Inspiration Shminspiration

I used a misleading word yesterday. INSPIRED. When I sat down to write today after my little morning rituals, I became aware suddenly of my grave error and felt it necessary to correct it as soon as possible.

There were a few old ideas I operated on in regard to writing. Some of them I’ve discussed already. A big one was that I had to be crazy in order to be creative. (No jokes at my expense, please.) Another falsehood I operated on was that I had to be INSPIRED to write.

It turns out that these are both fabrications of the grandest variety. They are the kind of lies that one tells to oneself that kill the dream. And I couldn’t just have that hanging out there like that, possibly bolstering someone else’s misconceptions.

Turns out you don’t HAVE to be crazy in order to be creative and you don’t HAVE to be inspired in order to write. The only thing you HAVE to do in order to write is write.

I hate that.

But it’s true.

It’s discipline that brought me here. There is a creative force that I have tapped into, but I never would have been able to access it if I hadn’t been disciplined enough to put myself in the same place at the same time every single day and train myself or let God train me to receive.

I am committed. I am regimented. I thrive on structure. And it’s served me well. Every writing book I’ve ever read has touted the same thing, and for a long time I thought, “Phooey. I just need to be INSPIRED. That’s what’s lacking in my life. INSPIRATION. I can’t write because my life is an awful, dry, meaningless desert and who wants to write about that?”

But everyone kept saying it. And the same thing caused me to grow out of that idea that always pushes me out of old ideas that aren’t working and into new ideas. Pain. You can only deny your deepest dream for so long before it starts getting uncomfortable. And when that happened for me, “miraculously” I came upon The Artist’s Way and a friend who was willing to take me through it in a very enthusiastic, encouraging way.

The first thing that was asked of me was to start Morning Pages. That is, three pages of stream-of-consciousness writing every morning. At first, I thought I was supposed to be writing, like, prose. This put a lot of pressure on my already pressured brain. When I ended up writing things like, “My hand really hurts and I’ve only written two paragraphs. I have to go to the grocery store today and pick up some peanut oil,” it became discouraging. Where was the beauty inside? But I was accountable to my friend. She would ask me if I’d done the morning pages, so I wanted to be able to tell her I did them. (See, character defects (i.e. caring too much what people think of me) work for me sometimes.)

So I kept at it, even though I was totally missing the point. This is the thing: It doesn’t matter what is behind the action. As long as you take the action you will get the results. Eventually, because I was committed and disciplined, I got the gift. I began to see that, if I let them, the Morning Pages could be like taking out the garbage, an emptying of my mind. They cleared out a space for some other voice(s) to get through.

I want writing to be romantic and feverish. I want it to be like those scenes in Shakespeare in Love or Becoming Jane. Ink from my quill all over my bloodied fingers and a little bit at my mouth where I’ve touched it in thought, crumpling up page after page of inferior product, going after it and after it until I finally hit it, the exaggerated flourish as I place the last period on the page and push back from my desk, satisfied.

I write on a computer. My mind works way faster than my hand could ever carry me. So there goes the ink well image.

Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes it is like that. Sometimes I see something so clearly, I still can’t get it out fast enough, even though I type maybe 90 words a minute.

But sometimes it’s a struggle. Sometimes I rearrange the same seven words over and over until I have the sentence I’m after. Sometimes I write a paragraph and spend the rest of my writing time staring helplessly at my screen. Please don’t be put off or think that there’s some kind of insane comparison going on, but Bestie A and I call them Kerouac days and Hemingway days. (The reference is about production, not quality.)

No matter what kind of day I have, you can bet I am going to have a day, because no matter what, I sit at my computer every morning at 5:30. And it’s awfully good to have a day. It confirms that I am, in fact, a writer. Not because I’m published or because that's how I make my living. Yet. I’m a writer because I write.

Yip. Ee.

Something is happening. I’m not sure I even want to write about it, because I don’t want to jinx it. Unfortunately, if I’ve learned anything from this little blogging experience it’s that I can only write what is in front of me. When I attempt to write what I think I should be writing about it always ends up sounding forced and insincere.

So. The thing that’s going on. It might be a shift of some sort. I had a little conversation with Bestie A yesterday. We got into it about what is really going on, what it is that is stopping me from moving forward. Specifically, on to the second book.

The second book. It’s very different than the first. More mature. It’s coming out in present tense, which feels so lovely and clean to me. My main character is strong and independant, not insecure and damaged. And it’s not a romance per say. I think there’s some kind of little love thing in it, maybe. Mostly, though, it’s about the romance of womanhood and motherhood and sisterhood. Which, incidentally, sounds pretty good to me. And I love these characters. Not quite as much as the first book. Not yet anyway. I probably just don’t know them as well. But I do love these characters. And I can see that - if I let myself - I could – if I wanted to – really get into it. Maybe. Probably.

So what do I have to do? Mostly open my mind. I have to open up to the possibility that there is another story in there that is as all-consuming (though hopefully in a less insane way) as my first experience with writing a novel. I have to be willing to let go completely of the experience with #1 and leave the outcome in someone else’s hands, and also be willing to let the story of #2 come all the way in.

I wonder if part of what has been stopping me is that I’m afraid I won’t actually be able to handle it. When I started writing #1, I was literally consumed. I would be at the dinner table, my beautiful family surrounding me, wanting to share their days with me, and I would be itching, fidgeting in my seat, taking deep, expressive breaths until finally my wonderful, tolerant, glorious husband would say, “Would you just go already?” At which point I would perhaps take time to give him a quick kiss on the cheek before rushing downstairs to write.

I kept a notebook by my bed and in my purse and in my car and on my desk, because oftentimes I would be jolted suddenly by the writing gods, the answer to some problem I’d been wrestling with coming to me in a flash while I was sleeping or doing laundry or driving my car or taking a shower.

It was on my mind constantly. I talked incessantly about them. I totally tapped out my husband’s patience bank. There was only so much he could take. I was distracted and absent. I shirked my responsibilities, all while blabbering on and on and on about what was happening or what I was having trouble with or how I was going to get from here to there. More often than not, he would offer up insight or help me find the answer. But sometimes, I think he just wanted his wife back.

We had a conversation the other day about how he continued to be supportive and encouraging for such an intense period of time. We realized that what he was witnessing happen to me was so powerful, so undeniable, that he could do nothing else but cup his hands under my foot in order to give me the boost I needed to get to the next place. Extraordinary really. Again with the question, how did I get so lucky?

I feel pulled in a million different directions to begin with. I’m a wife and mother, a business owner, a participant in life. It’s rare that I feel like I’ve gone through a day giving 100% in any area. Add on something like living fully inside your passion, forget it. When I am spending a lot of time writing, I have to be honest with you, it is hard to think about doing anything else.

Am I ready to go on that roller coaster again? Is my family? While I’ve been editing and seeking representation, it has been a little less hectic. Have I given sufficient time to everything in the interim? Am I ready to go back into the huge, dark auditorium of my mind? Can I do it without getting lost?

I’m not sure I know the answer, but I can tell you this: I heard this song. I mean, I heard this song in a different way. I’ve loved it for a long time. It’s called Unsuffer Me by Lucinda Williams. You should all go listen to it when you’re done with this post. When I heard it today, it opened up this new place I didn’t know was there. #2 hasn’t been inspired by music. It’s mostly been inspired by kids and husbands and besties. But I heard this song and I started to see something in my mind. It’s peripheral still. I haven’t let the photo really develop. I keep looking away from it before it becomes clear.

Like it really matters. I know it will keep dogging me. Try as I might to avoid the song, I will find it playing in my mind without my consent. A yearning will start in my arms, across my chest. A sort of emotional pressure that can only be relieved by one thing. I will put on my headphones and fill my brain with Lucinda’s chemical whine, listening to those words over and over until my fingers are forced to start moving, making words appear across the page.

Yip. Ee.

Telling the Truth

For much of my life, I've been a liar. I've lied to avoid getting in trouble, like the time I was in high school and I ran my mom's car into a pole. I had a friend, older and more worldly than I, who told me if I added in a minor detail it would make my story more believable and distract my mom from the lie. It went like this: I was coming back from his house and ran into the store real quick to get cigarettes. They carded me, and so I was unable to make the purchase. (See, you've already forgotten about the fib.)

“Mom,” I said with tears of horror in my eyes, “when I came out of the store, the car was like that.”

I've lied to make myself sound more interesting. I used to tell this stupid story about how I went to a Steve Miller concert and danced the hokey pokey on the lawn at Meadow Brook. The story is true, and not all that interesting at all, but it's not mine. It's Bestie A's. Of all the exciting and grand things she'd done in her life before we were 17, THAT'S what I chose to steal. I don't even make any sense. But I did steal it and told it regularly, because lying comes as easily to me as breathing in and out.

I've lied to get away with things, like when my vice principal in high school, Mr. Collins (we had a love/hate thing) told me in my last semester that I wasn't going to graduate because I had continually weaseled out of taking a gym class. I convinced him to let me take a college course (thinking they probably offered yoga or something like that.) The only thing that was open was Karate. I signed up, I had no other choice.

After participating in the first class it became apparent that Karate was something that took a lot of discipline and hard work, things I wasn't really into at the time.

I ended up telling the Karate instructor that “they” thought I had mono but that I needed the credit or I wasn't going to graduate high school. He told me very sternly that he wanted me to come to class and observe and then write a one-page paper upon which he would base my grade. I went home, wrote the paper that night and then spent the rest of my time in his class “observing” myself writing notes to my boyfriend.

My instinct to lie runs so deep that before I started living my life honestly, my driver's license reported me two inches taller than I actually am. My personality has always been that of a woman much taller than I. No one questioned me. No one ever said, “Hey, you don't look that tall.”

Two inches may not sound like much, but when you go to renew your license and have to explain that, no, you're not 5'7”, you're actually 5'5”, you get a lot of strange looks. I couldn't even blame it on a freak accident or surgery. I had to tell the truth, that I had lied about something as fundamental as my height.

Which brings me to the other kind of lying, the kind that is certainly not as fun to reveal. This sort of lying starts at a cellular level, somewhere underneath the skin. It's the deceit of self, and I practiced it for many, many years.

I have reinvented myself tens of times. (I was going to say hundreds, but I'm trying to be honest.) Reinventing yourself has a small catch you may not know about. In order to sell it, you have to believe the lie. I eventually got to this surreal place where I looked around and realized I didn't even know what my favorite color was or what music I liked or how I wanted to dress or what kind of books I enjoyed reading. I didn't know how to be a person. I was 22 when I stopped pretending. At that time, there were maybe three things that were authentic about me. Trying to be authentic has become really important since then, epecially in my writing. If I'm not putting it all on the line, what's the point?

I went to yoga this morning. When I walked in, my yoga teacher said, “Hey, I read some of your blog last night.” She went on to say, “My God, you're unbelievably honest.”

“I have to be,” I realized. “That's where the power is.”

Telling the truth is where the REAL power is. When I tell you I am actually insecure and afraid, when I show you all the ugly that is really going on inside, that truth of my life can't get me anymore. It's now mine, and I'm using it to my advantage. When I am totally willing to be transparent, I take back the power all those lies have stolen from me.

Transition!

TRANSITION! Oh my God! Sometimes I have to be smacked over the head with a big blunt truth over and over until I'm able to see it. Sure, I've been rejected a few times. Big Deal. I'm in transition – IN MY LIFE! That's at least part of what's going on. I'm moving from one book to the next or to wherever, and I never quite know how to act when things like that are going on. It's about time I acknowledged it. Whoever Anonymous is, thank you. It wasn't until I read your comment after I Don't Wanna that I realized this discomfort is mostly about transition. It should have been obvious. The name of my blog is In Between. I know. What can I say? I think part of my obliviousness is that I'm too deep and brooding for my own good. I take myself way, way too seriously, and, as Bestie A will tell you, I just forget that I get weird when I'm in transition.

I'm thinking back to when it first made itself known to me, this personality twist I have when going from one place to the next. I'm going to try to narrow it down to writing fiction. I'm certain if I really looked closely at my life in general, I'd see that from the time I left the hospital with my parents, I've never been okay with change.

There were a few places I hit during this process where I really had to shift from one huge phase to the next, where I needed to take it to the next level or move into a new place entirely. The book spans 18 years. Of course it contains some change.

But I like a clear picture. I like a map. I like a nice, clean set of blueprints to get me from Point A to Point B, preferably with all obstacles listed in intricate detail. I am anal retentive and extremely controlling. If I'm not sure how I'm supposed to behave in a certain circumstance, I get very uncomfortable. There was a very dark time in my life where I was convinced that if I could just get a three-second glimpse into my future, just to see where I was going, I would then be able to act accordingly and everything would be OKAY. Really. I thought THAT was the solution.

When I'm writing and suddenly the road becomes foggy and the destination unclear, I get this feeling in my arms, like the words are actually building themselves up in there, all clamoring to get out, except I don't know which order I'm supposed to put them in. They're stuck inside me and they let me know they feel very, very claustrophobic. I get sick to my stomach and uncomfortable in my skin. Suddenly, as you've seen, I'm ultra sensitive and nothing is right. My nerve endings are on the outside of my body. My world is full of dissatisfaction and unease. I'm certain it's never going to be any different. Then all of a sudden, I'm doing really silly things with my work. Like whining in public.

Another example: There comes a point where my main character, Jack, really has his heart shattered. I mean destroyed. I could see him clearly, sitting in a bar, drinking himself into a stupor. I even had this amazing scene in my mind with this abstract sort of ethereal nurse stranger. It didn't make it into the final cut, but it was a fantastic flippin' scene, even before I wrote it.

Unfortunately, because I was in my weird transition place, I thought I had to get him there. I spent an entire afternoon – probably close to four hours - looking at parking structures in LA on Google Earth. What the hell?

Finally Bestie A said, “What the hell? Why are you looking for parking places? Just put him in the bar. You're the writer!”

To which I said, “Oh yeah!”

I have to be reminded. Like my lovely little Anonymous did. I get so wrapped up in where I am that I don't see what I'm actually doing. Most of the time it would be some bestie or Danny Boy who would smack me across the creativity with some harsh but true words (and sometimes very loudly). After a while it just became, "Quite looking for parking places!"

I don't know if you've ever been pregnant, but if you have, you may understand when I tell you that when I'm sitting in the middle of the crazy, if I'm lucky enough remember at some point that I'm actually crazy, it seems to alleviate something. As soon as I realized yesterday that I am actually sitting in purgatory right at this very moment, I could breath a little easier. So THAT'S why I'm feeling so yucky!

There's this other thing that's nagging at me, a quiet little thought in the back of my mind that's getting louder and louder as I reread what I've written so far.

I miss them almost every day. Maybe it's silly, but I want to see them again, to be inside their crazy great heads. I love them like they are my family. I still listen to music and hope that a song catches me in that certain way, where all of a sudden they're dancing in front of my eyes, egging me on to describe for everybody what it is I'm seeing. I have two big wishes. The first would be that I could read it with fresh eyes. (Isn't there some pill I can take that will temporarily sweep away the past two years but not cause any permenant damage?) The second is that I could just give her a call. Every time something amazing happens all I want to do is call her and say, “It's happening, baby! We did it!”

I suppose part of transition is letting go. It's not just about going somewhere. It's about leaving somewhere too.

I Don't Wanna

I don't wanna.

I don't want to write some cute little bloggy blog and be clever and deep about writing and life. I want to sleep. My lovely, wonderful, comfy king-sized bed is just waiting for me to curl up in it and snuggle down deep and close my eyes. Not to be dramatic, but I would probably go so far as to pull the covers over my head. Maybe put on one of those little eye masks so I can stay depressed even when the sun is out. But only if my husband and children will leave me be.

I don't want to write this blog. I don't want to work on the other book. I don't want to send out queries or get rejected anymore. I don't want to be a writer today.

It's funny how the yuck manifests itself where writing is concerned. It's so easy to hide out in my life. I can tell myself that I have a lot of fake work, I don't have time to write. Or I'm hormonal. Yeah. That's it. I don't want to write because of PMS or maybe I'm getting sick. My throat probably feels a little itchy. I have two young children who need my attention. There's second grade and football practice and AR books and preschool and dolls to play with and a DS to negotiate. There's dinner to cook and a house to clean and a ton of laundry. Who has time to write?

Besides, there's nothing to write about anyway. I look at my blog notes, my inferior list of ideas for this thing, and I think, “Who can write about transitions or looking for parking places or surprises when they're so tired?” No one cares about that stuff.

I hate feeling this way. I wish it would go away. I'm much more accustomed to being happy. I am normally very Pollyanna. To the point of irritating people around me. I just usually see things in a positive light. My dad would call me flighty or tell me I was living in a fantasy, but it's worked pretty well for me.

Most of you know me in a pretty daily way. If I wasn't writing this blog, you might never know I was feeling like this. I can fake it pretty well out there in the everyday. But when I'm trying to put something together for this thing and I just feel like eating a bunch of sodium and watching crappy TV, but instead I have to write something to put out into cyberspace, it's harder to pretend. I have two other posts started, but I just couldn't get into it. The fact is, the pressure of my writer's tantrum is only relieved when I'm sitting inside the truth. So I don't really have any choice but to whine right now. Sorry.

Sometimes I think if I let myself feel this way or if I don't get out of it I'm going to drag the whole thing down around me. All the work I've done walking this walk will be flushed away. I think if I don't stay positive and happy, or at the very least, hopeful, that's exactly what I'm going to bring into my life. And maybe that's true to some extent, although I'm sure I don't have quite that much power. Certainly, though, that's what I have in my life right at this very moment. So then I have to think about what I really want.

(Here comes the shift we've all been waiting for.)

Right at this moment, I want to be full and hopeful again. I want to remember that there really is something here and that I wouldn't spend half my waking moments thinking about words on a page if I wasn't meant to be doing this. I have to remember that when I talked to my editor after she read my first draft she said, “Every once in a while I come across a story that just HAS to get out in the world. This is one of them.” I have to remember that everyone who has ever read the book - even skeptical, uninterested boys - has been touched and that I have 12 saved messages on my voice mail and countless emails printed out and taped on my wall that confirm that. I have to remember that when Bestie C reads something to me I sometimes forget that I'm the one who wrote those words. “Damn,” I think to myself (sometimes I say it out loud), “that's good.” No matter what every single literary agent in Manhattan says.

I don't like living in my ego. I actually try very hard every day to get out of it. When I'm thinking about you or how I can contribute to the world, I don't get caught up in all this disgusting crap. I know I'll post this, because I don't have anything else to put up. And because I have some writers in my life who are a little bit farther behind on this road than I who will undoubtedly feel this way someday if they don't let themselves get afraid and quit. They'll need to know that this happens and that you can get out of it if you want to. But trust me when I tell you, I don't like hearing this garbage any more than you do.

Here's the thing: telling the truth and putting it out into the world is frightening. That makes writing a very risky endeavor. I am gambling that my guts and blood, my very soul will be judged or laughed at or criticized. Rejected. Insecurity is my default to begin with. Being brave, not so much. I'm not absolutely certain, but I think these traits are true of most people who want to make their living creatively. Hilarious. I might have to spend some time on this blog talking myself out of throwing it all away.

The best I can offer in compensation for you having to wade through this is that one day I'll be posting something very different.

Maybe tomorrow.

The Best Mix I've Ever Made

My friend Cody asked me what else I was listening to right now besides the Kings. My first thought was, There's an 'else'? Hee.

So, I was inspired to post the song list, soundtrack really, for In Search Of (working title). No small task, let me tell you. I like a grid. This blog does not. So, I've tried to make things as readable as I could. While this is certainly not a list of everything I'm listening to now (Pavement is a recent re-love), it is a comprehensive list of every song and artist that is mentioned in the book and everything I was listening to while I wrote. The liner notes that I gave as gifts have a column for where each song takes place in the book, but I didn't want to give anything away. As a side note, all music by Jack Finch that is listed is not actually on the mix, per say. The book also contains lyrics to four songs Jack and I wrote together. CRAZY! (Now - speaking of crazy - I try not to be one of those nuts that talks about her characters as if they're actually alive (right?), but I don't know how to write songs, so how would YOU explain it?)

The mix is called Iso's Opus. I wish I could give a copy to all of you.

DIAPAUSE

In Circles | Sunny Day Real Estate | Dairy
No Name #5 | Elliot Smith | Either/Or
Jigsaw Falling Into Place | Radiohead | In Rainbows
Hallelujah | Jeff Buckley | Grace

CATERPILLER

Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want This Time | The Smiths | Louder Than Bombs
Don’t Think Twice | Bob Dylan | The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan
You Can Close Your Eyes | James Taylor |Mud Slide Slim & the Blue Horizon
Any Day | Ani DiFranco | Puddle Dive
We Might as well be Strangers | Keane | Hopes & Fears
Broken Hearted Savior | Big Head Todd | Sister Sweetly
Breathe Me | Sia | Colour the Small One
I Miss You | Incubus | Make Yourself
That’s Him Over There | Nina Simone | The Amazing Nina Simone
Blackbird | Paul McCartney | Back in the USA (live 2002)
Slow Dancing in a Burning Room | John Mayer | Continuum
I Don’t Trust Myself with Loving You | John Mayer | Continuum
Ænima | Tool | Ænima
Dreaming with a Broken Heart | John Mayer | Continuum
Brutal Surgeon | Jack Finch | To Be Determined
McFearless | Kings of Leon | Because of the Times
Heart Shaped Box | Nirvana | In Utero
Stay Away | Nirvana | Nevermind
Better Man | Jack Finch | To Be Determined
Brick | Ben Folds | Whatever and Ever Amen
Trunk | Kings of Leon | Because of the Times
Delicate | Damian Rice | O
Volcano | Damian Rice | O
Unravel | Radiohead | In Rainbows
Molly’s Chamber | Kings of Leon | Holy Roller Novocain
Sex on Fire | Kings of Leon | Only By the Night
Fans | Kings of Leon | Because of the Times
Use Somebody | Kings of Leon | Only By the Night
Degrees | Jack Finch | To Be Determined

METAMORPHASIS

I’m On Fire | Bruce Springsteen | Born in the USA
The Reason | Hubastank | The Reason
Claire De Lune | Debussy
#41 | Dave Matthews | Live at Luther College
Jimi Thing | Dave Matthews | Live at Luther College
Crash Into Me | Dave Matthews | Live at Luther College
Lover Lay Down | Dave Matthews | Live at Luther College
Shine | Dolly Parton | Little Sparrow
Say It Now | Glen Hansard | Once
Once | Glen Hansard | Once
All the Way Down | Glen Hansard | Once
Trying to Pull Myself Away | Glen Hansard | Once
Leave | Glen Hansard | Once
The Hill | Marketa Irglova | Once
Lies | Glen Hansard | Once
When Your Mind’s Made Up | Glen Hansard | Once

IMAGO

Hold You In My Arms | Ray LaMontagne | Trouble
The Blower’s Daughter | Damian Rice | O
Cannonball | Damian Rice | O
Shelter | Ray LaMontagne | Trouble
Little Wing | Jimi Hendrix | Axis: Bold as Love
The First Day of My Life | Bright Eyes | I'm Wide Awake it's Morning
Fool in the Rain | Led Zeppelin | In Through the Out Door
All I Want Is You | U2 | Rattle and Hum
The Luckiest | Ben Folds | Rockin' the Suburbs
Armored | Jack Finch | To Be Determined

Rejection

Since I have emerged from the safety of writing toward a finished novel and stepped into the world of seeking agents and publication, I have made rejection nearly a full-time gig. It's happened recently, and while my ego does NOT want me to write about it, I find I can't really do anything else until I address it.

Rejection sucks.

Here's how my story has gone:

I “finished” my first draft on my birthday in 2008. Technically, it was perfect (I edit for a living, so I felt pretty confident about my grammar and punctuation.) (Although Bestie B noticed yesterday that I had spelled 'prestigious' incorrectly in a previous post. For shame.) The first draft, though, had been read and re-read. By this time I had given it to a circle of women and had even had a beautiful dinner party for said women so that I could get some feedback and give some gifts. But that's not what this post is about.

Rejection.

I've already talked about my horrible query and some of my rejections. My first 10 queries were sent out by US mail. I've had better luck getting actual rejections when I send things out by mail. I haven't gotten a whole lot of response with email queries, and there's something satisfying about getting SOMETHING back. Also something concrete and substantial about printing out my letters, signing them in my scrawl, putting in pages if the submission guidelines for a particular agent accepted pages, stamping them and taking them to the post office.

So. Rejection.

I sent these first hopeful queries out. I didn't feel comfortable about my first 10 pages, which is usually what's excepted if an agent is going to take pages. When I got hooked up with the Bad Things Happen woman, one of the agents she sent me to was a Young Adult agent. Since the book spans such a huge amount of time and sees my main character through her young years, I have waffled about its true intent. I have to admit, the thought of my book in the hands of some hurting 17-year-old girl is compelling, but it's really much too dark at times for it to be a TRUE Young Adult novel.

This agent read the first 10 pages and said, “Your premise in this manuscript is unique and powerful. I wonder, though, from your opening, if this is the natural starting point of your story.” She talked about finding a hook, some part in the story that would pull the reader in right away, and then filling in the backstory bit by bit.

“If this idea fits with your vision for the story,” she said, “I'd be happy to read a revised opening.”

Mercifully, I have been raised to be open and respectful when someone who knows more than I do gives me criticism about what I'm doing in my life. I thanked her profusely for her input and told her I would be sending her a revised opening soon. It came to me like a shot, what the REAL beginning was. A powerful moment when she's 23, steeped in pain, the turning point, a reunion of sorts. I sent it off to her right away and, of course, proved immediately that this was not a Young Adult novel, which she told me in a very nice email about how she only represented Young Adult authors and keep trying, best of luck.

Truthfully, I thanked her. I told her that her notes had changed the whole course of the novel and that I would be forever grateful to her for that.

That's sort of how I've handled all of my rejections. And, believe me, there have been many. Most of them have been lovely, some of them have been form letters. Through it all, I have maintained that the right person is going to find it, someone who will be a true advocate for my work and my family. I have people around me, not just those obligated by love, who tell me it's GOING to happen.

Rejection.

The latest was from an agent who actually asked for and read the first 100 pages. Somehow, it stings more knowing that she read so much. Before, I could tell myself that if they only read the book the would be hooked, that they couldn't possibly FEEL it after only reading the query and 10 pages. But maybe that's not true.

The deal is that, no matter how gracefully I have received rejections, it still makes me doubt for a little while. I doubt my belief in these guys and their story. I doubt my path, my future, my purpose. I doubt myself and my talent (if I even have any.)

Being rejected is a terrible thing. But it's part of the deal.

There are people, like Steph, whose path falls out in front of them, paved in gold – little more than six months between writing the first word and publication. And even she got rejected. Bet those agents feel dumb. There are also those people who fight for 14 years to get their words to the world. I'd like to fall somewhere in the middle.

As Bestie B will no doubt say when she reads this post, “I don't know what the purpose is for this book. I only know that YOUR purpose is to write. This is not about publication or agents. This is about you using the gifts that you've been given.”

To which I will most assuredly say, “Hrmph.”

But she's right. I don't feel full of passion and joy when I'm sending out query letters. I feel full of passion and joy, totally hooked up to the powerful flow of creativity, when I am typing words on a page. I feel closer to my God when I am writing this blog than I have ever felt when corresponding with an agent.

Do I yearn to see my book on the shelf at Hastings? Yes. Do I see myself sitting on Oprah's couch? You bet. I even copied a NY Times Best Sellers list and typed myself in there right at the top. I printed it out and put it on the wall next to my desk. Now I can look over and see myself there, right above Robert Parker and Stephenie Meyer.

Do I write the words in order for other people to read them? Of course I do. I would not be content to sit at my computer and make beautiful stories for myself and my friends. I won't lie. And, truthfully, not to sound arrogant, but I don't think I'll have to. I am persistent and very, very hard to keep down. Amazing opportunities have already crossed my path because I keep putting myself out there.

When I really look at it, I have had experience after experience on this journey that have confirmed for me that I'm walking in the right direction. I believe with my whole heart that someday I'm going to get paid to do this.

Right now I'm a little depressed and feel just the tiniest bit sorry for myself. I would like to go to bed and retreat from my life until ACCEPTANCE comes knocking.

But the truth is, I am not going to stop feeling this way by receiving an email from an agent saying they would LOVE to represent me and my book (although that would be great and would make a nice post). I am going to get out of feeling this way by writing three pages today and putting it out into the world. It seems like it shouldn't work that way. But it does.

Bad Things Happen

Bad things happen. It's true. I lead a pretty charmed life and this has been a pretty charmed experience. Bad things still happen. There are some things that happened along this journey that broke my heart in a few places. Not only have I survived, my skin has been sufficiently thickened. As my editor once said to me (I paraphrase) “This is a weird business filled with weird, insecure people. They're all writers.” If I expect to walk around in this business for a while, and rest assured, I do, I have to get used to run-ins with the hurters out there. There will be rejection, as there already has. There will be bad reviews. (Reviews!) The most important thing to me is that I prove to myself that I can handle crushing blows with grace and dignity and not let it affect my integrity. Too much.

I have no doubt that I will have more opportunities for growth in this area. Here's some of what's happened so far:

I had just finished the first draft when the first blow came my way. I had written my first (awful) query letter, which is the letter you send to agents to try and entice them into representing you and your book to publishing companies and the rest of the world. The trick of it is that, at least if you're me, you have to sum up your blood and guts and soul and life in three short but brilliant paragraphs, somehow capturing with wit, charm and poignancy an epic love story spanning 18 years and a woman's entire metamorphosis. I had sent out my inadequate query letter and had actually gotten some lovely rejections back, specifically from agents who are known for their unlovely rejections, so I felt good about that.

I have learned that movement, for me, is the key. It took a lot of sleepless nights and days fraught with neurosis to realize that waiting just didn't work well for me. I HAVE to be doing something. Writing, preferably, but when you just finish your first novel, you sometimes feel a little entitled to a break and your family likes having you back for a while. Unfortunately, if you're me, you go crazy when you're not moving forward.

A lot of times Bestie A would say something like, “You don't have to know why you're sending out that query to that new agent, just send it. Take some action. Give the Universe something to play with.”

So I would do something. Usually it was send out another query. One time, though, I had an intuitive thought. About eight years prior I had taken a workshop from a writer, someone who had worked for a very prestigious magazine and had been published. I was young, maybe 22, and it had been a long time ago, but this intuitive thought said to send her a copy of the book. By this time, I had made the mixed tape and my beautiful friend, a graphic artist, had made beautiful liner notes and a song list for me. So I printed out a copy of my first draft and sent it to this woman along with the mix. Charming, right?

I was at my parents' house maybe a week later. At this time, I was obsessively checking my emails in anticipation of hearing from the golden agent. Maybe once every three minutes, and I'm not even exaggerating. I flew up the stairs to check while I was there. I opened my email up and . . . there it was. Among other things, this is what she said:

“I can't quite bring your face into focus, and I wish you would jar my memory about what you were writing back then or what you wore or where you worked to bring it all back... You were the youngest one, right? I am so close to remembering but not quite there. Not that it matters.

“Your package landed here Saturday. You will be surprised to hear that, though I composed in my head a nice note to tell you that I didn't have time to read your book, I read your whole book. I probably don't have to say more than that.

“Well done. You put a lot on the line, you held nothing back, and you made it work. You get off to such a good start that it is hard to put down. It is very well written, and very deeply thought out, and there is surprisingly full emotion in it.

“I think this is the first time anyone sent me a manuscript that I really liked (the last one involved sorcerers). Let me think about other ways I might be of help. Though there are things I would edit, I think it's in fine shape for you to be shopping it around as it is...”

As I read the letter out loud to my parents (occasionally screaming passages at the top of my lungs) I felt something shift. I was on some track I hadn't been on previously, back when it was just me and my family and friends along for the ride. Someone in THAT world had read my book. Not only had they read it, but they liked it (the only one they like, I might add). Before I left my parents' house I forwarded the email to the Besties. I printed out a copy of it and ran home to read it to Dan, in the same crazed manner.

At 1:30 in the morning her time, Bestie A called me from far away. We read parts of the email over and over. “Well, here we go!” we kept shouting. We were laughing and crying and full of the emotion that I now know comes with seeing another piece of the puzzle fall into place. “Well, here we go!”

Over the course of about a month she worked with me on a new query and made an introduction to an agent she knew. She had said some things over the course of our correspondence (only through email, she had not offered a phone number) that should have raised some red flags, but (HERE COMES THE REAL WARNING) I was so taken with the idea of this really being IT, of a real-live author being into my work and introducing me to agents and all of that, that I didn't pay any attention when something would happen that was a little off.

When things didn't fit with the first agent, she gave me the name of another agent to contact. “I almost worked with her but it didn't work out. Don't use my name, it probably will do more harm than good.” STOP! DON'T GO FURTHER! But I did.

There were other things she said about herself that should have served as warning, but I just kept writing it off as eccentricity.

Here's where it gets bad. One day, her email said:

“My therapist says that i can't do any more book consulting pro bono, so i have to tell you that. i have to watch it. i have an issue there. i can react, though, right? and be interested? you know i am.”

What does that mean? It sounds good, but also sort of bad. I was so grateful to this woman, the thought of her thinking ill of me or feeling like I had taken advantage made me physically ill.

I called Bestie A right away. “Should I offer to pay her? She's never mentioned anything like that. Have I been doing this wrong?”

“No,” Bestie A said. “This is an artist's community. This is what we do for each other. Don't worry.”

But, of course, I worried. I'm a worrier. I really want people to like me. So I emailed. I went with my insecurity and I emailed. That's my part. I told her briefly that I had talked about things with Bestie A and what Bestie A had said. I said that I felt horribly that she might feel taken advantage of and was there anything she needed me to do to cause her to feel differently. You know me, I meant every word.

Maybe it was because she wasn't used to sincerity and the tone of an email is sometimes hard to read. Maybe it was because, as Bestie A will tell you, she had some kind of weird resentment against NY and New Yorkers. This was her response:

“oh no you did not”

For real, that's how it started.

“tell me you did not just give me that obnoxious passive-aggressive bitch slap.

“you use the words of an actress friend to tell me you're unhappy that my time and attention for your book might, after a time, have a professional price?

“for the record, i never suggested that you needed to pay me for the time i spent already, or in anyway scolded you for not asking my consulting fee--i only told you that i couldn't put more time into your project pro bono...

“and now this: not simply 'thank you for all the help you gladly put in,' but an actual argument from some stranger that 'we do it for free.' I ALREADY DID IT FOR FREE.

“as for this 'we?'now it means you and the actress because any interest and compassion i had is gone.she'll help you, though--for free! between her free acting lessons and free subway rides and free therapy.”

Now, that'll put a pit in your stomach. I went straight to bed after emailing her that I was sorry for any misunderstanding and that when I thought of her it would be with nothing but gratitude and respect.

Bestie A called to offer comfort. Dan sat on the bed next to me holding my hand.

It was my first run-in with the uglier side of this business. And still, I have elicited a promise from each person who knows her name that they will NEVER, EVER out her. This post isn't about pointing fingers. It's just about another experience I had along the way.

I will tell you this, because somehow I still feel like defending myself after reading that nastiness: I have had some writers come to me in the past year or so asking for guidance and input. I have even had the brilliant opportunity to take one of them through The Artist's Way. I have had the gift of watching them evolve and of passing on what I have learned and what I have been given through this experience. I have also run across stunningly brilliant grown up women who give simply because they've been blessed, who have believed in me and guided me on this path. It, in fact, IS what WE do for one another.

The Besties

It seems that sharing is an interesting and controversial topic in the world of writing. For some people, it is extremely solitary. For others, writing is communal, social, all-inclusive. For me, it ended up somewhere in between. I found myself settling in to selective but necessary input. At the very beginning, it was vital for me to be precious about my pages. I was afraid and fragile and pretty sure I sucked. I showed them to Bestie A, and even she violated my trust by showing them to someone else before I was ready. I want to acknowledge that it happened and that it was a bad day. Showing someone else your guts is a risky thing, no matter who you're showing, because once it's out of your hands, anything can happen.

No matter what the risks, known and unknown, getting input from these few people turned out to be the way it had to go for me. They each brought their own gifts to the table that offered me some sort of necessary perspective. Dan read, but not until I was into it a ways, and he'll get his own post. And toward the end, my world expanded and there was a circle of people who read.

But for the bulk of this process, it was me and the three besties.

The besties are named by the order in which they appear. (Letter designations are meaningless, C.)

Bestie A
Bestie A is my bestie from childhood. She lives far away. All of her support and guidance were offered long distance. Except when I just happened to be on vacation at her house when my editor emailed that she'd finished reading the second draft. Other than that, 3000 miles away. Thank God for the friends and family plan.

When I started writing, Bestie A was in the middle of writing her own novel. She was a bit ahead of me on the path to teaching herself how to write. She was familiar with weird quirks a beginning writer deals with. It was semi-fresh for her. The self-doubt, insecurity, need for constant reassurance, they're all there when you're a new writer, at least they were for me, especially because my main character, the voice I was using to tell my story, the head I was in all the time, was wracked with down-to-the-bone insecurity. Bestie A knew how to lead me out of that kind of thinking.

She talked me off the ledges of discouragement. She helped me find my own process. She said the same things over and over and over and over to me without fail. Her support was of the life variety. I couldn't have done the daily walk without her voice in my ear.

“You are the god of your book.”
“Trust yourself.”
“Dirty it up!”
“You're just in transition. You get weird in transitions.”
“Quit looking for parking spaces and write the story.”

She provided me with constant confidence boosts, took a million desperate, dying phone calls. She loved what she was reading, told me nonstop how good it was, gave me feedback on everything, pouring over lines she loved and helping me step by step through the rough spots. She was present for me in a way I can hardly explain.

Bestie B
Bestie B, the moral compass. Bestie B always brought God back into the picture. She kept me focused on the underlying import of the story, never letting me deviate from its purpose, always reminding me to be true to my characters, that I had a responsibility to them since they had been entrusted to my care. There were times when I tried to deviate because of something one of the other besties said or because of my own selfish desires. She reminded me constantly of the convictions I had about the truth of my story.

We were walking together every morning during this time. At 6:00 she would pull up outside my house. We would walk around the huge park by where I live and I would tell her where I was, what was happening, what I was stuck on or what I had discovered. Bestie B never failed to listen quietly and then tell me the unadulterated, God-inspired truth.

She always helped me remember what a powerful experience I was having. She continually guided me toward the solution, never offering technical advice, just helping me remember I had the tools to find the answer myself. She was my constant encourager. She reminded me to be grateful for the gift and to get quiet and listen when I felt frenetic or unsure.

“The answer is to keep writing,” she would ALWAYS say in those moments when I was full of doubt and fear, discomfort and low self-esteem.
“You think that's the answer to everything,” I would sometimes snot back, but she never quit saying it. (In fact, I just heard it the other day. That's how this blog came into existence!)

Bestie C
The little Bestie. Nine years younger than me. The little sister I never had. I was a whirlwind month into the book when I told her about it. We were sitting at her kitchen table.

“You're writing a book?!” she screamed, slamming her hands down, rising up from the table for dramatic effect. “What the hell?” When she settled back down she said, “Tell me everything.”

So I did. I started to tell her the story, what I knew of it so far. About halfway through she stopped me.

“I have to pee.”

She was gone for a minute and came back.

“Okay. Go.” I started again. “No,” she interrupted. “I still have to pee.”

She had given me a few minutes to think. When she came back I said, “Are you sure you want to listen to all of this?”

“Gaaby,” she said, her voice full of disgust at what I was asking, “I didn't even let myself finish peeing I was so excited to hear what happened next.”

Little Bestie was my emotional barometer. She read almost every word out loud to me so that I could hear the things that worked and didn't work. We experienced together the wonder of what was being created. She has laughed and cried and gotten mad with abandon. She has argued with me every time I have made a major change, cut something she loved with her whole heart, even when she knew it was the right thing to do.


They all adore my characters as much as I do. They are all as invested as I am. One or the other of them has miraculously been with me during every monumental event. I just happened to be on the phone with Bestie A when I got my first beautiful, encouraging, dream-like rejection letter in the mail. I called Bestie C who lives four blocks from me when I got the email to let me know two agents wanted to read my manuscript. She was in my kitchen with me three minutes later, jumping around like fools, laughing and crying and babbling about dreams coming true.

These, and a million other moments along the way.


As I look back on this journey I wonder, how did I get so lucky?

Bits and Pieces

At Ms. Lamott's suggestion, I kept a tiny empty picture frame on my desk. “It reminds me that all I have to do is write down as much as I can see through a 1-inch picture frame,” she says. It helped me remember not to rush, no matter how anxious I was to get to the next place. It helped me remember that, even though I didn't know where I was going – something that was very hard for a control freak like me - I certainly knew where I was at. If I was diligent and looked in every nook and cranny of the moment I could see, when I was done with the complete picture, I would get the gift of knowing what I was supposed to write about next.

My journal entry 4/25/08 - “You know what is so cool about this whole process? The fact that more keeps being revealed. One second, I don't know what is going to happen to them, and the next second it appears in my mind.”

It's good to remember that sometimes I thought it was cool.

Because, for the most part, it was extremely hard for me to let go of my linear thinking and my yearning to write chronologically. I had to surrender this over and over again. Now, it's easy. I have the luxury of knowing it'll all work out in the end. Then, I had no idea. Then, it seemed entirely possible that I would never find out where these scenes took place in the big picture or how it was all going to fit together. I forged ahead anyway. Thank God.

I had three snapshots in my head when I first started writing; one when my characters were in college, one when they were adults, 23, 24 or so, and one when they were six.
I started at college. Even though I had only a peripheral idea of who they were, and no idea how they'd gotten to 18 or why they were acting the way they were acting, I still had a really clear picture of the context of the scene. As with most of this particular book, it took place by soundtrack. Music is a huge part of the book and inspired most circumstances, so I would listened to whatever song or album or musician it was over and over again while I worked.

By this time, our basement had flooded and was in the process of being remodeled. I had moved out of the laundry room and my “office” was now in the kitchen nook, pending the move downstairs to a big girl office. I wrote with pillowcases up on the nook windows in order to keep the blinding sun out of my eyes and dog dishes at my feet. Most of the time I wrote in the early morning and late at night, when I could put my headphones on and disappear. But sometimes in the beginning the insanity of my obsession was matched with writing in the midst of the insanity of my family.

I soon “finished” the college scene. My first complete picture. It was exciting, but I didn't know what happened next. I sat, perplexed in my nook, while Dan cooked dinner a few feet away from me. I asked him what he thought, should I look really, really hard and try to figure out their next move, or should I start working on these other two little scenes I had in my mind, even though I felt strongly that would probably add to my confusion.

“Oh, no,” he said, with the inherent knowledge he possesses where any kind of creativity is concerned, “you have to write whatever you have.”

So, with that, I set out on a journey of snippets, bits and pieces, vignettes. As the besties will tell you, it got frustrating at times, for all of us. One of them would say, “Well, does this happen before or after that?” And I would be forced to shrug my shoulder, curl my lip unfortunately and say, “I don't know.”

But there were also days when I would call one of them and say, “YOU WILL NEVER GUESS WHAT HAPPENED TODAY!”

It was a messy, exciting, terrifying whirlwind of a roller coaster - all in all, only seven months until the first draft was done. For a long time in the beginning it was a crazy pile of scenes, untidy really, much like her. I would try to force my will, make things neat. I would write down elaborate time lines in the back of my notebook to keep the thread or find the thread or conjure the thread out of thin air. And then I would try to surrender to only knowing the next thing.

“How is this going to work itself out?” I would cry to Bestie B. “How will I ever get them where they need to go?”
“I don't know,” Bestie B would say, ever my moral compass, reminding me to get quiet and listen, “it'll get figured out. It always does.”

Fictionland

What's next? I consulted my list, the one I've started obsessively keeping for this endeavor, and thought maybe we should take a trip to Fictionland. I have tried to find the journal I kept during this time. I would like to accurately track the path from self-indulgent, imprisoned self-discovery to untethered, limitless fiction. I'm afraid I've forgotten things along the way. I will keep trying and I'll let you know when I do. Those pages are filled to bursting with gratitude and wonder at what I had found. I, for one, would be really interested to see them again.

So, how did it happen, to the best of my recollection? What caused me to one day turn the corner and stumble upon the amazing, brilliantly free and colorful world of fiction? I don't exactly know. I think partially it was because Bestie A kept talking to me about relaxing a little bit on being so beholden to the “truth” of my life. Also, I reached a point where I was willing to let someone else read the crap, a writer friend of mine in Helena. She didn't once talk about how crappy the pages were, and she hadn't known me since I was 13, she wasn't obligated by love to adore me. Wow. She gave me the most gentle, considerate feedback. She told me that there was something raw and real there, but how I needed to jump to the next brave place.

The subject line in my email to her read: My Guts. I think she knew she was dealing with a fragile writer's ego right from the start. She said great things, things like YOU DON'T SUCK, in big bold caps, and that I was honest, funny and insightful. She said that she loved how I used humor, even in the dark moments (a trait that I've carried with me into Fictionland.)

Then she told me the other stuff; that it was too self-reflective, that I did too much telling and not enough showing, that there were times when I belabored the point. She told me, in a general way, that I wasn't writing fiction, and that I might need to take a look at not following the arbitrary rules I had written for myself so obsessively.

I took a deep breath, peeked around the corner at Pretend and wrote my statement of intent. I had said similar words before, only this time, I had put myself in a position to receive. I asked for the inspiration and I meant it. I had shown myself and the Universe through my discipline that if it came to me, this inspiration, I would honor it. I had been waking up every morning at 5:30, stealing time from my children and husband and fake work (the work I do to support my writing habit until the writing pays off). I had been staying up way past my bedtime. I wrote crap in every spare second until the crap ran out. And then. There it was. Fictionland.

I took a step back from the girl I had been writing about and thought about all the things I'd love to change about her, starting with her hair and skin. Instantly, she had the absolute confidence in her beauty that comes with being tall, and having perfect skin and long curly hair. Oh, the freedom of it all! She was callous and smart and funny (okay, we had some things in common (: ). I knew she was damaged, but suddenly she became damaged in ways I wasn't, her neurosis showing itself in ways that weren't my ways. She could be someone separate FROM me, but informed BY me.

And then I started thinking about what I like to read. I have to be honest, I'm a sucker for an impossible love story. Right around that time I had seen both Becoming Jane and Atonement. I'd read two horrible books sans happy endings. I can't remember what they were. I've blocked them out. I'm predisposed to adore the story of a love that just can't happen. My natural state when witnessing a tale of passion that is doomed is total submersion. But I want a happy ending, I want it tied up with a nice big bow. I was becoming a little depressed with my life's lack of happy endings. And then I found Twilight.

Now. I'm going to be talking about my teenage-like obsession for a moment. Boys, if you feel like skipping this paragraph, feel free.

Twilight. Edward. Bella. Oy. Right? What was so great about it? What was so compelling that it grabbed me so violently and wouldn't let me go? What was it that had turned me (and all of my friends) into fiending, sleep-deprived, neglectful girlfriends, wives and mothers?

The passionate, irresistible, pure love.
The other-worldly, aching love that made me feel what they were feeling.
The all-consuming, bleeding love that came pouring off the page.

An impossible love story. THE impossible love story. Yes. That's what I wanted to make. And I thought I might have a good start.

So who would be the guy, I asked myself? Who could hold a candle to this consummate leading man Steph had created? Was I up to the task?

Yes. Oh, yes, I was. And anyone who's read my book will tell you so. Jack Finch rivals Edward any day of the week.

So here she is, the girl; screwed up, dark and dangerous, no tools for living but funny and run. And here's this guy; whole, centered inside himself, the product of a complete and wonderful family, but still irrevocably in love with her. And then I had to ask the question, Why? What would make a man like this lose the power of choice in the matter of loving this mess of a girl? There was just one answer for me. She had grafted to him too young for him to have known better. He'd loved her his whole life. Once he realized what was happening, it was too late. How would they ever work it out???

This was it. I had found them. Or they had found me. And I was hooked. I had to know what happened. Don't you?

80 Pages of Crap

So, back to the 80 Pages of Crap. There were a few writing books that I was into when all of this started. A friend of mine had taken me through The Artist's Way, as I mentioned before. Also, an amazing book that I would recommend for anyone who reads words, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. My copy is now battered and coffee stained, the spine nearly rendered useless. I return to it a lot, especially when I need to be reminded of what's really important in all of this.
One of the suggestions she gives is to write your life. That's how I started. Only, in order to garner freedom from my repressed, egocentric, (again) uptight personality, there were some things I had to do to feel safe.

1. I had to change names in order to protect the guilty. Some of you who will read this blog were so named. I still have the legend on a 3X5 card so I could remember what name I had given who. If you think you made the cut, let me know and I'll tell you what your alias was. I don't know why I did this. No one was going to see it, at least not initially. I just went with the impulse to protect myself at all costs, so I could get something on the page.

2. I set myself up in the only room in our house that wasn't a bedroom or a bathroom yet had a door – the laundry room. It's a big laundry room, but I still had to jump over my “desk” in order to get to the chair. The screen of my computer and my back were to the wall. That's all I cared about. It didn't matter what kind of gymnastics I had to perform in order to get there.

3. Maybe most importantly, like Ms. Lamott says, I had to give myself permission to write crap.


And I did. It was crap, but it was necessary.

I wrote with as much honesty as I could muster, even when it was painful. I wrote religiously, obsessively, in a committed, disciplined way until I was ready to put down in black and white the ugly ugly underbelly of my life. I wrote the truth about the horrible things that happened to me and, more importantly, the horrible things I did to myself. After I wrote about losing my virginity, I had to call my best friend. I remembered that I had broken my own heart, and when I wrote about it truthfully and with some distance, I could see that clearly.


There were some funny things, too, like my first obsession in first grade at Fred Graff Elementary. I wrote about how we played a game called Kiss Chase and how, when it became apparent he wasn't going to chase me, I would yell, “SWITCH!” so the girls could chase the boys. Then I would corner him in one of the huge tractor tires that stuck out of the ground and force him to kiss me. (I've always been bossy. Especially with boys.)

I'm sure there were some other amusing antidotes, but I don't want to look too close. I'll remember how horrible it really was and then I'll feel badly about myself.


One of the things that was awful was that I did a lot of telling and hardly any showing. And that was a problem. Not at first, because I was just sort of getting my groove on. But a lot of beautiful descriptions and self-discovery does not a story make. There was little to no dialogue, a tiny detail that sometimes helps to move things along in a book. It was pretty much 80 pages of being inside my head. Scary. Right?

The other thing that was awful was that, as Bestie A will tell you, I was so tethered to the reality of my own life, the story of what REALLY happened, I couldn't allow myself to deviate from the path AT ALL. That means that when I got to a point where something bad happened with my mom, I was immediately in terror that my mom would be hurt by me writing it down for all the world to see. Bestie A would say, “Quit writing with your mom on your shoulder. No one's going to see anything.” So, I would forge ahead, determined to write down the truthyness of it all.


The real deal about 80 pages of crap is that it is really hard to look at your own life like that – no matter how much fiction you try to infuse by changing names. I'm prone to self-loathing anyway. Being honest on paper about the sometimes awful turns my life had taken sometimes drove me to the brink. At the end of many a writing therapy session, after trying desperately to assuage my self-hatred, Bestie A would say, “You have to remember, no matter what you're writing down, no matter how bad YOUR PERCEPTION of it is, you didn't kill anyone.” She said it so many times that I wrote it down. People who came into my office often wondered about the neon Post-It note taped to my computer monitor that read “YOU DIDN'T KILL ANYONE.” I think they were probably glad, but also curious as to why I had to remind myself of that fact.

When I turned the corner in to Fictionland, which we'll get to later, 80 pages of crap allowed me to do so with abandon. Out of maybe 80,000 words, two tiny little lines made the final cut. But you can bet they're two tiny little glowing, miraculous lines. That's what those 80 pages brought me to. If I hadn't learned to write about the stark truth of my own life without being afraid, I never would have found the tools I needed to be true to these sons and daughters of my pen. I had to squirm until I couldn't squirm anymore about who and what I actually was in order to expose someone else in exactly the right way.


I'd actually rather forget about them, but Bestie A wishes me to pay proper homage. “Let's call them '80 Pages of Jumping-Off-Place,'” she says.

I think “crap” sounds better.

To Start

To start, I feel incredibly strange and self-involved starting a blog. There wasn't really a choice, though. I needed to keep my sanity. I have to have something to do while I wait, and writing about this little journey seemed to be the thing to do. I have a second book in the works, but my heart just isn't in it yet. As I told one of my besties yesterday, I feel very precipissy. I don't know what kind of resolve has to come with #1 in order for me not to feel like I'm cheating with #2, but it hasn't happened yet. I found myself getting insanely glum and depressed at not having my 5:30 morning writing mind waiting for me each day, so I decided I would maybe start a blog.

Dan says, “What's it going to be about? The best blogs are about something. Er...um...not that I follow blogs.”

So what's it going to be about? I think since its purpose is to help me stay sane in the in between time, I should write a little bit about why I'm in between.

To catch you up: Two years ago I started writing. Well, I guess that's not entirely accurate. I've been writing for a long time, years, in fact, and had been on a new little journey with The Artist's Way, and had written 80 pages of crap, and THEN, a statement of intent in my morning pages, a story that would completely consume me, something that just HAD to get out. Three days later, I started writing. Isn't that amazing? I've heard other writers talk about people asking that horrible question, “How do you come up with your ideas?” and I'll admit, I was one of those people. I had this desire, and was even semi-confident in my ability, but I couldn't find the story.

So. Asking, receiving, all that brings me here.

These scenes started piling themselves up in my head, vivid detail, an intricate story, way too complicated to have come from me. These beautiful people and their beautiful relationships, coming together from the dust.

I'm a bit . . . intense, and a little . . . uptight too. Within days, I had notebook pages filled with notes that only I would understand:
*center of his pits
*chicken pox
*panties in a figure eight
*he tries to rebel but can't
*do they date? For real?

And words I wanted to use:
*superfluity (excess) does not dissipate
*truculent

And detailed, long, involved lists of the music each of my four main characters loved. I started to get to know them in an intimate way, as if they were my children. You'd think, since I was the writer, that I'd have more power over them than I do my real children, the living people that sleep in my house and have their own minds. Turns out these guys had their own minds as well. I tried to make them do the things I wanted them to do at every turn, but they weren't having any of it. Sure, they would let me write whatever I wanted, but if it was my idea, if it was coming out of my own brain, what I thought was best, or most interesting or compelling, it would inevitably need to be cast out. I found myself evolving into the listener, the watcher, letting them tell me where they wanted to go and putting it on the page. I was merely the transcriber. What a joy.

There were crazy, amazing things that happened along the way and I would like to use this venue to remember every miraculous circumstance. Here I sit, two years later, and two different literary agents in New York are considering representing me. Who knows what will happen? Certainly not me. I don't know if anyone else will be interested in hearing these things. But maybe looking back on how I got here and being grateful for the journey will help me stay out of the waiting place.