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?

With the holiday upon us, I’d like to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. It’ll be a little quieter than usual at our house this year but we’ll all be together, and in light of the recent shooting in Newtown, Connecticut I’m aware of just how special that is. It reminds me to appreciate those I love and relish in the simple things in life. It’s a reminder, too, that the best gifts in life are rarely things.

The best writing gift I ever received came at a time of high emotion. I was thirty, an established broadcast journalist, but just beginning my writing career. I’d had a few articles published, but no books, despite my efforts. My grandmother was in the hospital. When I went to see her, she introduced me to the nurse as ‘my granddaughter who writes books.’ My grandmother died three days later. I consider that her last and possibly most important gift to me. The belief she had in my abilities (sometimes more than I had in myself) and her utter conviction that it was only a matter of time before I was published in book length fiction gave me the courage and push I needed to keep going. I dedicated my first book to her.

As the year draws to a close and we welcome 2013 may you be blessed with love, laughter and the presence of the people you hold dear. And may we all be blessed with the greatest gift of all: peace.

Note: Spoiler Alert 

One Saturday night a while back my family and I rented Seeking a Friend for the End of the World (In an eerie coincidence, we were ten minutes into the movie when an earthquake measuring 7.7 hit a few hours north of us. Luckily there was no damage and I didn’t find out until later about it or the tsunami advisory so my movie watching went on uninterrupted).

And I’m glad because this movie captivated me. Set in the near future, the premise is simple. An asteroid named ‘Matilda’ is on a collision course with Earth. In three weeks, the world will come to an absolute end. What will people do in the time they have left?

I love big question stuff. I also love black humor, a ticking clock, a dog (big thumbs up on that) and love. This movie had all of that. It wasn’t a romantic comedy, but it was both funny and it was romantic. The pairing of leads Steve Carell with Keira Knightley was admittedly odd. Some reviewers didn’t like it. I did.

They are neighbors who are thrown together after the countdown to Matilda begins. With transportation in chaos and their apartment building trashed by looters, they take off on a road trip. Carell wants to find a girl from his past and Knightley is anxious to reunite with her family. The relationship develops from there.

Admittedly, there were some things I didn’t love. A few issues were glossed over, and there were a few unanswered questions too. Though, come to think of it, there probably will be an unanswered question or two at the end of the world.

The thing is, though, when the end came in this movie and for these two characters, I was devastated. So much so that my jaw hit my chest and I turned to my family and said, “They die?”

The Martian laughed. “What did you expect?”
Teen Freud rolled his eyes. “Yeah, it’s not called Seeking a Friend for a Near But Averted Catastrophe.”

They were right. I knew that. I knew too that I hadn’t been misled by anything in the film. Not really. Oh, sure, there were those few unanswered questions and maybe a hint that life might go on, but realistically I’d gotten what I’d signed up for.

Except I’d done a total buy in. I’d been totally, 100% hooked by the characters. I was invested in their lives, their dreams, their love. When the end came I wanted them to live on.

And, really, isn’t that what we try for as writers? To hook the reader? To get them to do a total buy in? To root for our characters so completely that when the end comes they may not be left wanting more but at the very least they think there is more. They truly believe in their heart of hearts that the end of that particular story is the beginning of a new story for those characters. And that includes characters being hit full force by the asteroid Matilda.

 

This is the season of pumpkins, black cats, and superstitions. Maybe that’s why I’m thinking about writers and their rituals, superstitious or otherwise. We don’t all have rituals, but many of us do. And we’re in good company.

Apparently Charles Dickens had to arrange the ornaments on his desk in a certain way before he started writing. May Sarton cued up the 18th century music. Maya Angelou has used the same writing ritual for years: she gets up about five, drives to a hotel and is writing by 6:30 in the morning. Longhand. On yellow pads. Lying on the bed. Oh, and she asks staff to take everything off the walls so there’s just her, the Bible, Roget’s Thesaurus and some sherry. Isabelle Allende begins writing every new book on January 8th, a tradition that began in 1981 with a letter she wrote to her dying grandfather, one that sparked The House of Spirits.

Many writing rituals are more mundane. One author friend writes her first draft in long hand using a particular type of pen (she orders them in bulk). Another can’t write with shoes on her feet, only slippers. My ritual is an early morning work out, a quick check of email while I drink my first cup of coffee, and a glance at my ‘to do’ list. Then I’m ready to write. Oh, wait. I need a red pen handy (to cross items off said list) and a sweater hanging on the back of my chair to pull around my shoulders when a chill (or insecurity) hits. The latter ritual goes back years to a hand knit navy sweater given to me by my Aunt Edna. Having that sweater close was a reminder that someone had my back. It was a good feeling.

You might think I’m fussy or just plain weird, but there’s nothing weird or merely superstitious about rituals. Thanks to neuroscience, we now know rituals can increase confidence, reduce worry and make it easier to get things done.

Here’s how it works. When we repeat behaviors, the neurons in our brains communicate together, wire together, and activate each other. If we do things fairly often in a similar sequence, our brains get used to that order and become more efficient at the task.

“It’s like developing friendships,” says Dr. Brian Christie, Director of the Neuroscience Graduate Program at the University of Victoria in British Columbia. “At first, conversation is awkward and stilted but as you become more comfortable and closer better friends, those conversations flow more easily. It’s the same with neurons. The neurons that fire together, wire together.”

So if the neurons for writing are activated at the same time you follow a specific routine – whether that’s pouring your first coffee of the day, pulling on a familiar sweater, or rearranging the chotchkies on your desk like Dickens did – that means they’re primed and ready to go. And the more regularly they fire together, the bigger, stronger, and more powerful they become.

And I don’t know about you, but I can use all the help I can get.
So excuse me. I need to check my email, glance at my ‘to do’ list, and get to work.

I wasn’t that odd as a child, not really, although if you ask my father he’d probably disagree. I was highly sensitive to my surroundings (especially to the undercurrents of conversations and what wasn’t being said); I was prone to storytelling (others referred to this as exaggeration); and I had three special (imaginary-to-everyone-else) friends. I played with them, had conversations (and arguments) with them and I ate meals with them too. Sometimes, if my father was out, my mother would set three extra plates. I guess she knew I was a writer-in-the-making.

How do you know you’re a writer? You know you’re a writer when –

You had imaginary friends as a child only they were real to you.

You are prone to wild imaginings that can literally make your heart race.

Conflict makes you smile.

You Don’t Understand non readers.

You laugh out loud at conversations in your head.

Some of the letters on your keyboard are worn off.

You have pens in every room of your house, including the bathroom and beside your bed.

A song on the radio sparks a story idea.

You stare at random people and memorize their quirks.

You can predict the conflict or turning points in TV shows and movies, and your family has made you promise to keep quiet until it’s over.

You get excited by Scrivener.

Eavesdropping is second nature.

You love bookstores (but hate them if they don’t carry your books).

You live in a constant state of ‘what now?’ closely followed by ‘what if?’

Twist is not a cinnamon stick.

You have scribbled an idea, a word, or a piece of dialogue on a restaurant napkin, boarding pass, old envelope, school newsletter, or empty toilet roll.

You find those odd bits of paper – sometimes indecipherable – in pockets, wallets, purses, drawers, stuffed between the pages of a book, and you save them.

Pacing is a concept not an activity.

You found it easier to write when you first started.

You have missed a turn, an exit ramp or possibly a plane because you were so absorbed in your story.

You weren’t comfortable as a journalist because you always wanted to change the end of the story.

You will read anything.

The Muse is an intimate.

Character is not about your personal ethics.

A hero must be flawed. But sexy as hell.

You gather ideas, thoughts, bits of trivia and snatches of dialogue like black pants gather lint.

You visit a cemetery and take notes.

People you barely know ask you to read their book, their article, their life story. Or ask you to write it.

You have a weird combination of insecurity and confidence.

Finishing the scene is more important than answering the phone.

Proofreading is automatic.