WHY I AM AFRAID TO SHOWER

First off, you should know that yes, I do bathe regularly. I swear I do. However, I do not do so lightly...

It is a fact that every epiphany I've ever been granted came while I was in the shower. Nearly every character breakthrough, every clever title, every major twist that has landed with angel accompaniment into my humble brain, has done so while I was in the shower.


Why is that frightening? I'll tell you.


When I take a shower, while working on book A, the UPS man of genius drops off a package for book G. G for hellsakes! And in the scheme and schedule of things to come, G wasn't even on the radar! G CAN'T be on the radar. If I put G into the schedule, something has to get bumped. And the people waiting for books  B thru F are going to be un. happy.


I hate making readers un. happy.
My job is to make them happy period.
I'm the Happy Spreader.
(Okay, so I spread other things from time to time--no, not sunshine, more pungent--but the majority of my day is spent asking myself 'what does the reader want' and 'why don't I give them that'.)


So, you see why I am afraid to get in the shower?


I'm headed to the fray of spray in a minute, and let me tell you, I'm freaking out.
I'll let you know how it goes, maybe in the comment section.


Maybe I can hum the whole time...

A HOLY CRAP MOMENT--and remembering a dream

You remember that commercial where the chick says, "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful?" Well, this is going to be one of those commercials, baby.

Don't hate me because I'm...GOING TO SCOTLAND!

Yes, sports fans--and mixed metaphor fans--I get to blow this taco stand and get the hell out of Dodge. No, not NOW, but a year from June-ish. (This summer is all about getting my boy to Disneyland.) But come the spring of 2013 Hubby and I are going to tour it on a motorcycle.

I know this probably bores you to tears, but know this: going to Scotland has always been the end game. Discovering I was Scottish, when 12 years old, had a helluva lot to do with me becoming a writer. I can remember how excited I was the day after I found out. I remember the hallway at South Davis Junior High. I remember the Formica flooring! I remember the dim lighting and the side of the library where I found that first Scottish novel. And I remember thinking that if Scotland weren't on the other side of the world and in another century, I would have liked to live there. (I was told there was no Scotland anymore, that it had been swallowed up by England.) It was years later when I saw Scotland on a current map that I realized real people lived there, in real time. And the dream began.

I'm so glad I won't be going on a senior citizen tour.

And what has made it possible? Finally publishing a Scottish novel. Scotland has brought me to Scotland. Obviously, Scotland wants me there!!! I'm just trying to make Scotland happy.

HAH!

The Science of Tissue Paper and Ice Cream

Headed for the Big CON.
Big Con=Big Conference, not the Con of Man, not "the thing you're wasting money on". Not judging the way you spend your money. Not judging the Con. Not judging you. Got it?

The Big CON in my world is RWA Nationals.

It's costing me hearth and home to attend. I don't even want to think about what else I could have done with the money, things that would have been more lasting. Ooops. Just thought about them. Crap.

Moving along.

Let's say you're going to Nationals too. My packing advice will work for any conference, but we'll just use this one as an example.

While you're packing that outfit for the perfect pitch you're going to throw down the gullet of the agent or editor on your wish list of victims, imagine yourself not pitching well. Go ahead. Oh, for Pete's sake, just try it.

Imagine finding absolutely no one important (to your career) on the elevator with you ALL WEEK.

Imagine only other writers at your tables, in your restaurants, and in your lobbies. No chance to pitch, no elbows to rub, no faces to match those VIPs you've been stalking on line, nor anyone running around with a shark's head (Janet Reid).

Imagine the only agents and editors you see are on the panels you attend. Your pitch appointments go well, but no one gushed over you, or offered to sign you on the spot.

The clothing choices are fantastic, but no one notices them but you. Everyone else is a little too preoccupied with what they themselves are wearing . And you see seven people wearing the same pair of earrings, three have the same sandals, and the one woman who owns a copy of your dress sits at your table on Awards night.

Decide now, while packing those clothes, what attitude you're going to pack along with them, in between each outfit, like a layer of tissue paper.

Why are you going to this CON? Looking to be discovered? Looking for a way to push yourself into the line of sight of someone with the power to help your career? Are you going to impress your friends, family, or local chapter members? Are you out of your mind?

Do amazing things happen to some people at conferences? Sure. Have you had great experiences in pitch appointments before? Probably. Are you going because you are serious about your career and want to be in the right place at the right time, just in case? Of course.

But this is the attitude I'm packing.

Of course it's a lot of money. I believe I'm worth an indulgence like this.
What am I indulging in?
I'm going to go somewhere, for five days, where I can talk with people around me, about the activity in my life that I find most rewarding.
I won't have to explain why I write, or why I would want to invest so many hours into something that may never pay off in actual money.
I won't have to listen to (too many) jokes about sex scenes.
I won't have to explain the publishing industry, or what the difference is between an agent and an editor.
I won't have to listen to anyone ask why it's taking so long to hear back from those people who were considering my book.

Everyone attending will be in one of four boats:
Beginner
PRO
PAN (Published)
Or Industry professional

I can relate to anyone in any of the four boats. I could walk into the lobby, join a random group of women in the midst of their conversation and feel perfectly at home. You could gather any six writers and put them around a lunch table and they could happily talk for hours.

The point, Newanda, is that writers conferences are for writers. While the industry professionals are certainly the cherries on top, it's more a chance to eat ice cream with like minds and know that we are not alone. And if you've never been to a BIG CON, you really don't understand the magic of meeting a perfect stranger and knowing, in another life, you'd be absolutely soul-deep friends.

We're like scientists, really.

In their daily lives, scientist teach science from the bottom up. But scientists getting together with other scientists is what gives our civilization hope. They don't discuss basics; they stand on the pinacles of what they know and they push each other to look beyond, to stretch, to move past the tools...and create.

So there is my tissue paper, the attitude I'm packing. I'm going for all the possibilities of elbow rubbing, sure. But if nothing happens there, I won't be kicking myself for having attended. The real reason I'm going is for the ice cream and the inspiration I'll get from my fellow writers. THAT plan cannot fail.

So don't kill yourself memorizing each little word of your pitch. Don't waste an hour deciding on those perfectly unique earrings, and plan for a fun time. Dye, wax, tan, and get nails, but know that you're doing it all for you.

And oh, yeah. DEDUCT EVERYTHING!

Lesli

Turn Up The Meaning

The following is a quote from Kandinsky's book, Concerning the Spiritual in Art, and it was just the ticket for me today. I think my word count is counting too much these days, when I should be paying more attention to meaning.

Don't feel bad--I had to read it twice.

"... In a conversation with an interesting person, we endeavour to get at his fundamental ideas and feelings. We do not bother about the words he uses, nor the spelling of those words, nor the breath necessary for speaking them, nor the movements of his tongue and lips, nor the psychological working on our brain, nor the physical sound in our ear, nor the physiological effect on our nerves. We realize that these things, though interesting and important, are not the main things of the moment, but that the meaning and idea is what concerns us. We should have the same feeling when confronted with a work of art."

So harken back to why you started writing your story, the message you hoped to convey, the emotions for which you went dredging.

Ainsley, changing gears

EMBRACE THE HORROR...YA.

Inspiration is an amazing thing. Like pennies from Heaven, you never know when inspiration will pour into your lap, clinking for attention, shaking your femurs with the sudden weight.

My legs are shaking now, not with the thrill of an historical romance unraveling in my mind, but with something I never intended to write...a YA.

When Harry Potter came out I had five kids between ages 8 and 12. In their blind belief that their mother could do anything, they pleaded with me to write a Harry Potter. I laughed.

A few years ago Twilight came out. The same children, now older though no less optimistic, suggested I write the next Twilight. Their lives, they reasoned, would be so much easier if I were rich. Having another series of books to read would be an added bonus.

I explained to them my main requirement for writing a book is for the story to drop into my head and demand to be recorded. At that point only Scottish historicals had the coordinates of my skull. YA wasn't even something I read, let alone something that would "speak to me". But boy, is one speaking now!

Do I feel transparent, writing to the market? Absolutely. After all, I'm the kind of character who fought reading Harry Potter books just because the rest of the world loved them. I NEVER love what's popular. Now I feel like the first rock star to allow VISA to sponsor my concert, or like a republican taking campaign donations from oil companies. In spite of my shame, however, I'm going to do likewise and embrace the horror.

This pile of pennies is weighing me down, holding me to my chair, demanding that I write the story. I feel as if my lower half is buried in a silo of oats and I'll be trapped here until the novel is complete. Every time I need a great idea for a scene I hear a clink and holy crap, there it is. The floodgates are washing down the hill, and I'm afraid whatever stands in my way is going to be ignored like the tiny town of Thistle, Utah, which now clutters the bottom of a reservoir.

You've all been here. I know you have. But just which story was it? Which genre? Are you there right now, gripping your lifejacket and hoping your raft stays right-side-up until it's safe to climb out?

And here's another question: When these mudslides/dam-breakers/writing marathons happen to you, do they always seem to happen when your schedules are full, after major events in your life, or do you make them happen? Is it only Nanovember, or have you poured body and souls on your keyboards during other seasons?

Spill. Share.
Ainsley, who is headed to the store for Prep-H, tissues, chocolate, and a DO NOT DISTURB SIGN for her office door.

"SUBTLETY," I shouted.

Let me just say, since there really is no way you can actually stop me now, that I have once again fallen truly, madly, deeply in love with the written word.

On some digest this morning I was seduced to a blog site written by Caren Johnson, lit agent, where she had invited writers to send her a line or two of quality writing out of their wips or completed mss. I missed out on the window, but I did read the critiques she'd given. I also read the beginning of the blog explaining what she considers to be quality writing.

Quality writing.
Hmm, I said.

Quality writing as opposed to quality punctuation, grammar and formatting? As opposed to high concept in-your-face action?

Hmm, I said again.

Quality writing, I discovered, is actually the beautiful stuff I fell in love with all those years ago when I read "Ethan Frome" and wanted to hitch along on a suicide ride, when I wept next to Heathcliff in that silly box-of-a-bed in the middle of the night. And here's the kicker: As it turns out, I don't have to write like an Austin, Wharton, or Bronte in order to write beautifully. And neither do you.

Quality writing is from the soul. It's inspiring and inspired. It's the difference between telling a story and painting a story, but it's even more than that.

It is taking the time to think about what you're trying to say, allowing yourself to feel it, then finding the perfect words to express it. I can't write quality sentences if I am cranking out a word count for a production goal. I can't write quality while outlining a character's GMC, or plotting the greatest romance of the month.

Quality writing is seeing and feeling what lies beneath the story we're telling. It's the secrets kept between the molecules in the air. It's the stuff we can see only with the night vision goggles on. It's there. The writer is the only one who can see it, and she must tell everyone the monster is right in front of us without letting the monster know that she knows.

It's SUBTLETY; anything so subtle others may not see it, but important enough that no one should miss it. It's the potential in Ethan Frome's shoulders that will never be realized because of his "smash up". It's the futility of the winter sun trying to shine through an arctic wind. It's opposition you never notice, tension deep within the stem of a flower that keeps its head up. It's the chemistry inside the same flower that allows it to turn its head, ever so slowly and indiscernibly, toward the sunshine.

Quality writing points out the secrets all around us, secrets God was not going to tell us if we didn't think to ask, or look for ourselves.

If you want to discover if you have left quality writing behind, do what I did. Race to your latest wip and search for three or four lines of quality writing you could post to Caren Johnson (as if it weren't too late to do so) so that she might comment on it.

Want to feel better? I skimmed through ten pages and couldn't find anything worthy.
Want to fix it? Want to warm up your quality writing muscles? Grab a box of tissue and a copy of Ethan Frome. (I wept before I ever reached page two--the way one weeps over poetry, or perfect Christmas snow. I wept for the hope that I might be the producer of such beauty.)

The great thing about Edith Wharton, by the way, is that she is more easily read than Austin, but writes so beautifully you know you're elbow-deep in a classic, and you finally understand what the term "classic" means.

Ainsley the Subtle

MAKE YOUR DAY TASTE BETTER

How do you think you would feel if you went to Vegas and paid a whole lot of money for a really wonderful buffet, only to hear hours later that you'd missed the second room full of choices? Maybe it was brimming with beautiful desserts, maybe it was steaming with succulent appetizers. Either way, you're going to be ticked that no one pointed it out to you.

Or worse, you may be ticked that someone had told you about it but you either didn't believe them, or didn't really understand what they were saying.

I have been living this buffet. Every day. Life is wonderful, all I could ask for. I never leave the table, or end the day, wanting for much. Until Sunday morning, I didn't really know what I was missing. I actually have seen the other room before, but I forgot it was there.

Let me "s'plain".

Last weekend was kind of a rush for me. Good things happened--no GREAT things happened. Then Sunday morning I woke up with the usual intention of going right back to sleep, but the memory of the day before jumped center-screen in my head and I could not get it off.

Far from my usual routine, I got out of bed without reviewing, or trying to relive, my dreams, and wandered around, not quite knowing what one does when one rises ahead of schedule with nothing planned. I stepped out onto the deck in my robe (since I was still in my conference hotel room) and gulped in what I then remembered was fresh mountain air. I watched the freaking sun rise.

Did you know it doesn't look at all the same first thing in the morning? Probably a bit like people.

I enjoyed the sun, the air, the stillness, the slight touch of moisture on my face, and I wished I could have alerted others to the experience. I wanted to run up to folks in line for the wonderful, but regular, buffet and implore them not to miss the rest, the other room, the other experience that is completely their right to enjoy.

So I'm alerting you. Get up and see what the morning is hiding from you. You may be inspired, as I was, to dance outside in your robe and bare feet.

And it made the rest of the day taste better.

Ainsley

Gray Matters and Water Balloons

I was recently whining to my friend and fellow writer--let's call her Kim Finnegan--about what an event packed year this is going to be for me.



The problem, I told her, is that in the middle of all this drama, I am having inspiration dropped on my head like a bunch of water balloons from a balcony above. How unfair for it to happen now, when pens and time run from me.



Her insight has put Eyore back in his place but good.



She said "The more you use your brain, the more it will work for you." Wow. Anyone else think about the movie "Phenomenon"? I got visions of my brain firing and parts near the hot spots warming up as well.



My conclusions? I will not begrudge how busy I am when that schedule is accompanied by water balloons. I will lift my face to the little buggers on the balcony and enjoy the bath.

( I will also buy a tape recorder today.)



I will pass on Kim's eloquent warning, too.

"Don’t over do and burn out. When you get your breaks…rest. It ‘s not just the notes, but the space between the notes that makes the symphony beautiful."



Ain't she a poet?

Thanks Kim

Ainsley