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.

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)

This Sentence Has Five Words

It is always embarrassing when you realize that those pages on your blog ("The Bookery", "What's Brewing", etc.) are terribly outdated. Happily for my readers, I managed the pages today, so everything on them ought to be correct including where you can buy my books, what projects I currently have in the works, and more. You ought to check it out, if for no other reason than that it no longer looks antiquated. Don't you love the strength of that motivation?

Since releasing the cover for Anon, Sir, Anon, I have this amazingly strong urge to release it early. I will not. I promise I will not. But I cannot wait to order my proof copy and get it in my hands. November 5th might seem a long way off, but till then, why don't you order a copy of Fly Away Home? It is only $12.50 at Amazon and will be a fairly cheap trip back to 1950's NYC. Though I know my writing has grown since publishing Fly Away Home, it is still a book of which I am proud and there is nothing to blush at.

People have commented that ASA is written in a different style than Fly Away Home and even The Windy Side of Care. I am glad they see it because it was done with a conscious effort for cadence and rhythm. You see, in real life (and on this blog), I tend to be breathless, breezy, and verbose. You can hear me rush a dozen words out where three would do. I laughed over a text to a friend recently. He asked a simple, one-line question. I answered with a text three or four or five sentences long, answering his question as I would in real-time conversation. But when you're always jabbering on and on and on, much is lost in the noise. People stop listening. The ear is so assaulted that the brain takes a vacation and runs off elsewhere while you continue with words words WORDS. This happens not only in conversation, but in writing. If one is always chattering, too much slips through the cracks.

In writing Anon, Sir, Anon, I was purposefully aware of varying sentence length, patterns, and reading the sentences out loud to see how they sounded in the mouth. It's a different way of writing, but it pays off. I am surprised and pleased with the...gentility of my prose when I am more economical. But rather than run my mouth over how I did such and such, I found a pin on Pinterest that perfectly represents the case:

Isn't that fascinating? I learned, somewhere between Fly Away Home and Anon, Sir, Anon about cadence and rhythm and I'll keep learning. It's pleasant to be able to see that my writing has improved from one book to the next. What is a "lesson" you've recently learned?

Eloquence I will lend you

It isn't often that Sarah reads things I haven't read, but when she does, she often picks good ones. Recently, Sarah was away nannying for two weeks and came home with Cyrano De Bergerac by Edmond Rostand, insisting I read it. (For those of you new to the blog, Sarah is one of my multitudinous younger sisters who is the sensible one in our room.) There were reasons  I wanted to read this book (once I heard about it), not the least of which is that one of our friends and Sarah insisted that we get together for a day of baking and reading the play (Cyrano is a play) and that I be assigned the part of Roxane. Now, when people assertively assign you parts, you begin to want to know what this character is like, that they think you have to play her.
Cyrano De Bergerac is, in its essence, a play about love and friendship. It is a comic tragedy (I was laughing aloud and didn't see the tragedy coming so it kind of stunned me) and figures a terribly witty and hilarious man with a terrible nose who thinks no woman can ever love him. He is in love with his beautiful cousin, Roxane, but knows that she will not think of him since he is so ugly. When Roxane confides in Cyrano that she is in love with his fellow-soldier, Christian De Neuvelitte, Cyrano hides his own love and helps Christian (a comely, but stupid youth) to win Roxane's heart by teaching him clever things to say to the lady.

"Eloquence I will lend you!....And you, to me, shall lend all-conquering physical charm...and between us we will compose a hero of romance!...Roxane shall not have disallusions! Tell me, shall we win her heart, we two as one? will you submit to feel, transmitted from my leather doublet into your doublet stitched with silk, the soul I wish to share?"

At a simple level, Cyrano is a good laugh and an improbable love triangle. There are many scenes that had me laughing aloud, as when Cyrano dares people to comment on his nose and beats them up when they do, or denounces them in a torrent of scathing wit; there are many wonderful side-characters like Raganeau, the pastry-cook-poet-turned-jack-of-all-trades and Le Bret, Cyrano's faithful companion.
But on a deeper level, I was impressed with the noble values portrayed through Cyrano's choices. When (SPOILER) Christian dies in battle, having told Cyrano that he wants Roxane to know the truth and choose between her two lovers, Cyrano will not take advantage of the situation and ask Roxane to marry him. Roxane is a new widow and, believing that the soul she loves belongs to the man that died, is in deep mourning. If I was the guy who was still very much in possession of the soul Roxane loved, I would have mourned dumb little Chris for a few months and then had out with it in Roxane's hearing, telling her the truth--especially since Christian had asked Cyrano to do just that.

Fourteen years pass (FOURTEEN) and Cyrano visits Roxane every Saturday without fail, where they spend the evening talking about good times. On one such evening, Roxane realizes that it was not Christian who wrote the eloquent farewell letter she wears about her neck, but Cyrano. She quizzes him and Cyrano is still unwilling to spill that Christian was a dummy. He like Christian, for all that, and sacrificed his own love and happiness to see his friend happy:

Roxane: "And he...for fourteen years, has played the part of the comical old friend who came to cheer me!"
Cyrano: "Roxane!"
R: "So it was you."
C: "No, no Roxane!"
R: "I ought to have divined it, if only by the way in which he speaks my name!"
C: "No, it was not I!"
R: "So it was you!"
C: "I swear to you..."
R: "Ah, I detect at last the whole generous imposture: the letters...were yours."
C: "No!"
R: "The tender fancy, the dear folly...yours!"

And on the scene goes with many more exclamation points and emphatic denials from Cyrano and the whole pivot of the book and the part that turns it, for me, from a funny farce to a touching play is this quote:

Roxane: "Ah, how many things within the hours have died...how many have been born! Why, why have you been silent these longs years, when on this letter, in which he had no part, the tears were yours?"
Cyrano: (handing her the letter) "Because...the blood was his."

How much smoother and better life would go if more men (and women) had the character to give up a thing they desire so deeply because though the tears were theirs, the blood was his; this is the measure of a true man. There would be nothing easier than for Cyrano to have told Roxane the whole thing (while Christian was still alive); she would probably have chosen Cyrano and the play would have closed in a rosy pomp of the Gascony Cadets singing and rapiers flashing. But Cyrano waited because he knew he was the better man; he waited because he didn't want to be so weak as to take advantage of a widowed woman. He waited because he might have cried for love, but Christian died for it.
That is the kind of friendship we need more people to display. That is the kind of selfless love given to us by Jesus Christ. And to think, of all things, I was reminded of it in a book about a man with an "unfortunate profile."

And for the record, I did think I was a bit like Roxane:

Roxane: (throwing a folded tablecloth to Cyrano) "Unfold the cloth...hey, be nimble!"

Sometimes You Didn't Want To Know The End

I was watching The Two Towers with my sisters the other night, and of a sudden Samwise Gamgee's voice forced itself on my ear, and I started to listen to what this most excellent of hobbits was saying. Frankly, on the brink of several new stories and not knowing what I'm to write, (and with my Word trial at an end and all my documents frozen. O.o) and only knowing that this ache deep inside my chest must come out a story somehow, I found this little hobbit's words somewhat prophetic and certainly inspiring:

Frodo: "I can't do this Sam."

Sam: "I know. It's all wrong. By rights we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines out it will shine the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had a lot of chance of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something."

Frodo: "What are we holding onto, Sam?"

Sam: "That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo...and it's worth fighting for."

In that short scene on the edge of so much bewilderment, Sam Gamgee stated what I love about stories. What I wish I could write. The very cry of my heart and the words I couldn't find to say myself.

I feel that my fingers are still unfit for war. My words come out clumsy yet. There are deep yearnings and workings in my heart--deep as 'the great stories' Samwise mentions. And yet they don't come out. I am still learning how to bring the vague ache of my heart into a tangible thing. Into words, that it might nestle in someone else's heart and make it ache in that beautiful way.

How can I do this?

That was the question fluttering through my heart and head when Sam came up quite suddenly with this checklist. How do you write one of the great stories?

1.) "...full of darkness and danger, they were." Right. So you've got to have a clear striving between good and evil. Your characters need something huge to fight for. Something that puts their future in peril of they don't attain it. Something dangerous and dark that clearly is attacking the light and must be put back in its place.

2.) "...sometimes you didn't want to know the end..." Suspense. That moment in a book when you're holding it out and away from you in fear of what the next sentence might be while at the same time you wish to hug it close and devour every word. Suspense. Not knowing if the characters will come out all right because, like Sam says, "...how could the end be happy?"

3.) "..A new day will come." A change in the tide. Darkness defeated and Light brought back to its beautiful place.

4.)  "...folk in those stories had a lot of chance of turning back, only they didn't." Boom. Determination. Loyalty. Faithfulness. Your characters can't just be valiant from the start. That doesn't make for a gripping story. Those characters don't usually worm their way into your heart. Part of character growth in a story just as in real life is a series of choices. "I set before you today life and death...choose life."  It is the best stories that place the characters in multiple situations where nearly everyone concerned would justify them in choosing to turn back. The fact that they don't turn back is what makes the first incision in your heart and hooks you for certain.

5.) "...because they were holding on to something." The reason those characters don't turn back? Usually it's not because they're just plain stupid. Usually it's because there is something bigger than themselves that they're fighting for. That Light. That beauty that has all but been obscured by the darkness. Give your characters a thing that says "Beyond the pain...beyond the scalding heat...there is something. There is a thing I must hold on to till Death releases my hand from the gripping of it."

6.) "That there's some good left in this world...and that it's worth fighting for." The remnant. More than anything else I desire to write a book about the remnant. The tiniest glimmer of hope left in a world that is shadowed. The scrap of a tribe left from ages gone who cling on, oppressed but valiant. The scrap of good we are fighting for. As writers it is up to us to find that remnant, to dig it out, and to fight for it with all we have in our pen.

Who knew a Hobbit could teach me so much about my own writing-craft? Well....Tolkien warned me.

"Hobbits really are amazing creatures, as I have said before. You can learn all there is to learn all there is to know about their ways in a month, and yet after a hundred years they can still surprise you at a pinch." 

If you must be Quixotic...

I like to hand myself a hard question now and then and stretch the all too lax abstract/logic muscles of my mind into trying to give a suitable answer. As I sat down this evening and thought about what to write, the question came to me:

Why do I like to write?

In forming my answers for this question, I laid certain parameters upon myself: 1) I could not use "I just love it" to explain. 2) I could not mention Epic by John Eldridge. There. Pact made, and no backsies. 

So why do I like to write?

In a pale, mortal way my answer is a mirroring of 1 John 4:19 which speaks of why we love God: "We love because He first loved us." The question "Why do you like to write" is one of a capricious nature that has no beginning and no end. It simply is. {which, incidentally, is not breaking my pact. No fear on that account. I will explain myself.} I love to write because I love to read, and as I've grown older I believe I love to read because I love to write. The things are inverse and adverse and companions and fools. A love of reading came before an acknowledged love of writing, but I would not say you were incorrect in wondering if the love of writing was always there waiting for an outlet it could not find until I first took up a pen with the intention of forming my own words on paper.

Asking a writer why they like to write {in the theoretical sense of the question} is like asking a person why they breathe. For me, writing is a natural reflex to the beauty, the events, and the people I see around me. As Anais Nin put it, "We write to taste life twice." I live and then I write. The one transfers to the other, for me, in a gentle, necessary way. As prosaic as it sounds, I believe I process by writing. Part of the way I deal with stressful situations, catty people, or great joy or great trials in my own life is by conjuring it onto paper in some way; a journal entry, a blog post, my writing notebook, or my latest story. While I am a fair conversationalist, my real forte is expressing myself in words on paper. If I leave it all chasing round my head like rabbits in a warren, I'm apt to become a bug-bear to live with and my family would not thank me. Some people need counselors. Some people need long, drawn-out phone-calls with a trusted friend. Some people need to go out for a run. I need to get away to a quiet, lonesome corner--preferably on the front steps at gloaming with the North Star trembling against the darkening blue. I need to set my pen fiercely against the page {for at such moments I must be writing--not typing.} and I need to convert the stress or excitement or happiness into something to be shared with another person.

The beauty of the relationship between reading and writing is its give-and-take dynamic. For years I gathered and read every book in the near vicinity and absorbed tale upon tale, story upon story, adventures and sagas and dramas and classics. I fed my fancy, my tastes, and my ideas upon good books and thus those aspects of myself grew up to be none too shabby. When I began to employ my fancy, tastes, and ideas in writing my own books, the dawning of a strange and wonderful idea tinged the horizon of thought with blush-rose colors: If I persisted and worked hard and poured myself into the craft, I could create one of those books. One of the heart-books that foster a love of reading and even writing in another person somewhere. I could have a hand in forming another person's mind. A great responsibility and a great privilege that, and one I would love to be a party to. Books can change a person. I am a firm believer in that. I cannot tell you how many sentiments or noble ideas or parts of my own personality are woven from threads of things I've read over the years. I hoard quotations and shadows of quotations and general impressions of books like a tzar of Russia hoards his icy treasures. They make up a large part of who I am. I think it's worth saying again: books can change a person. For better or for worse. As a writer it's my two-edged gift to be able to slay or heal where I will. It's my responsibility to wield that weapon aright and do only good with my words. Or only purposeful cutting. I am not set against the surgeon's method of butchery--the nicking of a person's spirit, the rubbing in of a salty, stinging salve, and the ultimate healing-over of that wound that makes for a healthier person in the end. It's the bitter herbs that heal the best, so now and again you might be called upon to write something with more cayenne than honey about it. But the end must be good. We cannot let the Light fade from our words.

My last answer for this self-imposed question is a bit shallower, a bit meaner, a bit more like the saucy miss I'm apt to become now and again when the mood is upon me: I like to write because I savor the power. I like to draw a person in and attach them to fictional people. I like to transport them places they've never been, introduce them to observations they'd never have seen were it not for me. Presumptuousness, I know. I like to implant a bit of Rachel in them that may stick there like a cockle-bur the rest of their lives, never to drop away. I like to entrance a reader in my intricate, gossamer web of story and spin them out to the other side, breathless and dew-damp; a little bewildered, a deal pleased. So these, dear friends, are my answers to that wonderfully quixotic question of why I like to write. I'd like to see sister-posts of your own reasons if you so had the time or the inclination. But for now I'll leave you and trot off the practicality of fetching my dinner.

"...He had begun writing again—fierce, warring words she could tell, by the bold black strokes."

-The Scarlet-Gypsy Song