Tuesday, November 12, 2013

I bid you adieu


As with so many good things we encounter in our lives, my time with the wonderful, inspiring, welcoming family here at ADR3NALIN3 must come to an end. It saddens me to part with such a great group of people that have brought a much needed dose of happy to my life, but a well of things have lined up before me and time waits for no one. I am ever so thankful to have had this experience, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

To those who frequent this blog, I urge you to continue to do so. This collection of talent and wisdom is insurmountable, and there is much to learn from these posts. 

To those I have shared this time with, thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for making me feel welcome and an instant part of the group. I've learned so much from each of you that I will take with me going forward.

So long, farewell, goodbye, dear friends.

Read on, always.

Friday, November 8, 2013

Think like a Writer

@SechinTower

In a recent post, I made an argument for including creative writing in school curricula. Here’s another advantage: everybody, regardless of their profession, can benefit from thinking like a writer.

I’m not saying that all students should aim to become novelists any more than a P.E. teacher would suggest that all the kids in her 5th period class should set their sights NFL careers. Nor am I trying to argue that it’s the only proper way to think: people should never stop experimenting and weighing evidence like a scientist, or sequentially calculating results like a mathematician, or seeking causes and connections like a historian.

Creative writing isn’t the only window through which one should view the world, but it’s at least as valuable an approach as any other. Everybody can benefit from practicing the habits of mind required to be a writer.
For starters, writing demands knowledge. Anyone who’s ever written a novel will testify that stories are ravenous beasties that will gobble up everything you ever thought you knew and then come back for seconds. For any given piece, a writer might need to delve into the history of the French revolution, or current trends in emergency medicine, or Creole table manners, or the predictions to be tested by the CERN particle accelerator. You might even have to investigate all of the above—I’d love to read that book!

A writer must develop an insatiable curiosity about the little wonders all around us—the color of a sidewalk after a rainstorm, the texture of a dandelion leaf, the crooked finger on the bus driver’s right hand. Fully half of this knowledge will never be useful, but one never knows which half. “Write what you know” is absolutely true, and therefore you can never know enough. A writer must be a compulsive collector of ideas and experiences, and that’s a good way to live.

It’s not enough to simply observe and know, because a writer must weave all these things into something new. How does a treasure-hunting crew in the Caribbean navigate international banking laws? If a vacationing detective found his hotel room burglarized, whom would he call first? What effect would an electromagnetic pulse have on a cell phone? Failing to answer questions like that could result in phony characters and yawning gaps in the plot.

On top of all that, the story must form a cohesive whole inside a reader’s mind. This is one of the most challenging tasks in any profession, and it cannot be accomplished through sentences fragments or text-message contractions because the slightest bobble could break the reader out of the delicate cocoon of willing disbelief. Creative writing is more than just making up stories, it’s the science of how the human brain makes sense of the world and the art of structuring words to expand that sense.

In my class, the idea that creative writing is really about refining human experience and ideas usually doesn’t win over a lot of students right away, but that’s okay because we have a whole  semester for me to show what it mean. I start by giving them free rein to pick their topics, and for many of them this is a first. You didn’t like Holden’s view of the world in Catcher in the Rye? Okay, give me your view. Sick of writing essays about history? No problem, just make up your own history. Or your own future. Within a few weeks, one by one, they get sucked into their stories, and they start to find that they need to search out more from the world around them than they had ever needed to in the past.

It’s not as important to me that they become novelists as it is that they learn to think like writers. At least, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. 

Be good, and dream crazy dreams,


Sechin Tower is a teacher, a table-top game designer, and the author of Mad Science Institute. You can read more about him and his books on SechinTower.com and his games on SiegeTowerGames.com

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Fatal Flaw

Back in my wide-eyed discovery days when everything I read about writing was a potential key to an avalanche of publishing success—I came across a concept that sent a chill down my as yet un-stooped spine.

The fatal flaw.

I don’t recall the publication or the author, but I recall those words as if they were seared into my temporal lobe with an “FF” branding iron.  What I learned that day is that you can have great characters involved in a riveting plot, speaking clever lines written in world-class prose.  But if your manuscript is cursed with a fatal flaw, then you can submit it to every publisher on this planet—make that the known universe—and it will bounce back.

I considered my steady stream of rejection slips, occasionally graced with a letter that had an actual signature from an actual editor, and pondered this new and disturbing development.  Do I have a fatal flaw?, and if I do, what is it and how did I get it?  From that point on I was convinced that the manuscripts I was sending out had a tumor, some mutating growth that I could not see or smell or touch, but it was there, dooming my carefully crafted words to a slow and certain death.

This was early in the Google days so my ability to self-diagnose was limited.  I was in a critique group with other as-yet-unstooped writers, and they didn’t think I had a fatal flaw.  They thought my words dripped with undiscovered promise.  Of course they thought that.  Chances are, since we spent hours on end in a small space with poor ventilation, they were suffering from the same affliction.  We were sharing our pages without taking precautions,  thereby re-infecting each other with any number of fatal flaws.

My only option was a dose of assessment from on high, a prescription that could be filled only by those who have published repeatedly, thereby proving themselves free of FFS (Fatal Flaw Syndrome).

My project at that time was a short story that didn’t have any legs, so I made the obvious call and decided to turn it into a novel.  Then I encountered the FFS article and decided it was time to find a cure.

I applied to a one-week workshop, hosted by actual novelists that would give me daily doses of one-on-one time, backed up by booster shots of critiques by fellow aspiring novelists.  Long story short, I was accepted into the program.  The authors presented me with a diagnosis, exposed my fatal flaw in all it’s shimmering glory, and the rest is history.  One year later and I had my first publishing contract.

If you want to know what that fatal flaw was, you will have to read my next post.  But know this.  There are lots of fatal flaws out there.  No one is immune. And just because you killed one, that doesn’t mean you are safe.  In fact, I think I see one now.  And now that you’ve read this post, you may have it, too. 

Sorry…

Monday, November 4, 2013

Worth a Thousand Words

Except when I'm in hand to hand combat with a manuscript, I'm not often at a loss for words, a good thing for a writer.  But my husband threw me for a real loop this weekend, and here's why.

It was my birthday.  I don't advertise; really, after a certain age, the day's like any other, and since I'm always working anyway . . . no big deal.  The husband normally gets me something nice, but I've noticed this trend in recent years where he'll take me along and have me pick out my own present.  Honestly, that feels both kind of mercenary (oh, goody, what can I make him cough up now?) and lazy.  You mean, you're telling me that after almost 30-odd years of marriage, you STILL haven't caught a clue?

So I was kind of pissed when, a week ago, he and I were having this conversation--he was away at a meeting--and all of a sudden, he has this Bart Simpson moment: <DOH!>  Your birthday's next week!  Because, of course, he'd been too busy to think about a gift and so would I please go with him to this nice art gallery from which we've gotten stuff in the past and maybe pick out something I like?

Oh, I was so burned.  First off, I really wasn't in the mood for this crap.  I'm in the middle of a book; I'm working; can't you see I'm working?  Second . . . look, bub, I've figured out what you like, so give it two seconds' thought and see what you come up with.

But he just wouldn't let it go.  In fact, when I hadn't complained for a day, he'd bring it up again, just to annoy me.  I even bitched to my kids, and I never do that.  I was steamed.  Like, GAWD, you need me to connect the dots?

Anyway . . . so Saturday rolls around.  I get up extra early--we're talking 5:30 a.m.--just so I'll have a couple hours to work before we have to schlep south to Milwaukee.  Of course, he'd made this big production of having called the gallery owner, who's pulled some stuff we might like . . . I can't convince this guy that I don't want a damn piece of art; I want to stay home and work on my book!

We get there.  I happen to like this particular gallery, the Tory Folliard.  Tory's a lovely woman; her assistant, Christine, actually turned me on to a great collection in London.  The gallery's introduced me to some wonderful artists: Tom Uttech (a really nice, down-to-earth guy who doesn't live all that far away, so I've been out to his place; love hearing him talk about his art.  I mention him in The Sin-Eater's Confession and blogged about him here);


Brook Slane;




Robert Cocke;


Harold Gregor;




Laurie Hogan;



Cathy Martin;



and many others. 

So we hug.  We schmooze.  I mean, I don't hate these people; I just want to go home and work.  Christine wants to know if I want some tea.  We browse the new landscapes show (it really is a stunner), but I have to tell you: I am so outta there in five minutes. 

But I'm sort of relaxing.  We're looking at a Gregor. who's famous for his flatscapes--Obama has one--but broke his arm years back and so taught himself to paint left-handed.  His art really changed, and I honestly didn't care for it.  But after years of practice, his form's tightened up, and I'm starting to enjoy what I see.

But I am still so outta there.  I have no time for this bullshit.

So then Tory's taking us into this other room, and there are some nice pastorals by Kathy Hofman,



some photographs . . . "And then we have this really wonderful piece here," Tory says, pointing to the wall immediately behind me which, of course, I didn't see when I came in.

So, being a nice, essentially polite person (and still so outta there in five minutes), I turned--and saw this:



I am not often speechless. 

I don't normally burst into tears. 

I certainly don't cry for ten minutes straight--long enough that Christine came in with tissues and tea, and then Tory and Christine disappeared so I could hug my husband and weep on his shoulder.

I find out that my husband cooked up this idea a year ago, right around the time I was finishing up MONSTERS.  He knows what this series meant to me; he understands what it's been like for me to live and breathe just about every waking moment with these characters for the last four years.  So he set out to make a piece of art that was uniquely mine; that no one else had and yet would have meaning for me; and he enlisted Tory to help him make this all happen.


That painting: there's my work.  There are  the editions in the many countries where my story's found readers who've, in turn, found me (not all; I apologize in advance to my Turkish fans, but I had no say in  what books were chosen, guys; this was all on the down-low).  The husband tells me that I actually did notice something was up because, months ago, I was looking for the Spanish edition and couldn't find it.  He made some excuse: the dog ate it . . . or maybe that was a cat . . . or a kid took it to school.  I finally broke down and bought another copy for myself before my original mysteriously turned up.  Come to find that he was sneaking books from my shelves this whole year and taking them down to Milwaukee, to the artist he'd chosen, Jeffrey Ripple. 






The original painting was supposed to be of my website, and then Jeff--whom I've not met but my husband says he's the nicest, most talented guy--tried sketches and prelims based on the first book.  And then, somehow, the painting morphed into what it is.

And there is one in-joke, something that only I and the husband would know.  Look closely at the left side of the painting, that edition, Les Cendres. 




Guys, that's French.  But there is no French edition.  (Why?  Qui sait?)  Yet there it is, with back jacket copy, in French (done by Jeff's girlfriend) and a picture of me from waaay back when the husband and I were still in our dating days.  Yeah, me, on a hike (natch) and in the Shenandoahs, with autumn leaves tucked in my hair and that blue flannel shirt.

And on the back is this:



Not written.  Painted.  You can't see them, but even the lines on the fake label are painted.  (And the sentiment--that, perhaps in some other multiverse, there is a French edition--is just so perfect, given what I'm writing now.)

So.  This is a birthday I will not forget, and a wonderfully romantic gesture from a man who understands and supports me, and whom I have loved and will love forever.

Even if he won't let me have four cats.