Cliches I Wish I Had

Writers. We're such a strange set. We're such a cool set. I don't much like the stereotypes surrounding writers and their lives. We aren't all recluses - we can't afford to be. One has to actually socialize these days in order to have any sort of following. But there are some stereotypes that I wish I could fit in because, let's face it, the traditional writer (which I'm not) is a pretty cool creature. That being said, I wish I could...

...live in a coffee shop

Looking at my flash fiction, you might think I live at a coffee shop, but that's not true. I would love to be a regular. I would love to have a well-worn corner at the bar and a barista who knew my name and slid a fresh latte toward my laptop because he knew by the knitting of my brow and the pricking of my thumbs that I wasn't feeling the whole editing thing today.

...sit on a white bed with perfectly shaved legs effortlessly balancing a laptop

Confession: I think sitting with your laptop anywhere near your actual lap is cause for ovarian cancer or something. At any rate, I'm sure it's not good for you. Also, who really wants to sit in bed all day? Also, whose feet don't fall asleep, like, right away after sitting Indian-style for more than five minutes? But you have to admit - it looks pretty darn cosmopolitan.

...survive off coffee alone

Coffee is so low calorie, I almost wish I could be one of those writers who gets so absorbed in their work that they can't stop for food. That's how those girls keep so slim. #coffeeislife...I'm sorry, but I'm the opposite. If I'm even remotely hungry, I get the worst hankering to A) stop for a snack B) eat all the chocolate, ever, in the whole world C) browse Instagram ad infinitum. I love coffee...but I also love muffins, toast, Chex Mix, pink lady apples, tangerines, trail mix, chocolate chips, granola, and many other things it's possible to love more than coffee.

...willingly shut out social life

We've discussed before how this aspect of my personality one hundred percent shoots me in the Achille's heel. It's almost impossible for me to choose writing time over people-time and that's why I'm sitting here writing a humorous blog post instead of sharing snippets of all the work (snark) I've gotten done recently. Of any writer stereotype, this one is the one I would give my left hand for. Not my right arm...I need that for writing, when I get around to it.

...achieve the perfect messy bun + bangs

You'd think after all these years I would be able to get this one right. That perfect top-knot that every college sorority girl knows how to do. I just can't. I can coil my hair into a sort of tea-pot handle and stab a pen through it, but that's about all. Rest in peace, hopes for the iconic writer-girl hairstyle. You just weren't meant to be.

....have so much plot it's bursting from my ears

This goes right up next to willingly shutting out social life. How people are overwhelmed with plot is beyond me. I am overwhelmed with atmosphere and characters and setting and clever sentences but plot comes to me only after blood sacrifices. Sheesh. Give girl a break, Plot, for heaven's sake!

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What are some stereotypes you'd like to be afflicted with?

P.S. Good luck to those of you who entered Rooglewood Press's Five Magic Spindles contest! I can't wait to see the winners' names tomorrow. 

The Extrovert As Writer

When it comes to “ease of peeling away from real life to write,” the extroverted writer is at a distinct disadvantage. To begin with, we defy the traditional stereotype of writers being quiet, reserved individuals who observe life at a distance and go home to discover rich depths in their souls and write about it. Because stereotypes are often based, in the main, off truth, this means that the majority of our fellow writers won't empathize with our wiring. They won't understand how hard it is to cut the chatter and buckle down to a writing session. To the extroverted writer, peeling away from social life and other humans' presence is quite an effort before we've even opened a Word document to begin pouring more energy into our WIP. To leave the presence of other humans means to cut ourselves off from our “charger” so, unlike the introverted writer, being alone is not rejuvenation, it is slow (and sometimes rapid) depletion.

As an extrovert, the way we experience life is very different from the majority of other writers. Rather than writing out of careful observation and analysis of the world without, the extroverted writer builds his work out of a plethora of personal experiences. In the words of Anais Nin, we “write to taste life twice.” And in order to taste it twice, we jump at the chance to taste it at all. Any bottle, any flavor, any way. We want to live. Later, we'll write, but for now to live is the thing. It is easy to become wrapped up in tasting once. It is easy to choose to continue tasting, rather than to savor the flavors and mellow them into a literary vintage because, I don't know, we might miss the most savory experience yet if we've pulled away and stopped tasting for a time!

I can see many of your faces bent in puzzlement and I freely admit that the extroverted writer is somewhat of a unicorn. At the time of writing this article, of the seventeen writers who responded to the question on Facebook twelve were self-identified introverts and three were ambiverts. Only two of the self-proclaimed writers define themselves as thoroughly extroverted. I don't pretend to be apt with numbers and statistics, but it is fairly easy to see that only two out of seventeen in the surveyed writing population would identify as extroverts. When I look at it from the logical angle, it makes total sense: what sort of person has the most to say? He who has hitherto said the least. And who speaks in social situations less than your average, observing introvert? Introverts crave quiet, if not solitude, and such conditions are naturally more welcoming to the Muses who don't feel pushed out by the Life of the Party already abiding in the house. Introvert writers, are, in my opinion, the real MVPs.

Great, my fellow extroverts are thinking, is there any hope for me? I am here to tell you that, yes, thankfully there is hope – quite a lot of it. Here is a list of things the extroverted writer is very, very good at:

Writing authentic dialog – extroverts are experts at conversation. It only makes sense that we'd be able to translate this capacity into writing. In this respect, your chat 'em up is a lovely, pre-forged tool for hacking through the forest of traditional filler dialogue. You know where you're going with this.

Including vibrant details – one advantage of living on the go and tasting lots of life, is that you have much to give back. You walk into a new place and take everything in, scanning the environment for every possible conversation, adventure, and interaction and then systematically sampling them all. An introvert will go into the new place, pick a chair, sit down, and observe everything within that corner of the room. Use your “birds eye view” to pick out details the stationery observer misses and include them in your fiction.

Writing from personal stories and experiences – the more people you meet, the more places you go, the more first-hand reconnaissance you'll have as lumber for building your stories. When you pair your affability with question-asking, you'll often be rewarded with the gift of hearing peoples' stories...and I can affirm the fact that truth is often stranger than fiction. In addition to getting accounts from those you meet, you'll also be far more likely to meet with your own adventures than you would be at home on your Macbook, googling the effects of the Black Plague and what they mean for modernity.

Writing believable characters – though the extroverted writer might have to work harder to plumb the depths of human experience (after all, we tend to not think as sensitively as an introvert might), when we harness our considerable energy and brainpower, we are able to understand as thoroughly as any classic deep-thinker. In fact, our understanding of a person or character will often be very complex because the knowledge is paired with deep and often intuitive care for the person or character. Writing them, therefore, is a chance to interact a second time with someone of whom we are very fond and which extrovert will not absolutely pour out her soul for that?

Lending prose new paint – because extroverts are usually possessed of excellent people skills, we are good at gauging how our words will affect our readership and tailoring them to exact a particular reaction. We're accustomed to using this skill in daily life as we interact with people and it is therefore easy for the extroverted writer to foresee readers' reactions and curate a certain tone to court the projected reaction. I love nothing better than writing a piece in a particular voice for a particular reaction and hearing feedback from readers that affirms my ability to achieve the goal I had in mind. This ability is especially helpful in journalism, blogging, and non-fiction, as it can be hard for some personality types to state the facts from any angle but straight-on. Not so for the blendable, bendable eight-armed extrovert! Octipi, unite!

I hope that my fellow extroverted writers (if such there be) will find themselves refreshed and inspired by this list. We may not be as naturally equipped as the amazing introverts for the writers' life, but we also have a few super-powers of our own. When paired with determination and a daily hour sector'd off strictly for no-contact writing, the extrovert can overcome his native sociability and become the writer he has always wished to be. Then, when the word-count goal is met, it's back to hobnobbing with us. We have people to meet and places to see.

Yuletide News

I do sometimes pop back out of the woodwork to say my piece. Not frequently, but frequently enough to hope some of you remember me, Rachel Heffington, the Inkpen Authoress. I bought a new laptop on Cyber Monday and it should be coming soon, which I find thrilling. New things are obviously not the reason for productivity, but they certainly help one feel like sitting down with the laptop for the old writing sesh. I sent "The Spindle and The Queen" out to several beta readers and have pretty roundly decided I will not be sending it into Rooglewood's contest. Instead, I intend to brush it up, expand it here and there, and publish it myself as an e-book sometime mid-winter. The story, word-count, and ending all suggested I go my own route, so as much as I wish all of you luck in the contest, my Sleeping Beauty retelling will not be making an appearance in Five Magic Spindles. I know many of you will understand. To rest, best of luck! I had the chance to peep at the story of one contestant and I'm quite excited to see who makes the cut and which stories are chosen!

In the realm of "consumed literature," I've been reading gobs. Both of actress Mindy Kaling's books were gobbled down between a total sum of three days (not constant reading, either). I'm most of the way through a massive biography on Julia Child, which has been so very eye-opening! I'm threading down the path of Charles Dickens's Dombey & Sons when I think of it, and working on a Civil War romance lent to me by author Meghan Gorecki. The only reason I haven't finished that novel yet is because Mindy Kaling happened. Excuses.

I hope/plan to write another Christmas story this year. In fact, I know I will because I've yet to pass a year when the need to Write Something hasn't seized me by the throat halfway through December. If you're new to the blog, or just want a healthy dose of the feel-goods, might I point you in the way of last year's story, "John Out-the-Window" - it's guaranteed to make you smile. The first part (and all the parts following) can be found by following this link. Gosh, I loved that story.

The most fantastic piece of information I have to announce, though, is the fact that I recently returned from a visit to my fellow "slipper sister," Clara Diane Thompson. We connected quite well over a group video-chat hosted by author Shonna Slayton , kept up afterward, and have continued to grow a wonderful friendship. Clara is just as amazing in person as she seemed to be over FaceTime and emails, and I treasured our five days together. When not writing, Clara works full-time as the sort of events/volunteer coordinator for a sprawling retirement center, which meant that I got to tail her at work one day and give makeovers to all of the precious old ladies. I also got to run their book club for the afternoon! Clara asked me to read one of my short stories and I'm telling you, it's harder than you'd think to find a short enough piece of fiction that is also complete/cheerful enough to read to residents at a nursing home! I enjoyed myself so much, though, and talk of my stories soon became talk of which authors and books were special to the residents. They fished around for memory of Pride & Prejudice's plot and reminisced about waiting for each Nancy Drew mystery to come out. What fun times we had...though one of the ladies sagely suggested I might record myself reading aloud sometime and listen to it to see places I could improve my enunciation and slow my speed so that someone nearly deaf would have an easier time following along. I laughed. And agreed. I cannot wait to see Clara again sometime! She really is darling.

I want to know about you now! How did NaNoWriMo treat all of you? And what is your favorite Christmas story? I foresee my annual re-read of The Christmas Carol in the near future!

A Hundred Ways To Write

I have just spent rather a lot of time traveling to see my new niece, so you'll excuse the lack of posting on this blog. I have also been reading a good deal. True Men & Traitors: From the OSS to the CIA, my Life in the Shadows by David Doyle is fascinating and whether because of that book or watching The Man From U.N.C.L.E., the Cold War and spies have very much been on the brain. Schindler's List is nearly finished, and I've been burrowing among food magazines and reading up on this very different but so intricate form of creativity and the people who have done astonishingly well with it.

I've been thinking a lot about the different forms of "being a writer." When I first got into this gig, I thought being a writer meant being a novelist. Well, it can mean that and for a lot of us it does mean that. But there are many other methods of being a writer. Methods that are fun and helpful to explore even if you think novelizing is your main talent. For instance, you could freelance some non-fiction articles, enter an essay contest, submit poetry to a magazine, take on a job as a content-editor, start a blog series on your favorite restaurants, or write a cookbook. You could write an editorial for the newspaper on a social issue close to your heart, or freelance the entertainment column for a local newspaper. I think of one of my favorite Facebook accounts, Humans of New York, and how its proprietor, Brandon Stanton, has so smoothly meshed photography and writing in telling the stories of people he meets in word and image. That's such a cool and inventive method of being a writer. You know what I really want to do? I want to be in charge of writing descriptions of perfumes and naming a line of nail polishes or lipsticks. Isn't that weird? But I bet I could get paid for it and it sounds like so much fun. I've also always wanted to name a neighborhood full of streets under a certain theme. I think I might have a problem with naming things.


My heart has also been tied up in finishing seasons 4, 5, and 6 of White Collar and continuing to watching The West Wing. Also the odd episode or three of Parks & Rec watched while holding a sleeping infant and trying not to wake her with my laughter.

Got me thinking about screenwriting, and what a blast it would be to write a show so successfully that you had fans begging for more, that your words got quoted in daily conversation, that people aspired to dress like your character, or be your character some day.

Jeff Eastin, I blame you for my goal to become Elizabeth Burke. I also blame you for creating Neal Caffrey, making me want to marry a Bureau agent, and making NYC look swankier than it ever has. But that's a whole nother conversation. Then the devastating trailer for the final season of Downton Abbey came out and cemented the thing: screenwriting is, perhaps, just as rewarding profession as becoming a best-selling novelist. So I suppose my thought for your Wednesday is this: never limit the range of your writing experience to novels only. Write your novels and write them well. Noveling is probably the most straightforward way in which you can be a writer. But if you want to create an addicting screenplay on the side? Well, I'm not going to stop you.

C'est la LIFE

Writing-Wise

My MERCY, life flies by. It's July and I have the most baffing feeling that I've been some sort of hideous fake this whole spring, calling myself a writer. The truth is, what I've written this spring wouldn't fill a wide-ruled, spiral-bound notebook. I have not logged into my publishing account in four months. My Twitter is a ghost-house. I'm doing horribly with self-promotion. I'm not sure I should even be telling you this, but PR has never been my strong suit. Actually, scratch-that. Public Relations are where I am GOOD. Selling books is where I don't give a horse-fly, even when I ought, which is why I still work as a nanny rather than a full-time writer. Life has been giving me a workout and in a fist-fight between my family and my books, family wins out. That is not to say I haven't wished to write and even written a (very) little. I've started a secret thing that I can't whisper about yet because I don't want to announce my lipstick-taser before firing. I've worked a (very) little bit on Scotch'd the Snakes. I've worked on a few pieces of worthless flash fiction to keep my mind limber, and have plans to write a very quick piece of humorous fiction in honor of something I misheard a couple of weeks ago while in church. Cottleston Pie is marinating. I am not sure what to do with it yet, but murmurings of a rewrite are in the nearest corners of my mind when I stop to think about it. Historically, just about forty or fifty percent of the reading populace, after reading one of my novels, suggest I write a children's book. I have never quite decided how I feel about this reaction. Did they not enjoy my novel, but find my tone amusing and therefore feel I should tackle something of less import? Or did they like my story and/or tone so much they want it in short-order form? Or do they think I am entirely on the wrong tack and ought to pin my sails and try for something that will harm no one if it flops miserably? I cannot tell. But I love Cottleston Pie and I think I'm on the right track with it and when I take it out, it is always so much a better project that I remember it being. This is my update on personal writing. I was vicariously thrilled with my friends, like Mirriam Neal, who managed to do JuNoWriMo. Brava!

Reading-Wise

I've had a little more success. Suzannah Rowntree's Pendragon's Heir is marvelously well-written but a little too brocade for summer wear. I find it slow but pleasant going. I picked up Schindler's List by Thomas Keneally after going on a blitzkreig-speed tour through DC's Holocaust Museum. I want to go back and spend more than fifteen minutes on each floor, but what I saw was enough to convict, impress, and sober me. So far, Keneally's book is thoughtfully researched and reads much more like an interesting history than a novel, which is rather the point. Lurking behind-hand in the book-wings are a book about the children of the Holocaust (also a Museum purchase), The Nine Tailors by Dorothy Sayers, two cookbooks, and a book about the history of maps. No, it's not The Island of Lost Maps which I read earlier this year...I just have a strange fascination with cartography since the day I first watched National Treasure. The influx of reading material happened when I made the trip to our dinky library which is hardly ever open to renew my card which had expired at least a year ago. What do you know? They have books at libraries. And I'm terrible at resisting a book.

Listening-Wise

I don't listen to music while writing, generally, but I do have a list of songs that have been in my heart and head recently and here is as good a place as any to share them! :)

1. "Geronimo" - The Sheppherds
2. "Bright" - Echosmith
3. "You Belong With Me" - Taylor Swift (Come on, it isn't summer till you've had some T-Swizzle)
4. "Almost Like Being In Love" - Nat King Cole
5. "Out of an Orange-Colored Sky" - Nat King Cole
6. "Shut Up And Dance With Me" - Walk The Moon (unashamed)
7. "Budapest" - George Ezra (heard the most beautiful female-vocals version of this done by two sisters I know.)
8. "Take Your Time" - Sam Hunt
9. "Lay Me Down" - Chris Tomlin
10. "I'm a Believer" - The Monkees
11. "Christ Be All Around Me" - Leeland (my prayer, always)

My taste is eclectic, as you can see and ranges up and down the scale from standard pop to country, to big-band, to Christian contemporary. I love having varied tastes. Keeps things interesting.

Eating-Wise

Lavender Soda. It's a beautiful thing. Like drinking a vase of flowers steeped in Sprite...only less perfume-y. Also, anything boysenberry. After three years, our patch is doing prolifically well and my hands and lips are stained with the sun-soaked gems. York Peppermint Patties. I bought a bag to share around my wing at a camp...and ended up taking the whole thing home. Now I really, really want to try making s'mores with York instead of normal chocolate. Parmesan from the block. MmmHMMMM. You heard that right. Cheese is bae. If I talked that way. And I don't. Moving onnnnnn. Cherries. Dark, sweet cherries. Divinity right there. And whenever I eat cherries I am reminded of an anecdote about Oswald Chambers which you probably don't have time to hear, so I will refrain from sharing it.

I'm off to bury my nose in one of my neglected writing projects. Ciao, darlings!

Confession Time: I'm Mad

(PSA: mini York peppermint patties are like little tablets of ambrosia set with the flavor imparted from being served in the Holy Grail.) 

"The British have always been madly overambitious, and from one angle it can seem like bravery, but from another it looks suspiciously like a lack of foresight." -Ben Aaronovitch Whispers Under Ground 

I know nothing about the book from which Goodreads helpfully pulled the quote which towers above your page, but I do know that according to it, I must be British. See, I suffer from a distinct madness called Leaping Before I Look. It's part of my ENFP personality type, I know. The Inspirer: we see potential everywhere, in everything and everyone. We're probably most susceptible to plot bunnies, starting stories we don't finish, and generally sitting, like Daisy March, wearing a benevolent smile and announcing,

"Me wuvs evvybody!"

Thankfully, I've managed to more or less curb that impulse to "abandon stories in favor of a fresher idea". I hope to be a good mother someday. I've got to learn to see things through, right? Just so. But the bug called Inspiration bites me frequently and sometimes I careen past Caution, Sense, Logic, and the street-corner called Informed Consumer and thoroughly embrace an opportunity. It's a loveable failing, but a definite failing.

Last November I felt in a mood to write a short story and, because I don't like to write things that won't see the light of day, I did a quick Google-search on story-writing contests. In my delvings, I found an "essay contest" for an inspirational magazine. The essays requested were something along the lines of a letter from your one-hundred year-old self to yourself now. The idea was odd, struck my fancy, and produced something written in a fit of the writing-wiggles called "The Secret To Red Lipstick". Happily, there was no entry fee for this particular contest and the only thing I had to risk was rejection. If I was accepted, there was a $2,500 prize in view. I sent the thing in and literally forgot it. In January I happened to sort through my Google Drive files and see the essay. I read it over, recalled vaguely that I had entered some contest with it and never heard back, and closed the file and the memory. A few weeks later, I received an email in my inbox from a man of whom I'd never heard. When I read the thing, I was made to understand that the man in question was the editor-in-chief from Fountain Magazine (the contest-host). He wrote to inform me that he had discussed matters with his colleagues and, though my essay had not placed in the contest, they intended to publish "The Secret To Red Lipstick" in the next issue of Fountain. Thinking this was rather an unexpected and curious turn of events (and furthermore, having been reminded of the name of the publication to which I had submitted my piece), I decided to Google the magazine and see what sort of banner my words would fly under.

In a moment I was a puddle of laughter, dismay, tears, and hilarity on my bed while my sister looked on in some small concern. Dear reader, Fountain Magazine is a primarily Islamic publication focusing on science, literature, art, and inspirational fiction. I believe I am probably the only outspokenly-Christian writer who could accidentally land herself a gig in a Muslim magazine. After my initial shock and awe, I sent a few emails back and forth with the editor, discussing whether I was the best match for the magazine's goals, the fact that when I entered, I had accepted the small-print detail (who reads those?) that I had given the magazine permission to publish my story. We also discussed the fact that since my faith was so important to me, I would be given special permission to mention my religious affiliation in my bio-blurb. The editor was fantastically courteous, understanding, easy-going, and respectful and what had initially been a "what the heck?!" moment for me became a lesson learned. I had not researched the publication to which I was submitting my work. I did not read the Terms & Conditions. I had done absolutely nothing in the way of approaching the thing as a mature adult, and yet it ended up being a good experience. Why? Because of another person who did act like a mature person.

I learned that one must always take time to research, to learn the audience, and to be certain that one's work would be a good fit. But more importantly, I learned that there are ways to solve differences without compromising ground. The day I received the package with my copies of the issue of Fountain in which my article appeared (and my check), was a proud day for me. The layout was beautiful. My words were my own. And they had appeared, professionally laid-out and paid-for in an international magazine despite my lack of foresight. Hearken to this advice, chillens: do your research. But keep in mind that sometimes the mad-man wins in spite of his own idiocy.

Can I marry a stockbroker?

"It is true that if you want to write well and live well at the same time, you'd better arrange to marry a stockbroker or a rich woman who can operate a typewriter."

-Flannery O'Connor

When one first begins writing, one hears lots of advice:

"Never end sentences this way: example."

"Never ever do this in this situation: example."

"And above all, show, don't tell."

As a young writer, I didn't realize that much of this advice drew from public opinion of the moment. True, lots of it is good advice when one looks at it from the viewpoint of having one's manuscript accepted by a big-time editor and put on the New York Time's Bestsellers list. I've read many books but I will admit that, till recent years, the majority of what I had read was written pre-1950. That meant that my literary examples were of the old style. My literary education was performed at an old school. While popular tastes demanded the modern cosmopolitan flair of Manhattan Prep from White Collar, I spent my school years at something with more of the flavor of Eton, to use a great school in a loose analogy. Naturally, I came to the class reunion talking slang from years back and finding "yo dawg" was not exactly what people these days go around saying. And yes, I felt as cheesy as that sounded. How is a girl to write the way she has been taught without sounding like an ancient tome? Because I have picked up books by authors who obviously had a similar literary education to my own and have thought, "Yeah, I wouldn't choose to publish this either." In many ways, the advice I was given was exactly what I needed to hear.

It is true that the modern reading public has a shorter attention span than in the days of Charles Dickens and Victor Hugo. I consider myself a fairly patient reader and even I had to have three go's at the unabridged Les Miserables before I could finish, and even then it was a terrible struggle to push through his ponderous lectures to get to the heart of the story.
It is true that modern readers expect a certain hook at the front of the book and look for page-turning plots. The books I put down are inevitably the books that bore me to tears. If you can't capture my attention within the first chapter or two, how am I to trust you with my valuable reading-time not to continue to bore me throughout?
It is true that it's always nice to show instead of tell. We all like details. Details! Juicy, fat, details.

 I'm here to say that though much of what the modern writer is taught is good advice, pleasure remember that it is just advice after all. It is someone else's idea of how to you ought to write. Perhaps this other person is more qualified than you to say what sells, what readers like, and what will attract the attention of a worthwhile publisher. But when it comes down to whether modern taste is Holy Writ, I'm here to say it is not. To illustrate my point: at a coffee shop the other day I chose an old, weathered book off the community shelf. I picked this book because the illustrations looked similar to those in a P.G. Wodehouse novel. My Ten Years in a Quandary by Robert Benchley. Between rounds of mancala I read the first two chapters. Nothing much happened in those two chapters. Gasp. Rob Bell would have a fit. But the book entertained me well enough to the point that I left a note inside at the place I left off for the next reader. How? Nothing happened! The plot did not advance in the slightest and I can hardly see how each sentence mattered to the whole of the book's events. Here's the secret power of this book and the best of the those in the old style: they didn't arrest a reader by virtue of action, but activity. Benchley's voice in the first two chapters of his book is anything but passive. It romps about with as much energy as The Hunger Games could possibly give, though in the latter you're thrown right into the midst of a world gone mad.
I also know from experience that I don't mind character-driven fiction. Sure I like things to happen and plot is terribly important. Glaring at you, The Notebook. But if the characters are well-drawn, the voice lively enough, and the story-world interesting, I am one-hundred percent okay with a sauntering pace. Just like I don't run marathons because I prefer walking and enjoying my surroundings (and let's be honest: I'd feel like I was dying), I almost prefer a story that, while well-constructed, leaves me time to savor the summer pace of its pages. I think of some of my favorite films (Cinderella, The Devil Wears Prada, The Help, Saving Mr. Banks, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, The Hundred-Foot Journey, Miss Potter, Master & Commander...) and realize that though plot is present and well-formed, the real reason I am invested is the strength and color of the characters.
I'd been throwing these thoughts around in my head and waiting for them to gel before writing a blog post when the final driftwood was thrown onto my seaside fire: Flannery O'Conner (yes, that paragon of all things Southern) gave me a lift in denouncing the prophetic law that the Modern Reader has tried to make of "Show, Don't Tell":

"All the sentences in Madame Bovary could be examined with wonder, but there is one in particular that always stops me in admiration. Flaubert has just shown us Emma at the piano with Charles watching her. He says, 'She struck the notes with aplomb and ran from top to bottom of the keyboard without a break. Thus shaken up, the old instrument, whose strings buzzed, could be heard at the other end of the village when the window was open, and often the bailiff's clerk, passing along the highroad, bareheaded and in list slippers, stopped to listen with his sheet of paper in his hand.' The more you look at a sentence like that the more you can learn from it."

Yes, dear Flannery O'Connor. We can learn that the editor at Harper & Row would fling the papers into Flaubert's satchel and say, "Try again some other time when you've learned the market." Yet one of the most well-respected writers of Southern fiction goes on past the quote I shared and continues to praise a very obvious lapse of POV and showing vs. telling. Now I don't mind so much. I'm accustomed to that kind of description and that kind of description is, in fact, what I tried for when I first began writing. But such a thing would admittedly not stand up in today's court again a jury of modern readers. I suppose the point of all this is to show you that there is both wisdom and error in the advice given to the modern writer. Wisdom, in that the current marketplace wants a certain thing and if you want to engage in commerce, you must learn to cater to their whims. Error, in that the modern way is the only way to write well. Flannery O'Connor reminded me that in each era there is, speaking of literary technique, a temporary right and wrong. Each era's faux pas were different. Our era's are one thing...fifty years from now it will be another.

For now....just try not to write like Flaubert.

Humans: They Amuse Me

April, my loves. April has come with all of its busy glory and I have to say that the front half of it has been impossibly full. For one thing, my hours at work were slightly beefed, I snuck down to Atlanta to surprise my best friend, Katie (Lady Alis of The Windy Side of Care), Easter happened while I was down there, and then I came back to play hostess and fundraiser and help my sisters organize, prep, create art for and throw a swanky soiree silent-auction to benefit our upcoming missions trip to Romania. All that to say, I have not written anything except people-watching sketches this month. I feel slightly bad for even admitting that until I realized that living life also qualifies as research. Meeting and appreciating new people helps one build realistic characters. Hashing through life situations with friends helps one understand and portray nuances. And I think we're all on board with the idea that travel broadens the horizons of one's mind an awful lot. So maybe April has been full of useful and unusual methods of research.

I am currently in the mood to ask each of you to drop what you are doing and start up a people-watching journal. I can't tell you what a treat it was to drag mine out on the flight from Norfolk to Atlanta and read back on all of the wonderful humans I have come in contact with since I began to write about them in December. It is such a treasure because each description, however slight, never fails to conjure up an exact image of that moment in that place. Take this, for example:

"A man with shy eyes an a gentle smile and his young daughter are sitting across from me. He has good hair and is in his prime but has no ring. His daugher is shy around him, leading me to believe he is divorced, not widowed. Very handsome but sad-looking, somehow. His daughter has his profile and their eyes share the same quiet humor. She is about twelve, he probably in the late half of his thirties."

When I read this, I can picture the exact table in the Busch Gardens Fest Haus at which I sat when I encountered this man. It is a fascinating way to retain experiences as well as practice one's descriptive powers.

"The man is so terribly conscious of himself. Not self-conscious, but apparently confident that all eyes are ever upon him. I dislike him so strongly and I am unsure whether it is mainly his real character I despise or whether I merely resent the fact that he expects homage paid...One fears to ask oneself what sort of life he leads that he can afford to leave all so flippantly and gang tae the hielands on his ridiculous whims. (He) is proud of being a dilettante and I have no patience for it."

My entries range from the frustrated (above) to the amused (below) and everywhere in between. But all through I find myself content with playing the game of capturing likenesses of as many people as I can in words. I think of it as my hobby, sort of in the same manner as photographer Brandon Stanton's Humans of New York project.

"...When we finally ordered, Maryanna mentioned a shrimp allergy and he grew so incredibly excited.
'Oh, I totally understand,' he crooned. 'I'm allergic to everything under the sun--lactose intolerant, gluten intolerant--I'm also a bit of a hypochondriac. And I was eating shrimp the other day and my lips started itching and I am so worried I am developing a shellfish allergy.'"

I usually keep the entries brief, though some require longer explanations if I take time to set the stage of the interaction. Of course it is inconvenient to keep such a thing up; I realize that. I learned the discipline required in the first year I went to Romania and religiously kept my travel journal. But I count my people-watching book a valuable tool. Not only does it serve as an opportunity to improve my non-fiction writing skills and keep my goal of writing something every day, but it also gives me an entire volume of characters to choose at will for my stories. Do I need someone unusual, or a funny interaction for a scene? With a people-watching journal kept faithfully, I ought to have plenty from which to choose a case that fits. Let it be a lesson, dear folks: there are many reasons keeping your eyes and ears open (and remembering what you see and hear) is of value. Also, never underestimate the power of smiling at strangers and looking approachable. You never can tell what sort of interesting humans are waiting for a chance to meet you!

Win an Inn! (if you can handle the stress)

Today is all about research...Making sure you do it, that is.

Oh, I know you are all absolutely brimming with good intentions. Those of you who write historical fiction have stacks eight books high about the era in which you've planted your words. Those who create entirely fictional worlds have read thirteen articles about world-building this morning and created three playlists for each district in the fictional world beside. Anyone who writes non-fiction gets the entire hat-tip because people can fact-check you. People can get on your case over the smallest thing. You must be perfectly accurate. You are very well-intentioned and successful and probably a better man than I, Charlie Brown.

I know all this. I've done my research. Wasn't that the whole reason Scotch'd the Snakes has been at a stalemate? Because of (lack of time and) a glitch with the murder weapon? I want to be sure that when I write a mystery, it is accurate, plausible, and realistic. So if it can't be accurate, plausible, and realistic I sometimes pause until I have worked it out. But there's this thing about life. Sometimes you think you've learned a lesson and you really have not learned it at all. Or at least, the corner you've learned is just the start of the rind of a large slice of watermelon and you are a tiny ant at your first picnic. Research. And we thought they just meant for your books. Turns out there's a lot more than that to the subject such as...

not entering contests till you research the publication into which it will go.

OR

not sending your manuscript to an agent till you are sure what kind of books they represent.

OR

not trying to pitch your YA book to a publisher who deals almost exclusively in women's fiction.

There are about eight-hundred-and-five ways to make oneself look stupid. You don't want to look stupid. Believe me. It isn't such a big deal to the person to whom you look stupid. I mean, it's a fair guess that they have seen plenty of writers make the same mistake. But it really feels low to get a reaction from your action and think, "Wow. Could have totally avoided that collision if I'd googled the weight of worms in Paraguay." Life will hand you certain tight situations that were unavoidable. It happens and you can't sit there and beat yourself up over it. But there are plenty of cases where a little circumspection warns you in advance of awkward situations to come, allowing you to be on the offense or, gasp, discard former plans and humbly retreat.
I'm the type of writer who is extremely enthusiastic about new projects. One of the reasons I love writing flash-fiction is that it allows me to take an idea and give it a moment in the spot-light without any commitment. I promise I am not this way in relationships. I could not star on The Bachelorette or anything, tossing out this week's boyfriend for next week's because he bought me pink lilies and I like them better than yellow roses.
Back on topic: flash-fiction and contest pieces allow me a chance to win laurels over being unfocused. That's my confession. Entering contests is a lot of fun. There's usually minimal work involved, I am allowed to do my best with very few rules, and I never have to hear about it again if I do not win. A 1500-word essay is a completely different creature than a novel you've committed to and can't find an agent to take. So I enjoy entering contests. Prize money is always welcome. Publication too. Can't argue with that, and it looks good on the resume. But I'm learning. I really am slowly learning to take into account all the factors and not go sailing off entering contests I don't expect to win only to find myself left with the consequences if I do. There's a contest running around to win the 210 year old Center Lovell Inn in Maine. The only requirements are that you write a 200 word, grammatically-correct essay with the prompt, "Why I want to own and operate a country inn," and send your entry with a fee of $125 to the judges before they choose the winner on May 21st.

The inn in question...

Other conditions include keeping it painted white with green or black trim, and operating it as an inn for at least one year after inheritance. Oh, and there's a nice $20,000 thrown in there to help jump-start your ownership and all the antique furniture and equipment, plus twelve acres of land. On first glance, I'm all in. Why wouldn't I want to win an historical inn in Maine valued at $900,000? I mean, I'll never know if I'm good at innkeeping till I try, and honestly, I could actually see myself running a quaint bed and breakfast. So I was tempted to write my two-hundred word essay and see what came of the thing. My brain immediately took off with the millions of story ideas such a year would provide. And even if I didn't win, I could certainly spin a novella out of "If I had won," right? Well, yes.

Having been recently burned by a lack-of-research experience, I decided I would not enter this contest unless I'd really thought it through and done my research. I talked with friends, with my mother, and found an article written a year after the current owner (Janice Sage) won the inn in an essay contest herself. Janice, who is selling the inn after running it for twenty-two years, "inherited" the place from its former owner in a similar contest. The man had run it for nineteen years and was, quite frankly, entirely over it which is why he decided to host his contest. In this 1995 article, Janice (then, Cox) and her husband Richard had run the inn for a year...eighteen hours a day, seven days a week...and gotten a total of three days off that entire time. She's selling it now because she is sixty-eight years old and weary of 17-hour days. The inn itself is a prestigious place, featured in Martha Stewart, the Boston Globe to name but a few of its fans. Not only is it a charming B&B, but the Center Lovell Inn also operates as a restaurant open to the public. Oh. A restaurant. A gourmet restaurant. With a full and licensed bar and wine-cellar.

Janice Sage and her husband had worked in the restaurant business for years and years before winning the inn. Since her last name changed and poor Richard is no longer in the picture, he either died and she remarried, or they got a divorce. Either way, I bet stress did it. And they were trained for this business.

I'm a nanny for heaven's sake.

Though I'd love the inn to happen to me, I don't think the inn would be ready for me to happen to it. And honestly, the most tempting part of it for me is getting to live in the inn...which I could achieve with a heck of a lot less trouble by saving up and road-tripping to Maine at the end of the summer. The 1995 article also mentioned burst pipes, temperatures plummeting to forty-five below, and a 1400-pound moose visiting the front porch. I quickly came to the decision that I had better not enter this contest. I have the most beastly good luck winning things and it would be just like me to accidentally win an inn and have to scramble together a business brain I do not have and chump it up to Maine to fulfill a year-long promise to a retiring innkeeper. I mean, my MERCY. I want the adventure. I'm jealous of the person who will get the stories and the characters and the perfect plot-setting for literally anything to happen. But I'm not the right fit for the inn. The inn needs a person who can raise it to even higher heights, not waddle it through a year and hope it isn't sunk six months in.

The moral of the story is this: do your research. It is only fair to the people you are pestering, whether agent, publisher, contest-judges, or otherwise, that you are prepared to see it all the way through to the end. If you aren't aware of the thing for which you're applying, you'd sure as sugar better be ready to face the embarrassment of being stuck with an inn in Maine and no business sense. And really, who needs that kind of negativity in their life?

An Ideal Picnic

Colonial Williamsburg.My heart-town.There are places in life that you have lived, and places your heart has lived. My heart has lived (so far) in the Lake District, in Romania, in London, in Scotland, in Prince Edward Island, and in Williamsburg. When I hear of other people traveling to these places, my heart does a little disagreeable flip-floppy thing that feels an awful lot like jealousy. I have yet to make it any of my heart-homes except Romania and Williamsburg, so when I make it to one of these places, and I feel doubly at peace. And I like nothing better than to tour a friend around the vicinity and make them love it as achingly as I do. This weekend, after throwing a fabulous party ("Company, company, where would we be without company?"), I betook myself and Charity Klicka to the ferry, and across to Williamsburg.

 

Since we had connected first over a mutual love for ships and The Wind in The Willows, I was overjoyed to hear that not only did Charity want to interview me for her blog in person, she also hadn't been to Williamsburg in too long. The two things combined admirably into the proposal of a picnic on the grounds of a quiet corner of Williamsburg. I purchased a pomegranate and two colors of pears near home, and packed up my little picnic basket. It is a very well-appointed basket.

Once in Williamsburg, we headed for the Fat Canary and purchased the ideal "long, crusty loaf" and some cheese. I am not certain where the term "long, crusty loaf" came from. I had thought it was from the picnic scene in Willows, but I could never find it, so I'm not sure? Oh, here it is, or the idea of it.

“There he got out the luncheon-basket and packed a simple meal, in which, remembering the stranger's origin and preferences, he took care to include a yard of long French bread, a sausage out of which the garlic sang, some cheese which lay down and cried, and a long-necked straw-covered flask wherein lay bottled sunshine shed and garnered on far Southern slopes.

About the stranger, not Moly. There we go. At the Fat Canary, I bought a bit of Gouda, a bit of Fontina, a bit of Cotswold Double Gloucester, not to mention a sausage called Landjaeger, which was divine. Isn't "Cotswold Double Gloucester" just a perfect name. And then, because the day was hot and the bottles refreshing looking, we went back round and purchased two bottles of ginger-ale. We then lugged our picnic basket around Williamsburg and looked at absolutely everything of interest to two people who didn't much care whither they went, so long as it was leisurely and historic. Two things I learned from lugging picnics about:
1.) Man-servants are helpful for such things. We lacked one
2.) No one brings legitimate picnic baskets anywhere these days. The looks I received.
One of my favorite "emancipated" things to do as a Williamsburg-familiar is to enter any yard and garden where the gates are not locked and make myself at home. Do you realize that one is permitted to wander at at will if the gate is free? I think many people do not know and that is what makes it so pleasant. Charity and I found a place with a stream, and as running water makes everything better, we determined to swing round again and picnic there when we had got hot and dusty and thirsty enough. Having reached this point after probably another half hour of rummaging about, we wandered back and found that our proposed spot had got a lot of little kids playing with bats and rakes in it. I suppose they lived there--people do live in the houses, you know--so we fastened on another yard quite nearby that possessed neat walkways, a bit of grass, and a stream-bank. This turned out to be an even finer spot, being cozier and more Willows-esque.We had a picket fence to our backs, oaks above, a stream to the left, and the road uphill ahead.

This arrangement insured that passersby could observe us at will--and they did. We laughed to see the expressions of the bold starers. I think there were two principle reactions: confusion and jealousy. There were truly jealous expressions bent upon us, and one nice old man who commented on the perfection of the day for the picnic, and the perfection of the spot we had chosen. I rather like that old man. Charity is an over-worked college student and I am an over-wedding'd nanny and writer, so we both thoroughly enjoyed ripping a loaf of bread with our hands, eating pears and cheeses and sausage, drinking ginger-ale (a bug got in mine and I made quite a nice fountain for a moment as I expectorated it), and lazing about in an ideal day. The temperature was perfect, the shade delightful, the grass soft, the stream purling, the afternoon sleepy. We could have napped, only we didn't want to sleep and lose sight of how wonderful it all was. Have you ever had moments of nearly perfect happiness? This was such a one. I couldn't have written a finer occasion, and that is saying something.

Too soon, we were full as full could be, had finished our ginger-ale, and were ready to proceed to the Scottish store, which is a must for anyone who loves Scotland. Charity is learning Scottish-Gaelic, you know. We had been joking at how perfectly our picnic was like that in The Wind in The Willows, but beyond the menu, I was truly not trying to imitate it. That would have been tacky. But does anyone remember the quote about Mole packing back up the picnic and finding he'd left things out every time? I had just got the basket closed to my satisfaction when Charity began to laugh and pointed out that it was all very well but I'd forgot to pack away the table cloth. Le sigh. Round two of basket-packing was successful, and we made a jolly party of it back to the car to deposit our stuffs. On the way back, we stopped at the garden area and I bought a big old narcissus bulb to plant somewhere--I'm a sucker for the beauties, and for anything that can grow in my world that once grew in Williamsburg. We took a detour to a forgotten grave--the Maupin graves--that Charity's ancestors are buried in. It was quite interesting and exciting to look for a grave everyone else had forgotten and know to whom it belonged.We found the graves, bought some lavender (it smells like dusty sunshine) and pursued our course up Duke of Gloucester street. On the way home we missed the ferry so Charity interviewed me as we sat on the pier sticking out into the James River. It was quite a lot of fun, you know.

Charity is such a lovely person. I didn't know her well before this trip, and I know there's a lot more to learn about and from her, but adventures have a way of making kindred spirits out of strangers. After all, Ratty and Mole weren't even friends before Mole got into Ratty's boat and ended up picnicking with him and moving to the River Bank. Never despise picnics and places. It's a grand old life, this friendship thing. I will long cherish the memory of that golden Sunday and the quiet little picnic in a perfect little place. Go out, eat bread and cheese and fruit, and take people up on their offers to give you an adventure. They can be marvelous.

“In silence they landed, and pushed through the blossom and scented herbage and undergrowth that led up to the level ground, till they stood on a little lawn of a marvellous green, set round with Nature's own orchard-trees—crab-apple, wild cherry, and sloe.”

-Kenneth Grahame The Wind in The Willows

Anon, Sir, Anon and Williamsburg!

Hullo-ullo-ullo!
I trust you are all still alive, still kicking, still waiting for Plenilune to come out in paperback form. I was feeling quite anxious for that event till I realized it couldn't hurt matters to wait till next paycheck, so that's my goal. I get paid weekly. Hopefully by the time I get this week's check deposited, I'll be able to trot straight 'round to Amazon and get my copy. Did you see that Jenny got her proof copy of Plenilune? Looks like I'm going to have to move more books around on the shelf to fit it in. That baby is nearly two inches thick. Such a looker.

After finding a great number of extra spaces around ellipses (for heaven's sake, people, NEVER MAKE THAT MISTAKE) and panicking to St. Rachel, all formats of Anon, Sir, Anon are fixed, edited, and approved by Createspace. Just to be sure, I've ordered a second tangible proof-copy and am going to be receiving that before terribly long. Tonight I am sending out the guest posts, interviews, and announcement information for the release. And guys, The Giveaway is called "Cozy Quagmire Party Pack." I will leave you to guess what it contains, but I will say that it is pretty wonderful and I wish I could win it myself.

Have you ever had the opportunity to do something terribly bookish in real life? I have had a few experiences with that sort of thing, the most recent being my "Box Hill" expedition to Williamsburg two summers ago. Well. After hosting a couples' shower for my brother and his fiancee this weekend, I am heading to Williamsburg again, this time with the inimitable Charity Klicka. I don't know Charity terribly well--we've been more like ships passing each other in the night when we've met in person--but love of ships, The Wind in The Willows, love of quotes, and general kindred-spiritness has given us a budding friendship. I could not be happier at the prospect of escorting her to my heart-town on her very first trip there. We have lots of plummy larks planned. Pray for good weather. <3 I will take pictures and be sure to post them when we've finished. I cannot wait.

Well, cheers and all that, darlings! I'm off to catch The Voice and eat ice-cream. I know. Terribly authorish.

Libraries, Antique Books, and Salt Spray

"Has it ever fallen your way to notice the quality of greetings that belong to certain occupations?...How salty and stimulating, for example, is the sailorman's hail of 'Ship ahoy!' It is like a breeze laden with briny odours and a pleasant dash of spray."
-Henry van Dyke

Until yesterday, I had forgotten the joys of a public library. As a young lady of fifteen, I moved from city life to the a rural county in the South-Eastern half of Virginia. There were many lovely things about this new life: a large house, fresh air, scenic routes home, unimpeded views of sunrise, sunset, moonlight, and the Milky Way. The one drawback, however, has been the fact that the public library system out here is sorry at best. I have tried to use the online system but every author and book I look up is simply...not in the system. It is, therefore a bit hard to get anything done. Not to mention the fact that my card got blocked because of fines (some idiotic lost book about William Wallace) and finally expired. We share a hope that the fines died with it.
Yesterday, I found myself in Virginia Beach, a city about an hour away. This was the city in which I spent most of my childhood, and I have found myself with business in said city at least once a week. Sometimes I have a spare hour on either end and I can either pretend I want to be at the mall, or do something useful. Yesterday, I chose to go to "Central Library." Yes, I will persist in calling it that, though some well-meaning committee renamed it after a faithful mayor. I walked into this library of my childhood and immediately noticed they had got a coffee shop attached to the outside. Major win, library. Major win. I did not, however, avail myself of the delights of java. Instead, I went inside and stood at the desk, intending to apply for a library card, my card from this city having expired probably ten years ago. Finally a spot opened up and I was informed that though I was a Virginia resident, if I wasn't a resident of the city, I had to purchase a library card at $10 for one three-month period, or $35 for the year. Well excuse me. I haltingly asked if it was permissible to enjoy the library uncarded, and the lady told me yes.
Good. My hope of being able to spend a quiet hour and a half in research for Scotch'd The Snakes would not be squashed. I wanted information on two specific English counties, particularly during the 1930's so I wandered through the English history section before realizing I didn't need a volume on Winston Churchill--what I really wanted was an atlas. I felt as certain plummy satisfaction in finally knowing what the do with an Atlas. I mean, what are they? I had grown up thinking they were map-books, but I found that they are really eye-witness descriptions of an area. I found two particularly interesting volumes and took them away to a table. I had intended to check the books out, but I am somewhat of a tight-wad when it comes to spending money on what should be free. Last night was a rare occasion--I had no paper on me. Instead, I fished around in my purse for a pen and a grocery receipt and scrawled my notes. I'm sorry if the man grading papers across the room from me had to hear me laughing aloud when I read certain passages, but Wiltshire has a hilarious and colorful past. I am pleased to know it.
One of the funniest things was that as I sat in this library I had known so well as a child, I began to notice a smell...and that smell triggered memories I had entirely forgotten: it was the smell of a Taco Bell bean burrito...but the kind you get in a mall. And for as long as I can remember, this library has periodically smelled of tacos. Perhaps it is the staff lounge? I have no clue. But I almost busted up laughing in the quiet library at the sheer continuity of it all.
The other interesting thing about Central Library is the fact that it has a permanent Library Store. You know how some libraries have book sales? This is a real little niche in the library (it's a very large library) wherein are discarded titles you are free to browse and pay relatively little for. I came home with a hard-cover, slim little volume called The Snow Goose by Paul Gallico (first published 1940) and a book of essays on humanity and nature by Henry van Dyke titled Fisherman's Luck. That book cost me $7. I did notice the irony of the fact that I refused to pay $10 for a three-month library subscription and yet did not hesitate to purchase this unknown book, but you have not seen the book. Here is is:

Please don't mention the remains of a pink gel-pen elephant on my palm. Ahem. This gorgeous copy of Fisherman's Luck is made of blue leather, stamped with all that gorgeous gilt, and is in amazing condition. The pages aren't wobbly or thin at all, it comes with beautiful illustrations, and it is 104 years old.

"Milton and Edith

from

Aunt Mary Hartwell

Christmas 1914," it says on the inside cover.

I have always found interest in books that have been written in. Who were these people? Did Milton and Edith not read this book? Who is Aunt Mary Hartwell, for that matter? Were Milton and Edith a brother and sister, in which case this aunt seems stingy for making them share one book, or were they a newly-wed couple, in which case Mary Hartwell's referring to herself as "aunt" bodes well for the family relationships? I don't suppose I'll ever know, but I have their book. Almost exactly a century ago, Mary Hartwell penned that inscription and handed the book to two souls who are probably long-dead. It's intriguing, isn't it?

The final thing that clenched the purchase for me was the books dedication:

"TO MY LADY

GREYGOWN

HERE

is the basket:

I bring it home to you.

There are no great fish in it.

But perhaps there may be one or two little ones which will be to your taste. And there are a few shining pebbles from the bed of the brook, and ferns from the cool, green woods, and wild flowers from the places that you remember. I would fain console you, if I could, for the hardship of having married an angler: a man who relapses into his mania with the return of every spring, and never sees a little river without wishing to fish in it. But after all, we have had good times together as we have followed the stream of life towards the sea. And we have passed through the dark days without losing heart, because we were comrades. So let this book tell you one thing that is certain.

In all the life of your fisherman

the best piece of luck

is just

YOU."

The man humor. It must be a good book. And so I bought it, and I pocketed my scrawled-on receipt and I trotted on to my next errand, full of English counties and old books and the idea that I had outwitted the library-card ordeal by copying out all the facts I wanted.

Never despise libraries. Find a good one. An hour's research in a real book unearths so much finer material than three hours' of Google searches. Truly. I feel quite inspired.

That Cabby Inside Me

You know what I like?

I like feeling small.

I like to read something that makes me realize I have not arrived in my writing and that I still have a long way to go. A very long way. I like to pick up a book and feel a delicious sensation of, "Oh, that's how it's done." Do you ever read books this way? I think I sometimes feel a certain healthy detachment from my work. I mean, I'm certainly proud of my skills as they are today, but I also possess (through having cultivated, learned, or just discovered it, I can't say) a rather Sir Percy Blakeney opinion of my talents. I don't mind mentally chucking aside the soon-to-be uploaded file of Anon, Sir, Anon when I pick up Dorothy Sayers' Have His Carcase. Of course I could pretend I think I'm as fine a writer as Sayers and that might sell a few more books, but I am quite happy with a conversation that goes something like this:
Reader: "You mean to say you don't think your writing is the top?"
Me: "Well of course it's the top of some things. For instance, it's the top of what it was three years ago and it is the top of certain books I've come across. But as for being the toppy-top, why this is the real ginger." (waving Carcase about)

Is it telling that I see that inner voice in my head as a 1940's journalist with his heels on the desk and a slightly flattened cabby-cap on his short buzz-cut? My inner voice presents itself many ways. This time it's a writer who looks like a cabby and smokes cigarettes in a sociable fashion. I like this fellow. You see, if one doesn't take oneself too terribly seriously, it's easier to take criticism, to view one's place in the world aright, and to improve. After having started the aforementioned novel at my brother's fiancee's house, I drove home through a monsoon of sorts and reflected on how generous my readers have been in giving Anon, Sir, Anon a fighting chance with four and even five-star ratings. Of course I don't pretend to emulate Dorothy Sayer's style, nor do I think Anon, Sir, Anon is on-par with her much-advanced skill. I can't wait for that reviewer who says, "I don't see what all the buzz is about. It's not at all as good as Agatha Christie." I am prepared to pump his hand, stuff my fists in my pockets and say with a foolish smile, "I know, right? Wasn't she amazing?"

I like feeling small.

I like knowing there is something to reach toward because how dull it would be to have arrived. "Oh look, Mount Amazingness has been reached. Recomputing purpose in career." I don't have a problem admitting that my skill-set is far from complete and it excites me to notice how far I've come since Fly Away Home, and by next book, how far I'll have come since Anon, Sir, Anon. Not that I've actually researched this phenomena, but I could almost guarantee that most famous authors see their early books as stepping-stones to even better things. I will always love each of my books and there is no reason to be ashamed of something you wrote being...younger. We can be glad we no longer behave as we did at fourteen, but does that mean there was something wrong with behaving fourteen...as a fourteen year-old? In the same way, I don't think that, down the road, I'll want to apologize for the lack of sage wisdom and effortless skill in Fly Away Home. It was a freshman novel and a very good introduction at that. We'll stop badgering the poor darling for not being Anna Karenina.

I am off to enjoy me (now cold) cup of tea and forge my way through the deliciousness that is Have His Carcase. On this visit, I learned that my sister-in-law's parents have a plethora of Agatha Christies and Dorothy Sayers and P.G. Wodehouse--pretty nearly any title I could want. They put my library to shame. I told you that I would have the vlog up. Well, I have it done...it is trying to publish and because it is *gulp* eighteen minutes long (you guys asked a lot of questions!) and my family's internet connection moves at glacial pace (you know how it thrills me), it is on it's second try and only 11% rendered. Snap. So you will probably get the vlog tomorrow morning. For now, go enjoy this rainy officially-fall day by letting yourself read a book for pleasure's sake.

Laters!

(Also, I have this weird urge to try to draw my sisters and myself as Disney-inspired caricatures. O.o)

I'm Not a Real Writer, I Guess.

Stereotypes can either amuse or annoy me. I laugh when people stereotype some things because it is funny to me to see what strikes a person enough about a category to paint that thing with a broad brush across the whole category. But some stereotypes are especially wrong and none more so than when it comes to The Stereotype of The Writer. According to those, you would not recognize me as a writer. I am connected with many writers on Pinterest, but when I scroll through my feed, I very rarely repin anything "about writers" that I find. Why? Because I don't fit the apparent stereotype of the writer and by those standards, I wouldn't be here publishing my third book. Here are some of the most presumptuous of all, and what I, as a writer, am really like.

Stereotype: Writers Never Sleep

In Truth:

I have never written a mid-night sentence in my life. My best ideas come during the daytime when my hands are occupied with cutting vegetables or washing dishes or vacuuming. Contrary to this chart, if I don't get enough sleep, my creativity gutters out. Not a good idea when you're living (in a way) by your wits.

Stereotype: Writers Obsess Over Naming Characters

In Truth:

Almost without exception, my characters either come with names or have one attached to them within a day or two. I don't fret over the meanings of the names. The way I find a good name is by trying a couple on for size and seriously evaluating if I could stand to live with that name for the next 80,000 words. Also, convenience in typing. I hate hard-to-reach monikers.

Stereotype: Writers Dwell In The Darkest Mental Corners

In Truth:

This is, perhaps, the biggest bone I have to pick. Yeah, It's important to dig into those tough spots for tough spots but unless you write horror or emo-fiction, this advice is especially presumptuous. And it's everywhere. I agree that you need to address and harness your fears, passions, struggles, etc., but using them all at the same time all the time is overkill. Honestly. The places where they could be used effectively will be drowned in melodrama. No one likes a hypochondriac.

Stereotype: Authors Are Always Killing Characters

In Truth: 

I have killed three characters in all my books (two were murder victims). Even in the ones that will never make it to the public's view. Not that killing characters doesn't have its place, for it can be quite effective in its moment. But killing characters is pretty cliche when it is your go-to. There are so many other ways you could deal with a character, and if you're looking for an addition of misery, try not killing a character. Instead of killing him so that his kids are orphans, what about removing him to a place worse than death? Or, as they did in Once Upon a Time, making a character remember in a place where everyone else has mercifully forgot? There are many ways to add drama, misery, grief, and even despair without killing a character. Death is natural. It'll happen to everyone. There are other ways to deal with a dull character.

Stereotype: You'll Spend Half Your Life Hating Your Work

In Truth: 

Yes, like everyone else, I do go through what Abigail calls "The Crap Cycle". But most days, I feel pretty good about my writing. Perhaps this is not so much a product of over-confidence as it is common sense. I have seen a pattern. I know that my writing will need editing, rewriting, and more hard work but it always does. It always will. I have the grace to look past its current flaws and see what it can and will be. No freak-outs. Well, extremely rare freak-outs.

But this is just me. I know that I don't fit the stereotypes and I don't mean to make a new stereotype by saying all writers do not fit the "norm". What about you? Do you relate more to the status-quo or do you find yourself disagreeing and scanning for another pin? 

The Dangers of a Traveling Writer

It really isn't safe to be a writer, to travel abroad and tell people about your work.

First of all, it's harder than you'd think to pitch your novel in simplified English. If you've worked up a perfectly-worded pitch that takes you exactly twenty-five seconds to deliver, chances are that the wording will be too complex for most people you meet. (You know we exhaust every double-meaning of every word in those hellish pitches.) If you haven't worked up that perfectly-worded pitch, you're still awash. We're writers; our greatest weapon is our command of the English language ... but when your "foes" are impervious to glances from your English Weapon, you're sort of drifting in dangerous waters.

One evening early in the trip, I found myself sitting in the back of a little car as a young Romanian man drove. Two of my teammates, Matthew and Oliver, were with me and we had just finished an evening service at a church near Arad. As we puttered through a village and took a roundabout, I chatted merrily to our driver (who spoke excellent English) about wanting to learn Romanian as my second language. He smiled quietly at me through the rear-view mirror and told me that I had much better take Spanish; I would find it more useful, he said, for visiting Mexico.
"But I don't know anyone in Mexico," I said somewhat petulantly. "I have friends in Romania!"
"Don't you have Hispanics in Virginia?" he asked.
"Well, yes."
"Then you see. So tell me more about your writing."
(Here goes, I thought.) I managed to eek out something that sort of resembled a description of Fly Away Home but it was dashed hard. I mean, how am I to know what the 1950's were like in Romania and how much of what the 50's were like in NYC needs explaining to the person who has an idea of vintage Romania in his mind? Would our driver know what I meant by "glitz" and would he even be interested in the premise of my novel or was he simply being polite? There is nothing for making you weigh the value of your words like trying to cross a culture barrier, I tell you.
My American companions were rather silent during my conversation with our driver but I was not going to let my spirits be dampened by their lack of gregariousness. My Romanian acquaintance smiled at me again through the mirror and clicked his blinker on, slowing before making a turn.
"Are you going to write a book about Romania?"
"I would love to someday," I said, leaning into the topic willingly. "For now I'm keeping a journal and writing about everything that happens and everyone I meet. Someday I'll fit it in a book."
After my eager pronouncement, he smiled at me and I heard him say, "Well don't forget to."
"Forget to? I would never. I could never."

My American companions remained silent.

Flip a few pages in my travel journal to the next day when I was finishing up a surprisingly triumphant round of bowling. Oliver sauntered over to me with a silly smile on his face.
"Hey Rach," he said, "did you realize that when you were talking to Vlad last night, he said 'Don't forget me'?"
"No, he didn't!" My heart thudded to a halt and slowly jerked back into business as I realized the import of Oliver's words.

"Don't forget me."

"Forget to? I would never. I could never."

Speaking about your career as an authoress in a foreign country is dangerous. It can get you labeled a flirt and it can make you the laughing stock of your teammates. Thank heaven I soon saw the humor in the situation and helped Oliver make "I wouldn't. I couldn't," a catchphrase in our group that lasted to the final days. Nothing like laughing at yourself, right?

Oh golly. Only a Rachel, darlings. Onnnnnnnly a Rachel.

Six Things Every Writer Should Bring While Traveling

I am about to leave for my trip to Romania. I will be scheduling a post to launch the day I leave, and then I'll have it fairly quiet around here until I return from to the country on May 27th. Few Days More means lots of lists: packing lists, To Get Before Leaving lists, To Do Before Leaving, etc. (These, in addition to my daily lesson-plans lists for my nanny-job) There are quite a lot of lists one can make before leaving  for a Grand Adventure, isn't that so? It came into my mind as I opened up Blogger this morning: "So why not write a list of the things a writer might need while traveling?" Thus, I did. Tell me if I've left something off.

#1: A travel journal

This is the place where you will host your brain for the duration of the trip. On last year's missions trip, I scrawled, scribbled, and sketched every spare minute. Some might say my devotion to this leather-bound volume was a little extreme, but the one night I gave up writing every little thing down, I couldn't sleep. The brain of a writer was not mean to see and not save. Your mind will be far too active while you are trying to sleep if you do not give it a paper outlet.

#2: Four good pens (at least)

I swear by Pilot G2 pens, an expensive habit formed in me by an acquaintance with Wyatt Fairlead. There should be a slogan: "Friends don't let friends use G2 pens," because they are addictive. A pack of four pens at Walmart is over $5.00, but I consider it worthwhile. Is there anything more frustrating than a scratchy, balking pen? I wonder if Paul's thorn in his flesh was an empty, scratchy prison-pen which was the only thing he had with which to compose his letters to the churches. MURDER, I say.

#3: One Beloved Book

Contrary to the claims of many readers/writers, you will not be in the mood to read while traveling by plane. (I am assuming that you will be traveling by plane. If you are on a long road-trip, this point will likely be different.) I have traveled much in the past several years and every time I have brought a new book, I never read it. Excitement, distraction, and weariness are the key reasons why you will not form a close friendship with a strange novel while traveling. Rather, pack a book you know backward and forward. You want the kind of book that you can enjoy and understand while halfway asleep on ten-hour flight with turbulence. The old familiarity of such a book will help soothe those very components that would keep you from enjoying a new title. Believe me on this: I have tried bringing a shiny new book I've been longing to read and have formed grudges against said book by virtue of having been distracted, excited, or bone-tired while making the attempt. Better stick with Winnie-The-Pooh. (I think I am bringing The Wind in The Willows to Romania, since Abigail has The Grand Sophy.)

#4: Chocolate

The stand-by comfort food of the editing/rewriting stage, chocolate is a must while traveling. I have a Chocolate War Path, actually. I brought a medium-dark chocolate sea-salt bar for the flight over. (Ten hours; I'll need sustenance.) Next, I have a 72% dark chocolate bar that will last me the first week, as this more bitter, darker bar is harder to gobble. Third, I have an 86% cocoa bar that is like coffee-grounds, it's so dark. I happen to like chocolate this dark, but it is the kind you nibble bit by bit. This bar should last me the second week and the days traveling homeward. Sound like a strategy. I find it amusing how my stratagem skills are limited to chocolate-supply.

#5: Reading Lamp

Let us say you don't feel like having the airplane light scalding down on you from a giddy height while reading on the plane. Or maybe you're in the middle of your trip and can't sleep but don't wish to wake your companions by flipping on the big old light. (There's no knowing how many watts these foreign lights will zap at you.) Having a little, secretive clip-on reading lamp is like having a super-power. Plus, it'll make a good flashlight if you're out creeping around in a dark space at any point in time.

#6: Washi tape & one Sharpie

You never know when there will be a physical something you want to tape into your travel journal like tickets, a feather, a coin, etc. I came home with some pressed flowers, some gold off a convent-chapel's door handle, and the like for which I had no paste or tape. Washi tape is perfect for this sort of thing and comes in itty bitty compact rolls for perfect traveling size. (Unfortunately, it does not come in clear. Sometimes Scotch-tape is the best after all) Washi tape weighs almost nothing and is easy to stick on and take off on a whim. You'll love it.

As for the Sharpie, must I explain? Everyone who does not bring a Sharpie always ends up wanting one at some point in the adventure. I smuggled in a Sharpie last year against such an occasion and sure enough, by day two, one of the team members was looking for a Sharpie. Plus, it's nice for doodling on un-doodle-able things such as fingers, arms of airplanes, paper, and water-bottles. (which item does not belong?)

There it is: The Short-List for Travelling Writers. Bon voyage, darlings!