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...

TIME TO WRITE--Or, immersing myself in Scottish rain

Let's say you've done the impossible; you've found time to write, your systems are all a 'go'. You're fed, hydrated, and you won't be interrupted for a while.

Congratulations!

But how do you get started? How do you get into your current work in progress without going back to the beginning and reading all those brilliant words you've already written?

Well, I was wondering the same. I was ready, stoked. I even remembered where I'd left off and what I needed to do next. But I just couldn't do it. It was like getting out of bed when I didn't have to. The chances were slim. But that was crazy--writing was what I wanted to do! I was sure of it.

I needed to immerse myself, give myself no other option. I knew I'd forgive myself for whatever I did once I was in the zone. Then I thought...IMMERSE MYSELF.

I was trying to project myself to the Highlands of Scotland, to pick up a trail while it was still fresh. But like in the movie SOMEWHERE IN TIME, I was sitting in a 21st century home office. It was holding me back. There was just too much...air.

So I imagined water rising in my office, damaging nothing, but commanding my attention away from the business of social media, interior design, from Mr. Feng and Mr. Shui. The water warmed my feet, my aching knees, my fingers. As it covered my eyes, I stopped noticing the goals pinned to the wall, the hero's journey mapped out on the whiteboard.

When the room was full, I felt only the water against my skin, the pressure of its density on my chest. I closed my eyes and felt it on my lids. And I projected myself, and my water, to a bluff above a glen filled with nothing but heather. A walking path cut through the waving purple branches. And there, along the path, my heroine pulled the reins of her tired horse.

I hovered, there in my bubble of warm Scottish rain, and watched alongside the hero as she shortened the distance between us. Despite her own fatigue, she smiled as she trudged toward the bluff, pleased to have finally shrugged her pursuer. And he and I waited to see the look on her face when she would realize she was wrong.

And later, the difficult part was getting me back from Scotland. But my family is well-trained. They send a request for my company and attention, but don't hold their breaths while they wait for a reply. Only sometimes, the more devious ones leave a 1970's penny in my pocket...

COURSE CORRECTION

Someone brought this up on Twitter a couple of days ago and it just now sunk in.
Just. Now. 11:40 pm.

It's such a profoundly simple question...simple like turning the wheel on your car, to get you back on course after running a guantlet of pot holes.

I'm here to tell you, Newanda, that I'm turning the wheel now. Yes, now. At 11:40 at night, I'm getting back on course. I'm nearly too excited to sleep, but I will. Santa can't come until you go to sleep, right? And Santa's coming tomorrow. I'll have to mark my calendar. January 30 is the new Christmas, baby. At least it will be for me.

2010 was a good year for me. Sorry, but it was. The year you sign with an agent is always going to be listed in the positive column.

But one major struggle I had in the past 12 months was with a particular manuscript. And tonight I clearly see the problem; I was so busy avoiding regular pot holes, I didn't realize I was IN one GIANT pothole.
Just like Matthew Broderick in Godzilla, I was missing the reptile's footprint because I was standing IN the reptile's footprint. It was so much bigger than I could imagine, and yet, so simple.

Get on with it? Okay, I will.

Here's the magic question: Are you writing something you would want to read? Are you? The manuscript I struggled with was certainly in the genre I love. The characters were the type I like of course. The situation was ripe with potential and plot, just how I like it. So why wasn't it something I would want to read?

Good question!

My problem was, I was trying to write a good book, a marketable book, a clever story with great characters. A problem, you ask. Why is that a problem?

The question should be, "What SHOULD I be writing instead?"

I shouldn't be trying to write a good or great book. My goal should be to write THE PERFECT BOOK. If I was writing THE PERFECT SCOTTISH ROMANCE, instead of a great Scottish romance, I'd put everything in the book that made me love the genre. My characters would be the perfect combination of...whatever. The setting would be perfect, etc. Scottish fans everywhere would praise the book and read it when they wanted to re-read a favorite, and so on.

But this fantastic book would never be written by someone wanting to write a great book. Throughout 2010, I'd pick up this manuscript, thumb through it, and try to puzzle out what was lacking. But what it lacked was my passion.

I was looking at the market, at the fans in the stands, instead of the catcher's mit in which I needed to throw the perfect pitch. I was settling for something over the plate, in the strike zone, fast enough to be swung at and missed. I put all my effort into throwing a strike, instead of throwing the perfect pitch--a pitch that would smack into that dark leather shadow with such a tight fit the folks down the block, who'd gone to bed too early, would wake with a start. A pitch thrown so hard, with every muscle woven through my arm, it would cause the catcher to pull his hand from his glove, his face a blend of satisfaction and pain, sure that his hand would look like shattered glass, but honored to have been a part of the event.

Look back at the first book you wrote. Weren't you trying to write the perfect book then? How long down the career path were you when you started thinking "great is good enough?"

Forget the market. Forget the fans in the stands. Remember the fan in your skin. Write the perfect book for you. Chances are, it will be the perfect book for someone else too. Maybe your sister...but maybe the world.