Back in January of this year I started writing letters to characters of three different books I wanted to write. I was trying to find a voice, a plot, a story that I couldn't resist telling. A passion for a character that would haunt me as I went about my daily things that had nothing to do with writing.

There was Flyboy, the story that I started over 20 years ago. Remember the big index card project? After writing letters to and from him for a few months I know one thing for sure - he's still a little too close to a part of me I don't like very much. And there is no voice, nothing in him compels me to write about me which means it would be hard, at this time, to compel the reader to come along for the ride.

There was Frankie who was without a name for a while and who is a favorite of janni and who will break my heart in a couple of hundred places when I write his story. I don't know a lot about his story yet but I do think I am on the way to finding his voice.

And then there is Plant Kid who came into my life as a challenge from a friend to share an opening from a current WIP. When I didn't have a WIP I wrote the opening paragraph of Plant Kid's story instead. He has fascinated me every since. The character letters have endeared him to me, both in voice and in his actions. Perhaps it is because he is working with plants at the same time I am planning my native plant garden. Perhaps it is because he, like myself at that age, is a little bit unsettled about his family situation (though he is handling it much better than I am.) Perhaps it is just because I know so little about him and yet feel as though I know him so well.

In any event, I can really only write one book at a time and Plant Kid wins.

I don't think I'll be doing any more character letters for a while as I can feel myself getting too close to the story in a couple of places and I need to put the energy into story. I'll keep writing letters - I just won't be sharing them until the book is sold and then, perhaps it will be an interesting way to view the evolution of a character.

So today I packed up all of these from Flyboy and put them in a safe place for later.


Then I finished reading the last novel I will let myself read until I have finished the first draft. (I have decided to try and just listen to Plant Kid for a while as my concentration is easily broken what with life and the day job and everything else.)

I will still be reading, just not fiction. So I gathered up all the books I need to re-immerse myself in for this story and put them on the table in the my office.



Now it is time to get back to work.

There's been a lot of talk around the kidlitosphere lately about keeping your dream alive when all around you, as in this business of writing, seems to be working against you. 

Some people are afraid to post their success stories because they don't want to make other people feel bad. (Which brings to mind that great Eleanor Roosevelt quote,  "No one can make you feel inferior without your permission.") 

Some people are afraid to whine about anything, especially after having sold a book or two or more because they are afraid that people won't think they are grateful for the success they have already achieved. (I would probably put myself in the second category.)

Some writers attribute their success to everything from having a cat sleep on a manuscript, always mailing manuscripts from the same post office and kissing the envelope before you drop it in the big blue box. Sometimes it is the act of getting an agent, finding the right agent, attending the right conference, having a great critique group, not listening to their critique group, writing every day, writing in many genres, writing only one thing, writing teachers and classes and degrees designed solely around writing for children, supportive spouses, understanding children and pets who love us even after we've been rejected.

Some days for some writers, being a success means getting a contract, finally seeing a book on the shelves in the bookstores with their name on it. Other days, for the same writer, it might mean being able to write ten pages on a new novel that isn't even under contract. (Hmm. I'm in the second category here as well. I'm beginning to sense a trend.)

And for all the many ways of achieving success there is a different definition of success for that writer at that particular time in their writing life.

But being a success is evolutionary process, not a final destination. It is good to remember this. Not easy, but good. 

And it is a uniquely individual process. Success for a young writer, say in their 20s or 30s might be different for a writer in their 50s or 60s.  I am a different writer now than I was in my 20s. And my version or perhaps vision of success has changed over the years. In some ways I am more realistic, which is actually rather sad because I thought I looked good with those stars in my eyes and the rose-colored glasses. In other ways I still remain a Pollyanna, true to the idea that a good story will find a home, that hard work will be rewarded, and that while nice folks might not always finish first, they will always finish.

So I challenge you to think about what success means to you. Spend a little time today to actually write it out, the whole vision of what being a success would mean to you. How do you define it? How would you recognize it? What does it mean, to you, to be a success? Not in how you measure up to anyone else in or out of the business. It doesn't matter if your younger sister/older brother/best friend is suddenly the most powerful person ever at her ad agency and they wonder why you persist in playing around with this writing thing. It doesn't matter if your mother/father/next door neighbor has bought and sold more companies than you can remember and has their picture on the cover of some fancy business magazine. It doesn't matter. 

I'll say it again, slowly so you can hear me. 

It 
just
doesn't
matter.

What does matter is that you have a dream. You have a dream and you are doing something, anything in any way that you can to pursue. If you get up in the morning and you remember your dream of being a writer and at the end of the day you've done just one thing in pursuit of that dream, well that qualifies as success to me.

No, it doesn't replace seeing your book on the shelves at a bookstore. It doesn't change the fact that it was great aunt Martha who called to tell you about her bunions instead of your agent calling to tell you your book has just sold. It doesn't make it any easier to give your kid money for the book fair knowing your book isn't going to be there, may never be there.

But it's a start. A word after a word after a word is tremendous power. 

And you can't sell what you never write.

I am working on transitions, the real life kind, not the ones in the stories we write. It's something I struggle with, moving from home to dayjob to dayjob to home. From writing to wife to gardener to playtime. From mother to daughter to friend.

So I am exploring the use of rituals to assist me with these transitions. I suppose you could call them habits but I like the word ritual so much better.

I have a few but I don't have one yet for sitting down to write. Sitting at the computer in the morning usually means a cup of chai but that's about it. I know some people start music (I'm working on a playlist) and some light candles, sharpen pencils, etc.

What about you? What rituals do you have in your life?

You know you are a writer when . . .

You post a snippet of your rough draft, as in ROUGH draft for Teaser Tuesday and then keep coming back to revise it.

Sheesh.

This weekend I did something I've never done before - I wrote the last scene in a book long before the end of the book was in sight.

It wasn't intentional. I didn't sit down and say wow, let's write the last scene in the book because, heck, I don't really even know what this book is about - yet. But I am continuing on my bit by bit method of writing these three stories at once by just trying to write a single scene every night before bed. Of late they have all been in the plant book and that's okay. The character is very real to me and, I almost hesitate to say this, but I may have found his voice which goes a long way to bringing a book to life.

Friday night I knew I wanted to write a scene about the MC and a particular plant. So I did. And then I reread it, as is my habit before turning out the light and I realized that it was the very last scene in the book and suddenly I knew where I was headed. I have no idea how I'm going to get there but that's okay, I have a goal for this kid.

Saturday night's scene was prompting by watching my husband spend most of his Saturday pulling weeds in the yard. So I set the MC to pulling weeds. And in the process of writing the scene I had that wonderful experience where, before you can even get the words down, you can see the whole scene unfold in front of you. I gave him a simple task to do which set something else in motion which created a conflict that I needed but didn't know how to orchastrate.

Sunday night's scene was an apology that was not accepted.

I have no title for this book. I don't even know if I have the main character's name for sure and I'm not sure I know what his problem is or what he wants.

But I have scenes. And for now, that's enough.

I have always tried to use the power of my subconscious to do some work for me when I am sleeping. If I am in the middle of a book I will give myself a sleep question before bed in the hope that the answer will come to me in a dream. And often it does. Lately, as I work my way back to words, I am giving myself a lot of sleep intentions that have to do with writing. I work hard to remember my dreams before getting out of bed, looking for insights into how my brain works when I'm not awake to put shackles around it in an attempt to control it.

I share them not because they are earth shattering but because they are not. They are the dreams of an ordinary writer trying to make sense out of her ordinary life.

Dream from 2/16/08
I was watching a young girl at a desk. I don't think anyone else even knew I was in the room. Some woman said something to her and she started to write. I realized she was in an editor's office. I don't know what kind. She handed the woman her page and the editor said it was very good. That there was lots to work with and that she was looking forward to working with her on it. I stepped back into the shadows more and listened to the conversation about what she should do next and how she should proceed. Suddenly the girl was writing like crazy and getting all this encouragement from everyone in the room. One woman told her she needed to get her picture taken because she would need it for the press. The next thing I saw was a girl rearranging because she needed a place to write.

Afterthoughts
We have been in our new home just a few weeks shy of a year now. When we moved in the only two rooms we painted were the library and my office. The library is so warm and welcoming and gives you a "hug" the minute you walk in. My office is bright and airy and, well, I never work in it. Which means I work on the couch with the laptop resting on a pillow between my legs. That's fine for blog posts or playing Scrabulous. Not so much for writing a novel.

Since that dream I've taken a good look at the office and what does and doesn't work for me. While both the library and my office have the vaulted beam ceiling, the library was left natural. But the previous owners painted my office beams white. I am going to paint them to match the wood in the library, lower the ceiling and increase the coziness factor. While I love the pale yellow I think the room is too bright for work. I am looking at sage greens now. Most importantly (and actually the most difficult) is covering the windows. I have two patio doors that leave me feeling exposed (since we removed 99% of all the plants in the backyard and neighbors can look over the fence into the house.) Drapes will warm up the room but will have to always be partway open in order to allow the dog to keep watch over her domain. So I am going to look at some wood blinds with a block-out liner. That way I can leave the one section up partway for the dog.

There are other things to be covered in the room as well, two sets of French doors and a small window at the end of the room. It is no wonder it doesn't feel as cozy. I'd take out the small window if I could but for now, I just need to cover it up.

The most important aspect of the room (and the dream) was the desk. Currently I have two desks in my office. One is working well, the other one, not so much. The two desks are back-to-back. When you come into the room there is a big antique library table. It's the perfect place to write notes by hand or spread out research books. On the other side is the computer desk. But it is (and has been for a while) too small. Once I have the laptop and the docking station and the big monitor on there there is no place left for a piece of paper or a cup of tea. So I am searching for a new, larger computer desk that will work in the room. (Like one of those old oak teacher desks.)

All this began from a dream.

Dream night 2/18/08
Last night I gave myself the sleep intention to dream about what is keeping me cut-off from writing, from being fully present in the moment and how I could change it. I had three short dreams.

First I dreamt I was trapped like a mummy but instead of with cloth, it was some kind of plaster. Only my eyes and mouth were visible. I couldn't hear anything.
 
Then I dreamt there was this tiger laying on his back in the swimming pool - sprawled like arms to each side, just drifting along as happy as could be.
 
Then I dreamt I was in a pool with a whale and I had my arm around his "neck" and I was dragging him away to the ocean, to freedom.

 

Afterthoughts
I am feeling trapped by something, still, perhaps myself. I am not sure what it means to that I could see and talk but not hear. Perhaps I am not listening to something, to someone that I should.

A tiger is a strong hunter, a powerful animal. I do not know what it means in my life but I felt like the power was there for the taking.

I liked the idea that I was taking the whale to freedom but I wonder why I was working so hard to save someone else and why I won't work that hard to save myself?

2/24/08
I had this dream while I was at a 3 day writing conference. I had spent the conference just trying to connect with people for talking about how writing and creativity fit into their lives. Just trying to learn how other people made it work from them.

In the dream one of the women from the conference came to my house (I knew it was my house but it didn't look anything like the house I live in) I walked her all over the house and told her all about my writing and all the wonderful ideas I had for simplifying my life, getting back on track, writing the stories I meant to write. She was very encouraging, kept saying, "yes! yes! yes!" and then she started to drag me out of the house toward her car. My husband came home then and I started telling him all about this fabulous day that the two of us had had, how exciting it was, how motivated I was. He got all excited with me, FOR me.

Then the woman pulled me out of the house and opened her car door. I had a hold of my husband's hand. She shut the door and he was left on the outside. I had to tell him that he couldn't go with me.

Afterthoughts
I confess, at first this dream made sad and a bit afraid. I didn't want to have to choose between my husband and my writing. But then I realized that of course the writing is the one place he can't go with me. When I think about why the dream scared me I had to think about what my husband means to me. He is my safe zone. He is the one who has given me the comfort and security that I need in order to go deep with my writing. I remember reading this wonderful quote by Pat Schneider that said (paraphrasing) "You can write as powerfully and as deeply as you want, provided you feel safe."

It was that quote which made me realize that my husband had helped create a safe haven for me that allowed me to write the painful story of Hugging the Rock. 

Which must mean that it is time for me to go deep, once more, knowing that he is there waiting for me, making it safe enough for me to write the truth.

Some stories will never be told

Some might be written down and deleted. Some might be passed around among friends but they will never be put to page for fear of someone, the wrong someone finding them.

I can't tell stories that will hurt someone I love. Sure, I will use the emotion in my fiction but it's not the same as telling what really happened.

Sometimes there are people you love that you can't save no matter how hard you try.

Some stories are like nightmares and will never see the light of day.

I'm still working on my talk about fitting writing into our busy lives. If you are a writer with a day job that requires you to get up and leave the house for hours every day, would you mind weighing in on a few questions? 

The big question is how do you manage to write when you have to be away from home for 40 hours a week or more? Do you send yourself email and voice mails to remember things? Do you have stacks of Post-its and notecards that you have to gather up at the end of each week? Do you take lunch in your car so you can write for half an hour?

When you come home from work do you go right to your writing or do you have to wait until everyone is in bed?
Are you one of those early risers who can get up and write for an hour before they go to work?

Other than not enough hours in the day, what is the biggest struggle for you in trying to write when you also have a day job?

Thanks!

This is my current work-in-progress. A stack of paper over a foot high, much of it handwritten on old school lined paper which means the ink is fading fast. Add to that about  another 25 MB of files on my computer. That's after purging.



 This is my current work-in-progress on index cards. 



Granted that tall stack of purple prose has had close to 20 years to grow to that size. Diving back into the story again I knew it was too overwhelming for me to get a grip on the story I wanted to tell. The book was broken, I wasn't arguing with that, I was just lost in a sea of paper. I made the mental commitment to basically throw out the old story (after reading everything through once more) and start anew. But there were some things worth saving. And because the book required a lot of research, there was no need to do it all over again. I also was, I admit it, a bit afraid of this book because it has a deeper plot and a subplot (maybe 2 subplots) and there was much more to keep track of in this book than in my others.

Enter the humble index card.



I started off with bright green for all the things that needed names. (I had decided to rename everything and everyone in the book because the orginal was a wee bit too, well, cutesy.) As I went through the stacks of papers or thought about the book I jotted down anything that needed a name on a bright green card. The town, the parents, the dog, and the daughter who may or may not be a love interst. (That goes on another card.)

As I read through the old stuff there were some of those wonderful phrases I didn't want to let go of, even if the chance of me reusing them were slim. They went on the violet cards.

The book is about something I don't know much about - airplanes. So the pink cards are my glossary of words that are used around planes, like Hobbs Meter and chords and elevators which do not meant the same in the real world as they do in the world of flight.

More details about planes, like the particulars about a Cessna 152 or cruising airspeeds in different planes went on the green cards.

Over the years I had read a lot of flying books and jotted down great words about flying from other people. They all went on the blue cards. 
 
The three most important cards turned out to be orange, white and yellow.

I actually started with the white ones, jotting down just a line or two about a potential scene. I wrote down most of the scenes from the earlier versions of the book and then, of course, my brain generated new ones. I didn't stop to evaluate it, I just wrote them down. I didn't stop to think about setting or POV, I just wanted to get the good stuff out of the old stuff and start my subconscious working on bringing up new stuff.

As I worked on the cards I would get an idea of something I wanted to remember to consider during the writing, maybe something about his flaw or strengths or a piece of advice from someone on how to build a stronger plot. Those notes went on orange cards and are great to flip through and ponder when I'm feeling blocked.

The last cards are yellow for any questions that come up that I think I need to answer during the writing. At the moment it's a very tall stack. It might be something like wondering if the MC is going to fall for Edna's daughter or if he likes chocolate milkshakes or when he will find out the truth that is driving the story.  As I work and a question pops into my head, I jot it down on a yellow card. One question to a card.

Now I have a stack of a little over 500 cards. Will I use them all in the book? Not hardly. Did it help me wrap my brain around the 17 versions of the book I have had stacked up in my office for years? Absolutely.

I love that the cards are portable. I can take them and some blank ones with me wherever I go. On my lunch break if I want to work on the book I can pull out a white scene card and see where it takes me. As I firm up the scenes I will whittle down the cards I keep close at hand. If I were a real outliner, this would be a good first step to writing an outline. That's not my particular style. For me I think it is enough that I have the cards. Before I sit down to write I can thumb through and start to warm up the brain soup.

Now here's the thing about writers giving other writers advice. Most of us love to talk about how we "do it" and quite often other writers, those just starting out, will listen to us and think that's how they should "do it" too. And maybe you should. But maybe not. The best writing advice I can give anyone is to look at what works for someone else, take what will work for you, discard the rest and don't feel guilty about it.

Writing progress. I have been working hard on the YA novel. I have gone through about 90% of the notes I have made over the years on VZ and transferred the keeper pieces of information to a variety of color-coded index cards. I've almost gone through 3 packs of cards. I need more of a couple of colors to finish off. I had already made the decision to toss all the old versions and start anew. But even after packing those old pages away I was left with a binder full of  notes about characters and airplanes and various plot possibilities. Not all of it is usable but reading through it has helped me sink deeper into the story. Reading more about planes has helped me remember the initial pull to tell the story from 20 years ago. I have one colored card just for questions that need to be answered and as I went through the notes I'd find questions leading to more questions which lead to more plot points. I just kept jotting them on cards without trying to analyze them. That will come later. 

I find it all very interesting to see that way my young writer mind worked back then - better in some ways (at taking notes) not so good in others (lots of cliche) but still workable. Still a very writeable story. A story I still want to tell. This is good news because for a while I wasn't so sure. Anytime I have to do a lot of research for a book I reach a point where I don't think I can do it. I get scared with all the facts that have to be perfectly correct and want to run and hide behind a story that just has to be emotionally correct. I think that's why I wasn't able to write this story before now - I just wasn't writer enough to stand up to the material. To do it justice. 

Jane Kurtz once told me that, "It isn't just about telling the story but about becoming enough of a storyteller so that people will listen even to the hard things." 

That the kind of writer I want to be - one that compels you to keep reading even though you know some of the story isn't going to be pretty. Am I still chasing demons of my own? Yes I am.

There are some conversations I seem to have with myself over and over again. One of them is worrying if I am doing the right things for the writing life I want to live.

Sometimes I think it would be so much easier (in my writing world) if I wrote fantasy or stories with magical creatures or maybe dark spooky stories about creatures of the night. They seem so popular compared to the stories that call for me to tell them. And sometimes I think it would be easier to write if I was writing full-time. That might not be true (though I wouldn't mind getting a chance to try.) Sometimes I think if I had spent my time just writing novels rather than taking all the sideroads I have over the years, that maybe I would be further along. 

I know it should be all about enjoying the process of writing but once you have sold some books it's hard not to think about it as a business too. And when I think about the business side I can get sad fast. Books that take years to earn out their advance make it hard. And when I'm not writing fast enough to get stuff out there to deserve a new advance, well that's hard too.

There are days (okay weeks and maybe even months) when all I seem able to do is wallow around in the "if only" ocean, usually after a rejection to a book that I felt was a personal best at that time and was unable to find an editor who loved it enough to champion its cause. And so I wallow for a while and wonder why I bother. And sometimes I try to quit, to think about a life without writing, and the pain I get in my gut at such a thought feels worse than I imagine any heart attack to feel. I think I've finally reached the point where I just accept that writing isn't just what I do, it's who I am. The good and the bad is all mixed up and I can't even quit when the market is constantly shrinking and the readers seem unable to find us and when even great editors are choosing to spend their money on advances to celebrity authors instead of on the rest of us.

Sometimes I write to learn about myself and how I feel about things. Sometimes I write in order to hide from who I am, who I think I am, or who I am afraid of becoming. But mostly I write because writing defines me. When I'm not writing, when I'm not in the midst of a project of some kind or another, I don't feel like I really exist. I can walk through the dayjob and do all the right things but it doesn't define me. It's just a job. But when the words race out my fingers and across the screen it's like flipping the switch on Frankenstein's monster and I'm alive.

I'm sorry for everyone who ever doubts that the work we do is worth the time and pain we invest in telling our stories. All I know for sure is that as a "lonely only" and misunderstood child books were the only place I felt safe enough to be myself. They taught me about other possibilities in life outside of what I was living and gave me dreams to work to make come true.

Books have saved me until I was strong enough to save myself.

And to every writer who has ever written something that I have read, I say thank you.