The last thing you want in a book is a perfect protagonist, or one with a perfect life. It doesn’t make for an interesting story.  I get my writing kicks out of complicating the lives of my characters, throwing one damn thing after another at them. But I like my life to be as smooth and as sweet as a latte.  It never is, of course (is anybody’s?).  This, however, seems to be my Season of the Unwelcome.

The peaches are feeling my pain.  They’re stressed this year. Diseased or blighted or suffering from the peach flu, I don’t know what it is, but they aren’t happy.  They’re mottled in some spots, tough in others, certainly not at their dripping-juice-down-your-arm best.

Now here’s the thing. I have expectations. And as Mr. Petrol Head keeps reminding me, I should know better (he apparently mastered the rather remarkable skill of going through life without expectations back in the crib).   If I’ve learned one thing from publishing – from life itself – it’s that expectations bite you in the butt.

I thought I’d beaten back this particular character flaw, especially where my garden is concerned.  Out there, I like to think of myself as sanguine (the word has such a nice ring to it, don’t you think?).  Some years the peach tree sets a good crop and some years it doesn’t.   The same goes for my apples and pears and raspberries and figs and just about anything else I grow.  Some years the bees and the weather and the Gods are kind and the harvest is good. When it isn’t, I tell myself there’s always the following year.

Except (and there’s always an except and I’m pretty sure the word except and the word expectation are related).  Except, I like to eat the food I grow. (I also like to sell every book I write which is another blog where the word sanguine may or may not appear).  But as far as the garden is concerned, I feel as if we have a deal of sorts. I will do the work and step back and let Nature do the rest. If – when – the plants produce, the unspoken rule is the results shall be edible.

This year the peaches are not. At least not as a whole, and not in the way I like my peaches – for breakfast or after lunch or late in the afternoon, peeled with a delicate little knife I bought years back at a flea market. I like my peaches minutes from the tree, fragrant, plain and real.

Not possible this year. Maybe, I decided, the peach tree was trying to tell me something. Maybe it was saying that into every life a little peach pie must fall.  That in the Season of the Unwelcome, a little sweet can be soothing. Even for those of us who aren’t dessert people, who rarely indulge, who are so task oriented that they would never consider peeling and slicing and baking peaches into a pie to only pamper themselves. Especially for them, the peach tree seemed to be saying.  Especially for them. And so I went into the kitchen where I peeled and sliced and diced, and turned a basket of perfectly imperfect peaches into a deliciously imperfect peach pie.

Thanks peach tree, for giving me the most unexpected and welcome gift of summer.

 

I just finished reading Step by Step, A Pedestrian Memoir, by Lawrence Block. It’s a combination memoir, travel piece and journal of his years as a race walker. I’ve read Block forever (I loved his column in Writer’s Digest). He’s funny and insightful. I expected a great read and I got one. I especially enjoyed his recollection of his unlikely pilgrimage along the Santiago de Compostela in Spain.

As I read the book I was reminded again of that link between creativity and movement, especially walking. Author Brenda Ueland regularly walked up to 9 miles a day (she was a prolific writer and she lived to be a healthy 93). Thoreau would ramble for miles through the forest every day too. Author Barbara Samuel titled her blog after her love of walking (A Writer Afoot: http://www.barbarasamuel.com/blog/); she has spoken often of how important a regular walking habit is to her writing practice.

I walk several times a day with Team Sheltie, often with my partner or my son. It’s never a race walk. Depending on the friskiness of the dogs, it’s sometimes more of an amble. But it becomes a time for sharing confidences, or working through a story problem or hatching plans for the future. Or maybe simply a time to enjoy the changing seasons: the smell of lilacs in spring, wood smoke infused air in fall.

Author Julia Cameron calls walking a potent form of prayer. She says it leads us, a step at a time, and gives us a gentle path.  Walking leads me, a step at a time, into my own creativity. Not every day perhaps, but often enough to keep me going back for more.

 

 

 

Every new relationship needs a little alone time, right?  Plus, it’s important to find out how you travel together. How you collectively handle stress. Like do arguments flare if there’s no shade at noon or if the bar runs out of tequila, that kind of thing?   So in an effort to determine if I’m in the middle of a Kindle fling or if this is the start of a long term commitment, I’m sacrificing a week of my time, pulling myself off the couch and taking my Kindle to sunnier climes. It’s a hard job but our fledgling relationship needs the test. The Martian is coming too. He’s carrying my baggage. He’s good that way.

 

Books on the Kindle for the trip:

 

The Lear Sisters Trilogy by Julia London

The Best Man by Kristan Higgins

Don’t Let Me Go by Catherine Ryan Hyde

 

Books waiting for my return:

 

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

Miracles Happen by Brian Weiss

 

 

 

 

 

I’m working by the pond whenever I can these days. In between watching the dragonflies flit from lily pad to lily pad I’m finishing revisions for Girls Who Dish, a women’s fiction novel I’m excited about. I’m also spitting out the first few chapters of a new YA, tentatively titled One Good Deed. And I’m putting the 

It’s busy, both in the garden and in the office (even the outside one), but that’s typical for this time of year.

As I plant seeds and seedlings in the vegetable bed and story seeds on paper, there’s a sense of anticipation in the air. Harvest may be many months away, but it’s coming. In the meantime, I’m enjoying the work.

 

 

Nature often inspires me and it’s not unusual for me to find parallels between the natural world and the world of publishing.

I thought about this last week. I was inVancouver and the ornamental cherry trees were at their best – froths of brilliant pink against the blue sky (yes, it was sunny and that’s a rarity in Vancouver in spring).  Those blooms don’t last long, even with sunshine. In fact, some had already dropped, carpeting the streets in swaths of pink confetti.  But before they drop, they put on a dizzying, pull-out-all-the-stops dance that takes your breath away. And then Mother Nature, aided by wind and time, comes along and encourages those blooms to drop so the trees can leaf out for another summer. And those trees will provide places for bird’s nests, and shade for picnics, and branches for kids to climb.

Those cherry blossoms are a lot like the ideal first draft – over exuberant, wild and a little uncontrollable. And beautiful. Stunningly so. But then we need to come along and let the pink confetti fall.  We need to let go of words, sometimes entire passages, possibly even characters. It’s hard. We’re usually a little in love with those words and those characters. We see their beauty. Almost always. But in order for our manuscript to leaf out and become a reasonably good book that actually holds someone’s attention, we need to play Mother Nature. And sometimes Mother Nature can be brutal. We need to remember that too. But she is inevitably wise . . . inevitably in tune with the natural order of things.

So when it comes time to edit my next first draft, I’ll try hard to let the pink confetti fall. After all, spring rolls around every year without fail. And without fail, there is always another book to write.

 

I sow seeds around this time every year: tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, sweet peas. And basil. Lots and lots of basil. (I make pesto for the freezer in the fall). With luck, some heat, and a little water, a single seed will grow into a large, sturdy plant that will bear lots of fruit. In the same way, the seed of an idea, tended and metaphorically watered, will grow into a book that touches people.

When I’m sowing seeds, I’m usually focused on the end product: the book I’ll hold in my hand or the tomato I’ll eat. But lately staying on track isn’t easy.

In the world of publishing, there’s lots of talk about what’s better – books that are traditionally published or books that are self-published. Go on Twitter and I guarantee you’ll find someone extolling the virtues of one over the other.

In the world of gardening, the ‘what’s better’ debate revolves around the kind of seed you sow. There are those who insist open pollinated (sometimes called heirloom) seeds are far superior and the only way to go. Still others tout the virtues of hybrid seeds (the result of planned crosses between first generation parents). Then there are genetically modified seed (the devil’s spawn some would suggest).

Admittedly I’m not a proponent of genetically modified seed but as for the rest of it . . . well, it’s starting to bore me. Hybrid seed or open-pollinated? Traditional publishing versus self? Who. Really. Cares.

And who is the definitive authority on what’s better anyway?

As long as that tomato is the real deal: drippy and delicious and stuffed between slabs of homemade bread (with extra Hellmann’s mayo and maybe a slice of Havarti), I’m happy. And as long as that book yanks me in and holds me hostage – electronically or otherwise – I’m all over it.

Because as far as I’m concerned, a tomato is a tomato and a book is a book. Why complicate things?

My week isn’t complete without a bit of eavesdropping. Not the ‘listen-at-the—closed-door’ kind, but the organic stuff you happen to pick up along the way.

Like at the gym. My favorite this week was: I don’t want to be that kind of person.

Okay, so I did linger/loiter (which word is better? The conundrum of a writer.)

Let’s just say I lintered. I lintered for a while. But there were no closed doors and it was a public place and I actually did do a few leg presses while I was eavesdropping, even though I rarely use that particular machine and I probably caused some ligament damage in the process. But anything for a good story idea, right?

Turns out the person who made the statement (she of the pert blonde pony tail, horsy laugh and athletic thighs) didn’t want to complain about some injustice or another because she didn’t want to be that kind of person.

The individual she was speaking to (Audrey Hepburn hair; lime green runners) was wholly sympathetic. I am calling these two girmen. A little old to be girls, but a little young to be women. They’d be perfect characters to write into a New Adult fiction novel (which I’m told is the new, hot thing only it’s not all that new – Ann Brashares wrote a great NA fiction novel in 2007 – The Last Summer. But I digress).

This overheard tidbit had potential. In spite of my leg presses and hopefulness, however, it went nowhere. In fact, their conversation was kind of boring. So I went off (to a much easier machine) and had a (much better) conversation with myself about what might cause someone to say that.

I don’t think I spoke out loud but I might have. I’ve been known to. I did get a few stares. But then people often stare when I’m at the gym, mostly because I forget to comb my hair before I go.

I don’t want to be that kind of person. As story prompts go, it’s a good one, so I’m still tossing it around. And I’m still lintering. Only this time I’m targeting boens. The ‘not-quite-boys-not-yet-men’ group. They gather by the bench press machine.

Let’s hope I don’t hurt myself.

In January I took an on line social media course. It was an intense two weeks. So intense, the instructor has now decided to spread the same course over a month because there’s just so much to absorb. Social media is a huge, constantly morphing beast. Complicating everything is the fact that a platform that works today may not even exist tomorrow. So what’s a writer to do? Pick their way through the minefield, figure out what feels right for them and take some advice along the way. Or not!

Here are the top 11 pieces of social media advice the Pen Warriors have received . . . and NOT taken:

 

11. Don’t worry about spelling or grammar; be cute.

10. Be consistent.

9. Be a bot.

8. Learn . . . or like . . . Facebook.

7. Let anybody tag you anywhere – all exposure is good.

6. Promo our books every single tweet.

5. Buy reviews.

4. Have a glass of wine before tweeting; it’s a great way to loosen up.

3. Spam friends.

2. Have profiles everywhere; checking in isn’t necessary.

1. Use Foursquare to let people know where you are all the time, even if you’re getting a facial, at the dump or drinking at the bar.

I don’t remember Martin Luther King Jr. very well. I vaguely recall him speaking on TV and I clearly remember the collective sadness when he was assassinated, though some of that was undoubtedly influenced by the assassination of Robert Kennedy two months later. (In my child mind the spring of 1968 was all about public weeping).

While the man wasn’t part of my little girl world, his beliefs and words were. And since January 21st is Martin Luther King Jr. day, I thought I’d share a few MLK quotes that resonate with me as a writer.

“Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.” It applies to so much in life but it sure applies to a life in the arts. Writing that first line, dabbing that first swirl of paint, picking up that lump of clay requires a tremendous leap of faith.

“Whatever your life’s work is, do it well. A man should do his job so well that the living, the dead, and the unborn could do it no better.” This quote reminds me of my neighbor who passed away unexpectedly last year. Ron was a mechanic, one of the best in the city. Retirement didn’t stop him either. On days when my words wouldn’t flow, I’d look out my window and see Ron in his driveway tinkering with a wrench and being the best he could be under the hood of a car. Humbled and inspired, I’d go back to the keyboard to do whatever best I muster in that particular moment.

“Life’s most persistent and urgent question is, ‘What are you doing for others?’” Much of what I do for others is private and not something I care to share (I don’t get why some are public about their good deeds.). But one thing I do for others publicly is write. I write so people will be moved or informed or entertained. (And sometimes I write so Teen Freud will remember to empty the dishwasher or companies like Dearfoams will replace the two-month-old slippers that are already falling apart). I also write to get paid; it’s how I make my living. I like to believe there’s honor in that (see middle quote). But sometimes I spend too much time in the ‘how am I doing?’ loop and forget that this whole thing isn’t about me at all – it’s about the readers.

Which brings me to the last MLK quote: “We must use time creatively.” I’ll bet you money that if Martin Luther King were alive today he’d be on Twitter. And probably Facebook. For sure he’d have a website. He was a smart guy; he’d recognize the power of social media. But I doubt he’d spend hours tracking his progress or checking his likes or counting his retweets. He’d be too busy doing for others, doing it well, and having faith.

Don’t you think?