Well, She's Dead

That's it.
She's dead.
No one saw it coming. Hell, I didn't actually see it coming. It was more like a rumor floating around my own head that I refused to pin down and look at seriously.

It's not like it wasn't painful, because I must confess, it hurt me just as much as it hurt her, and I'm still in a little bit of shock--like when you're sitting in your crumpled car trying to make yourself understand that yes, you've been in an real live accident. Even when it's your own fault for not paying enough attention, you're still as shaken up as the one you've hit.

I didn't kill her with a car, by the way.

I didn't take a poll before I knocked her off. Murder isn't the kind of thing for which you can ask advice.

I murdered her in the broad light of day. There was no struggle, really. More of a surprised look and a stupid little comment given with a Scottish accent, "Oh, yeah. Right. Well, let's get on with it, then."

Then she sat back into the fountain, wincing at the chill of the water as it flooded through her denim and reached sensitive parts. Just before her ears went under I asked if she'd mind closing her eyes. And she said, again in that Scottish accent (probably an unconscious bid for reconsideration), "I'll do me best."

There she was, submerged just a few inches below the surface, holding her breath, when one eye popped open and she frowned. "Oh, right," I said, and put my hands on her shoulders to hold her down. She nodded and shut that eye once more. And as if she could hear the countdown in my mind, on the count of three bubbles poured out of her mouth and mingled with the fountain bubbles that were floating over to see what the hell we were doing.

She looked up at me then. Both eyes boring into mine.
I held tight.
Her body jerked in protest as she breathed the water in, and for a little while her hands pulled at my arms, her legs kicked, even though she hadn't intended to struggle. And just before those eyes got that far-off vacant look, I heard her last thoughts as if they were my own.

"You don't need me anymore. Make me proud."

(And I'll be damned if I'm not crying now, as I'm telling it.)

Still I held on, even though I didn't need to; the struggle was over, the keys to the castle handed over without so much as a question.

Could it be that she had known what was coming before I did?
She was a clever chick, after all.

No body floated by in the swirl of cool water as it streamed past my empty hands. She was just gone.

Of course there are pictures and business cards. Her name has not been erased completely. There are accounts to tend to, announcements to be made, and a website to change. But every now and then, when her name pops up, I'll do a double take and try to remember other days, before the fountain.

So, rest in peace Ainsley MacQueen.
She won't be back.
I could never do this again. You'd end up calling my Sybil.

In lieu of flowers, buy the future books of Lesli Muir Lytle

The Contents of Your Asylum

The one fantasy common to most writers is to make enough in royalties to quit their day jobs.

Don't do that.

Part of what makes stories interesting and unique is the flavor enhancement known as CONTENT. These are the little ideas you've been carrying around in your head for decades, or years, or weeks, that you cleverly slip into a scene here and a dialogue there.

Content makes your characters more interesting--like that big hair you added to the description of an old witch--the one your old boss used to have growing off the bottom of her earlobe that curled back like a hoop earring and you always wondered why in heaven's name she could never see it in a mirror, and then wondered if she knew about it all along and was testing mankind to see who might be brave enough to tell her about it.

That's content. That's interest. That's why older writers are a little better than younger ones, because they have content. It's a secret recipe you've been working on all your life and you add it to everything you create, making it sing on the tongue.

The point here, Newanda, is that your content reservoir doesn't fill by itself. You've got to be out in the world--and I don't mean Starbuck's--to keep topping it off. No matter how wonderful your view of the backyard, or how many interesting folks you meet at church, you're going to need to siphon a little of the sea of humanity if you want to maintain the outgoing flow of interesting bits.

And what better place to siphon content and money off a strangely-furred employer than at a day job? I can't wait to quit my current employment, if only for the freedom to examine the boss's oddities on this blog and elsewhere. (*See conveniences of having a pen name...)

So quit wanting out! Take a look around and pretend you work in an asylum, because brother, you do.

Ainsley

The Gist, Newanda...

I write because you, the reader, need to see what I see, and how I see it.


I'm on the other side of the two way mirror and there are things on this side you are MISSING. And if you don't want to know about them, it can only mean you don't UNDERSTAND what you're missing. It is my duty in life to make you understand.

There. Did you see that? Holy crap! Holy, holy crap!

You missed it? Oh, yeah, you. are. screwed.

Well, slip me a Mr. Franklin and I'll tell you what you missed. You'll just have to trust me. It's worth it.

Okay, I'll take a five.

The writer on the inside,
Ainsley

Holy Cow, I'm Happy.

So I was fantasizing yesterday about being the next Stephanie Meyer or JKR and wondered what it would be like to have all that money, to be a NYTBSA and obtain the fame and vindication that would complete my life.

(And yes, I'm pretty sure that's what I'm after--oh, and a lifetime's supply of chocolate covered almonds).

I dragged my husband in on the fantasy, since such an occurance would also change his life. We debated on selling the house, but decided to stay and add on (so our autistic son wouldn't have wasted the last 21 years of his life memorizing an address only to have us MOVE.)

I was excited about the prospect of having a maid, but Hubby claims he wants to stay home and be Mr. Mom. He doesn't mind cleaning the toilets either. I suspect he would rather do that than allow strangers access to his bathroom.

So we decided to travel. He suggested buying a motorhome and driving around the country to visit our children. I pointed out that it was nearly certain all of them will live within 30 miles, even after the last of them marries.

We'd spend a lot on food and eat anything we want...but we already do that.
We'd spoil our children...done.
We'd buy new cars, but our neighbors would think we'd moved if there weren't at least a trio of paintless wonders in our driveway. Even family would drive past saying "Oh, that can't be it."

I know there are a lot of big things I haven't even touched upon here, but the point, Newanda, is that this little conversation made me realize that I don't want my life to change. I like my life. I'd like my bank account to change--who wouldn't--but the life? It's pretty good.

Then I realized what this meant: Holy shit! I'm happy.
When did that happen? Where was I? When was somebody going to tell ME for hell sakes?

So who knows? Maybe I'll be a kinder, gentler writer who only encourages you to focus on your writing with uplifting stories of patience and success.

Maybe NOT!

I may be happy, but you aren't! And you're not going to be happy until you've finished that damned book, or short story, or article for your church newsletter (cough, cough). (And yes, the coughing was to cover up the LAUGHTER. If you're only writing for the church ladies, why in the hell are you reading this blog?)

Happy Ainsley who has not misplaced her whip.

No Country For Casual Writers

Wanna be a casual writer?

Wanna write when your muse takes your hand and gently guides you to a pen and paper because the breeze tickling your sheer drapes has kissed her cheek and brought her out of her deep sleep and she's ready to dictate the lovely dream she's been having?

Do you want to write when the stars are aligned at the same time your family leaves you alone in the house unexpectedly?

In ambitious moments do you make a writing schedule and celebrate when you hit your goal a couple of days out of the month? Or even spend more time blogging or emailing about your writing than you actually spend on the manuscript itself?

Then you are a casual writer. Nothing wrong with that. You probably enjoy your writing more than most; it is a gift, not a chore.

For those of you less casual about your writing, I don't know if you've noticed, but the writing industry has turned into a GAUNTLET. It's no longer a row of desks spread out in the middle of a field like archery targets where we stand back and try to lob our babies from afar, hoping the desk it lands on, or bumps into, is the desk of someone who will appreciate said baby and if they dont, we'll pick it up, dust it off, and lob it at the next desk.

The new GAUNTLET is a damned busy public transit stop in Asia with thousands lined up waiting for the next train, to shoot their bodies toward the doors as soon as they crack open regardless of the people who are getting off and making room for more. With enough effort, after all, the agressive new group can push them out the other side of the train.

And these gentle human beings are anything but. While they wait for that train, they've either got their heads down, nudging their way forward, looking for familiar faces with whom they might gang up and weild more power, or they're trying to thin the crowd. "I hear the next stop has short lines...why don't you try it?"

Sorry to say, that if you're trying to get on this train, you should bring thugs with you (fellow writers) and embrace the gang mentality (writer conferences). At least you'll have a better shot of survival when the excitement gets people pushed onto the tracks. Friends, if they haven't been turned by the smell of blood in the air (angels), can at least pull you back up on the platform.

And once you're on the train, you'll have to fight like mad to get away from those doors before they open again. Grab any handle and hang on for your life. And if your work stinks, there are trap doors that will dump you out between the tracks. For pity's sake, DON'T STINK! You want some editor or agent to take one peek at the manuscript under your arm, think you smell like money, and offer you a seat next to him or her.

Screw the soft breeze. It's a rough wind that accompanies the publishing train and you don't want your nightgown blown around like a doomed ship's sail pulling you toward those sharp iron wheels. The only legacy you'll leave behind is a youtube video of that stupid surprise on your face, just as you're going under.

Have I thinned the crowd a little?
No?
Good for you. See you at the station.

Ainsley, the world traveller

Work, Damn You

Tell me, are you happy being a writer?

Are you, by chance, in it for the opportunity to tell people you are a writer and thereby appear mysterious and intriguing to them?

Do you imagine great writers are found the same way great actors are found, stopped by some movie director in a coffee shop who forces his or her card into said actor's palm with super-exclusive cell phone numbers scribbled on the back and claims said actor is just what he needs for the movie he's starting and please drop the boring life and be on location by 6 am the next morning?

Is an editor haunting your town with the 2010 version of Manuscript Detector hidden in the back of a utility van, holding oversized earphones to her head, waiting for that 'ping' that will tell her that somewhere in your house is the Cinderella of all writers just waitiing to be discovered, locked up in the attic with only a pen and paper to keep her company and no singing mice in sight, and therefore forced to write amazing stories of literary genius for a little escapism?

Really?

I'm telling you now that if you are Cinderella look around.
Harder.
Those singing mice are somewhere. And the story about you is much more interesting (which is not saying much) than the story you wrote and you should stick with playing princess and leave the writing to the people who...

WANT IT BAD ENOUGH TO WORK REALLY HARD AND THEN POUND THE VIRTUAL PAVEMENT TO MAKE PUBLICATION HAPPEN!

To those of you whose talents have been discovered by an agent or editor while sipping your Starbucks and typing with one finger, or discovered because Aunt Serina knew someone who knew someone who owed her a favor, the rest of us have a message for you.

Miss on you, Pister.

Remember: Luck without Work is DUMB luck.
Work rewarded with Luck is Karma.

And to my friends who have recently been so rewarded with agent contracts, I dance the Evan Almighty Dance in your honor. Don't watch, it's not pretty.

Ainsley

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.

THIS IS A TEST: ARE YOU A REAL WRITER?

1. Have you written today?

2. Have you wished you were writing today?

3. Have you emailed, tweeted, read or written a blog today about writing, rejection, publishing, agenting, or the subject of your latest research?

4. Did you check your email before leaving home, hoping to see a name from New York?

5. Did you check your cell battery in case you get THE CALL?

6. Did you check a list or chart to remind yourself who might be calling or emailing so you'll recognize their names as they all scramble for your attention, after a long night of reading and re-reading your material?

7. Did you lose sleep anytime in the previous week imagining one or more residents of New York reaching for your submitted work, the look on their faces as they read, or the times during the day when they may have tried to call but either the phone was busy or a satellite in space lost the connection to your voicemail?

8. Did you try to memorize all the area codes in New York so out-of-state sales calls won't give you a heart attack? (Good luck)

9. Do you keep praise for your writing near at hand, like hiding alcohol in a drawer, for particularly hard days?

10. Is anyone in your family under the misconception that someday they will be rewarded handsomely, and with cash, for all the times they tolerated your eccentricities and various forms of abandonment?
_____________________________________________
If you answered 'yes' to question number one, you are a real writer.

If you answered 'yes' to questions 6, 7, or 8, you are a psycho. The good news is, if you also answered 'yes' to question one, the world will overlook your illness.

If you answered 'yes' to number one and to any of the following--2,3,4,5,9, or 10--you're quite normal for a writer. Especially 10.

If you answered 'no' to question number one, but yes to any of the other questions, shame on you. Return to your word processing program and earn your shingle.

YOU ARE NOT DAN BROWN, SO KNOCK IT OFF!

I say again, you are not Dan Brown...unless you are Dan Brown and you've gotten lost while searching for someone else's blog.

For the rest of you, knock it off!

We, the silly writers of the world, have somehow gotten it into our heads that we are capable of anything any other writer does or has done. If Mr. Whatsit can get a contract for 17 books to be written in a couple of years, or if Thee Nora can crank out a book every two months, or less, we assume they're spinning gold right off their tongues, or fingertips, landing on the hard drive in a perfected state. After all, it's not unreasonable to believe that after you've got your head on straight and that writing muscle pumping like a machine, you are able to pump out fantastic first drafts.

You would be wrong. They would be wrong. We are all bloody wrong, okay?

Of course we get better the more we write. The fourth book is always better than the first, and so on--unless we are burdened with a degenerative disease or an incredibly stubborn pride in every word we write. Yes, stubborn pride is a burden--don't be proud of it! Remember Elizabeth Bennett won the day only AFTER she put her pride aside. So will you. Okay, we.

The point, Nuwanda, is that the only one who might enjoy reading your first draft is you--not your critique partners, probably not even your mother. You are the only one who could think your raw material is brilliant. If you think your first draft, or second, is a gift to the world, you'd be the kind of chef who would advertise two eggs for ten bucks because they have the potential of becoming a gourmet omelet.

I have news for you. No one wants your eggs. Eggs are a dime a dozen, (or a dime each these days).

Recipe for a sellable omelet? I can only guess. Second drafts might crack the shell, but drastic revisions can break them wide open. At this point, it's just a mess without a bit of containment/organization. Using tips from other writers and conferences should add a bit of spice, but you still need to put in some elbow grease and a lot of heat/focused attention.

You selling fresh eggs with great potential?
You may as well be selling blank paper.


Need more professional advice than mine? See this post from Jessica Faust: http://bookendslitagency.blogspot.com/2009/07/good-enough-is-never-enough.html