth and delight, I’ll shed the heaviness of winter. Not to get too maudlin, but life and the seasons cycle around. Maybe the dreariness of winter won’t hit me like a sledgehammer next year. But eventually, I’ll run into another rough patch and I’ll need to circle my emotional wagons again.

As an aside, the Hopi tribe, featured in my mysteries, believe that planting seeds and growning things is essential to maintaining not only the Earth's balance but our own personal balance. 

What about you? What tricks, methods, exercises do you engage when you need to pull yourself from the depths?

Don't Weaken

by Nib

Is it me, or has it been a long, cold, gray winter? I’m ashamed to say I sort of lost my grip during this last season. I’ve been fortunate that either by nurture or nature, I normally maintain a cautiously upbeat outlook on life in general. To augment that, I’m like the Thought Traffic Cop, directing them from the dangerous road of negativity to the more positive lane.

Something twisted in my head last fall, though, and my determined optimism faded. I opened my mind to a dribble of fear and soon, I was flooded with it. I turned in the last book of a three-book series and my new proposal hadn’t been accepted. I started writing in a new genre, experimenting with alternative publishing methods. I moved from my supportive writing network to the boonies. And I started to fret.

What if I was all washed up? What if my book sales tanked? What if no one ever wanted the new mystery series I wanted to write? What if these new books wouldn’t be successful?

I kept up a respectable daily word count but writing became a sentence, not fun. (Okay, let’s be truthful, writing for me in rarely fun, but I often feel satisfied.) My view of myself as a big fat loser grew to US dietary proportions. I literally saw my world in black and white. (I mean that literally, as in the movie Nebraska.)

I’m not sure what caused the turning point but one day it hit me. I had nothing to moan about. My goodness (truth is I probably didn’t say “my goodness” or "moan."), I had a three-book deal with a decent publishing house! How long had I worked toward that goal? I reminded myself that not long ago I’d said, “If I could have three books published, I might give up writing and become a full-time reader.” Somewhere along the line, though, I’d raised the bar on myself. Suddenly three books weren’t enough. And I wallowed in self-pity that my sales didn’t rival more successful writers.

The truth is, I may never get another publishing contract. This is what I’ve got right now: two books released, one due out next year. I had darned-well better enjoy this ride. If it’s the last time I go round, I’ll kick myself if I spend the whole time worrying about what’s next.

I also decided to stop writing the books that weren’t feeding me and start to have fun (again, a relative term). Just like the pall of winter lifting for spring, my gloom lightened. Negative self-talk that had become habit required conscious thought to change. But it’s so worth the effort.

Instead of thinking, “oh no, how will lightening ever strike me twice?” I’m feeling gratitude for the shock of the first time. I’m infused with new energy and determination to get going. No one may want to publish this next series but it’s the book I want to write. Thinking of it makes me happy. So that’s what I’m going to work on.

Maybe my new-found optimism is more a product of the coming spring than it is my ability to direct my own thinking. But it snowed yesterday and there’s a definite dreariness in the sky today. And yet, I threw myself into my new project with enthusiasm.

As my dear father-in-law used to say: It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.  

MY MUSES ARE STALKERS: I’m Not Kidding!

I used to think of stalkers as jealous former boyfriends and girlfriends, disgruntled ex spouses, obsessed co-workers, determined paparazzi, and obnoxious groupies. But I had to add to the list MY MUSES. I have twenty-five of the pesky perpetrators. You won’t feel envious when you hear how they operate.

The more benign stalkers like to hover like morbidly infatuated admirers. These muses tend to be observers who, on occasion, feel compelled to throw their two cents into the money jar. Alexis—in Greek “to help”—butts in when I least need her, like when I’m spending my one hundredth day researching the mating habits of iguanas for that one scene in ACT II of my latest screenplay. Velda is a hangeronnner who throws her weight around even when I’m supposed to be talking to my mother on the phone.

My rejected stalkers are intimacy seekers who’ve devolved into resentful muses. They are pathologically jealous of my time. They forget I have a life to live outside of fiction. They castigate until I’m on my knees, and if I don’t submit to their demands, they become vengeful, turning my characters against each other or taking my stories in directions I hadn’t planned. They can either save my book or mess with my mind so much I delete the damn thing. Oneida is a rock muse who is more like a ball and chain and makes it hard to go for a good long walk. Tanner tans hides. Then there’s the tallest of my muses, Sasquatch. I have no idea how he wheedled his way in there.

Some of my stalkers are kind of cool. One clutch chases after me while quilting the orange and red cloud threads at dawn. It’s quite a trick. They are particularly good with scene setting and choreography. One calls herself Seraphina – “fiery one” in Hebrew—who knew some muses were Jewish? Tara is a Colorado mile-highness, whose moniker is Irish for “an elevated place.” She inspired the bizarre locale of two of my books, the bohemian bastion of Boulder. Then there’s Muse Pearl…The secretions of a mollusk? Guess she’s meant to be atmospheric.

I tremble now as I think about one gang of stalkers who strike fear in my heart, pancreas, and other organs. They’re soul sucking dementors who threaten to bounce me down to hell and back to find my stories. These muses are overly careless with cattle prods and Donald Maass books. You’ve heard of plot reversals? That’s Muse Kylie’s Australian specialty, the boomerang. When I fail to twist my plots around often enough to entertain her, that damned wooden “play toy” becomes a weapon. Muse Melanie’s French name suits her. It means black and dark, and she never fails to show up late and force my protagonist to choose between two devastating courses of action. Frederica, a “peaceful ruler,” specializes in dénouements. Don’t be fooled by her name though. If I don’t leave a reader wanting more by the end of the book, I’m thrown into the torture chamber with Muse Gertrude and her spear, Edger Allen Poe, and Wilber the Wild Boar. How that last muse factors in, I’ve never quite figured out.

Some of my stalking muses are cranky and demanding about character development. Bridget—the exalted one—is an old-school nun who ruler-slaps me until each of my characters is a hero of his own story. Rhianno—the Great Welsh Queen—is the storm in brainstorm when it comes to protagonists. Muse Calvin insists my characters are adequately flawed. His French name means bald. Go figure.

The intimacy seekers believe I’m their soul mate. Their love letters are false starts. Shshshshhhhh. Don’t tell them a few have been recycled or have been critiqued into submission, by human friends no less. Stalkers of this variety are usually torn between reconciliation and revenge. Acacia—Greek for ”point of a thorn”—is a pain in the buttocks and is almost as ornery as Anise and Saffron, who sprinkle themselves all over the page when I’m working on one of my literary cookbooks. Then there are the naked muses, Cherry and Beverly Beaver Stream, who come creeping into my bed when I’m doing hands on research for flash erotica.

My nitpicker muses are irritating little Tinkerbell types who seem to think I need inspiration in the area of punctuation, grammar, and spelling. Courtney insists her name means short nose; but I think it means raised nose. She’s got a problem with peek and peak, bare and bear, and don’t get her started on to, two, and too! Blair lost her wings long ago on the battlefield. Trapezius stubs aside, she still takes up arms over the stupidest little things like periods and commas always belonging inside the quotation marks. Pu-lease! Making things worse, these persnickety muses are in league with the cyberstalkers.

They are a fun bunch of blokes.

I have no idea what the Cyberstalkers look like. They may not even exist. They pretend to be those guys from high school you friended last year then supported by “liking” this and “commenting” on that, when really they are keyboard perverts who have fetishes about fonts and format and pet peeves about passive language, unnecessary dialogue tags and qualifiers. Talk about anal!

Know what’s really scary? These cyber-bullies and gnat flickers have formed an alliance against my favorite muse, What-Will-Be-Will-Be Cassara. The nitpickers only allow her near me during my rushed first drafts. But once she’s done her job, the cyberstalkers kick her to the side, grumbling like hung over puppeteers pulling my strings as if I was their bouncy flouncy editorial marionette. I resent that!

I’ve learned a thing or two about dealing with stalkers. I’ll share my lessons with you. Don’t engage them unless you’re determined to publish your book. Reach out and tell others what’s going on. Others suffer with their own muses and are eager to form stalking muse support groups. See? I told you, muses aren’t always as angelic as they’re made out to be. Or are they? - Inkpot

Lifelong Homework

I read something the other day and I just had to share it. I picked this up from a Desert Sleuths’ newsletter and that writer picked it up from Ira Glass. He’s the interesting and wildly successful guy who does “This American Life” on NPR. If you’ve ever listened to his show, you can hear him speak these words:

“Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative

work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you

make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has

potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you

into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work

disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they

quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work

went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have

this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through

this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this

phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing

you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so

that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going

through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and

your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone

I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way

through.”

IRA GLASS

Did I mention he’s wildly successful? And yet, he admits that he, like the rest of us, was riddled with doubts. He didn’t start off being great. He worked at it. Worked really hard.

I find this encouraging and inspirational and disappointing all at the same time. It means I can’t quit. I’m not as good as my hero-writers and suspect I’ll never rise to their level. I’d like to settle for “good enough.”

I really liked school and was a pretty good student. I knew exactly what was expected to get the A and when I’d accomplished that, I couldn’t go any higher. (This was in ancient times before weighted grades and advance placement.) I knew when I could quit working.

Mr. Glass’s quote tells me I can never stop trying to be a better writer. That’s daunting. But he also tells me that hard work will pay off. I will improve over time. And so, thank you, Mr. Glass for giving me the proverbial homework for the rest of my life.

Nib

How about you? Does Ira Glass’s quote inspire or exhaust you?

Long Winter's Nap

SB -- Mid-December, the shortest day of the year approaching and my energy level is as dim as a 20 watt bulb about to burn out. Full of morning optimism, I promised myself a full evening of productivity. Once again, I find myself craving the couch, a nice glass of red wine, the Pendleton blanket and a good book, followed by an early night, all snuggled and cozy. Mama in her kerchief and all that.

A friend, Mario Acevedo, says that being a writer is like having homework every day for the rest of your life. Some days I’m so full of inspiration the words can’t stay imprisoned in my head. Sometimes firing up the computer and--even more challenging--firing up the brain, is impossible after a full day of work.

Difficult as it can be at times, writing is important to me. I don’t know why. It’s probably a disease, but it doesn’t make me itch or require giving up chocolate or alcohol, so as far as illnesses go, it’s not so bad. I’ve learned that no matter my best intentions, I can’t reliably write in the evenings. If I don’t write regularly, I suffer all kinds of angst you don’t even want to know about. So I’ve had to learn what works, and doesn’t, for me.

I get up ridiculously early. The house is quiet, no one calls or texts or wants to carry on a conversation. It’s not the time of day to do laundry or vacuum. More importantly, I’ve trained my mind to expect to write then. It works for me. I don’t have time for long sessions and I am usually frustrated when I have to stop and launch into my paid work day, but little by little my manuscripts grow. Bird by bird.

How about you? When do you write? Do you have a habit, a ritual, a mind game to get you going? Is it the same time every day? Weekly? I would love to hear how others get the job done.