My Brain, On Fear

I am a great believer in dreams.  Being a shrink, I guess you'd say it's in the job description.  I don't hold much stock in dreams as prognosticators of the future or omens.  The work our brains do whilst dreaming is both necessary and highly individualistic, and by and large, I look forward to dreaming more than I do sleeping.  (By the way, those who, like me, moan about just having to sleep because it's such a time sink and complete waste when you could be doing something much more important, like working?  Consider this: a new hypothesis suggests that while your brain is feverishly filing away the day's information, it is also restoring your brain cells to a sort of baseline set point.  Without this activity, argue UW-Madison researchers Giulio Tononi and Chiara Cirelli, your brain would be unable to encode new information.  You'd not only run out of storage capacity; your cells would pretty much crump because, as hard as they work during sleep, they must work even harder to soak up and react to all the stimuli you throw at them during any given day.)

So, okay, fair enough: I'm convinced, although I didn't need a scientist to tell me I ought to sleep.  It's the time I mind.  On the other hand, without sleep, I wouldn't dream quite so much.  So I guess it evens out.  (NEWS FLASH: Go without sleep long enough, and you'll get breakthrough REM whether you like it or not.  It's unpleasant, sometimes scary, but your brain is only trying to save itself, bub.  So forget the all-nighters already.  Your mother was right.  Get some shut-eye and dream the way your brain was meant to.) 

All this is by way of prelude to the dream I had last night or, much more likely because it is still so vivid, in my last REM cycle this morning.  (Oh, Ilsa, you can make everything so science-y.)  Like I said, I pay attention to dreams; my husband pays attention to his, too, mainly because he figures I'll interpret them in a way that makes sense.  Usually, I do, but only because I've known him a long time.  (And it's the same with a patient.  Anyone who tries to tell you what your dreams mean without getting to know you very well and for a really long time--in relative terms, that's about three, four months of intense talking--is full of it.  You'd get more out of a Magic 8 ball.)

My dream this morning felt very long and probably lasted less than thirty seconds.  I remember only the pertinent stuff: I'm in a marriage that isn't working with a person (I won't say what sex, but that was interesting, too) I'd never have married in a million years.  I was uncomfortable and knew it.  We're in a house that I'd never have chosen in my life, and it's a primitive thing.  We have to grow our own food, make our own furniture . . . I remember taking a carving tool or an axe to a chair, I think; I say that because I remember that the back was a hollowed oval.  I was making a mess of that chair, whittling off big ol' chunks and thinking, This doesn't look remotely right; this isn't going to work.  In the dream--right before I woke myself up--I thought, There has to be an easier way.  Why can't I go live somewhere I've been before, where I'm way more comfortable?

I can think of two possible interpretations for this dream.  There might be more, but it's the same thing when you say the right thing to a patient at the right time: everyone calms down.  They know you're right, and you know it.  The tension bleeds away; there's that little mental ding.

So this baby's got two dings.  One . . . I can't talk about just yet.  I'd like to; I know exactly what's going on here and in fact, I was going to blog about it.  But I have to wait.  Stay tuned, and in two weeks, I'll tell you because it's an interesting topic and interesting times and we might all have to deal with this sooner or later.

The second, I can. 

Freud said that the house in a dream represents the dreamer.  For me, I'd say he's right; just ask me about the doozy of an ooky nightmare I had right before my first visit with my training analyst: Creep City.  But I will also admit that I might be primed to believe that way.  I'd read The Interpretation of Dreams well before I stared at the acoustical tile of my analyst's ceiling for several years.  So if that's what the great man said, that's what I thought was true.  In part, I think we all know that Freud was a product of his times.  Not everything he said was right, but then again, not everything he said was wrong either.  My guess is people put a lot of stock in their houses; a house is the face the public sees. We make all sorts of assumptions about people on the basis not only of where they live and how but what their house looks like.  Think about it a second, and you'll see the truth of that.  Houses are clothes, on a larger scale.

But I also think that if cars were something I really grooved on--and I sometimes moon over a classic muscle car until someone shakes me--I might dream of being in a car I would honestly never drive.  It just all depends on the person.

So, the dream that I think I've got figured: it's really kind of straightforward.  I'm now in the middle of writing something in a style and way I've never done, ever.  I'm pushed way out of my comfort zone.  This thing is a huge challenge--but I also put myself there, deliberately.  I did it in the way I ended one book because that would force me to try something I've always thought I just might not be able to pull off--and working on this book now--horror/historical/sf--is the strangest thing because my brain is fighting itself.  I'm always holding myself off at a little bit of a distance, looking at the shape of thing, listening to syntax, trying to use the right language and slang.  My critical brain is active when, normally--or after a certain point when the characters are talking, and I've butt out--it's absolutely operating way in the background and so quietly, I only understand it's there when I get up, walk away from the book for a second--and then do a head slap because, DOH!  Ilsa, you idiot, you need to write it this way.

MONSTERS was a tad like this.  What with all the storylines and characters, it took me some time to build up a head of steam.  I think I wrote something like . . . a hundred pages?  one-fifty? . . . that ended up being shredded and I had to start all over again.  There are literally hundreds of pages on the cutting floor here.  Thankfully, my memory seems to be short, but the husband tells me I fretted about that book up to the last keystroke, wondering if I was getting it right.  I do know that every POV shift, every new chapter,  each scene felt like the beginning of the next uphill run--and there was no downhill, it seemed, ever.  I knew when I was done that it was fine and more than fine--and even, my editor made a few suggestions that ended up putting back some of the pages I'd slaughtered.

This book is similar; it feels much harder probably because it is, and I'm not known for easy formulas anyway.  The thing is a challenge; the concept is way out there.  So my dream-brain is screaming for me to cut it out; give it a rest; give it up and do something familiar. 

Now, I won't say that even the familiar is "easy."  As I remind anyone who turns his nose up at work-for-hire in other universes: Look, bub, every word, every line, each story was original.  So what if the book featured Kirk and Spock or Seven of Nine?  There was nothing easy about it and I did it all from scratch.

So this dream is about my worry that I'll fail.  I get that.  What is so funny about my dream is that I believe that I will fail with every new book; that the book I just finished is the best I could possibly do and I can't ever do half as well again.  In some ways, that's correct because I write the very best book I can at that moment; I don't do halfsies.  Who, in their right mind, would?  That's why I can't answer questions about what I'd change about a book if I could go back and do it again.  I can't ever do that book again in quite that way because I will never be the writer who did that book back then. 

So, great.  I know what's bugging me; well, that is, I've told you part of it, and I'll tell you the rest in two weeks.  The insight doesn't make me feel much easier.  There is nothing magical about this, no aha moment.   A correct and honest interpretation won't make my anxiety go away.   It's like Tiger Woods, I guess: it's about grinding it out, baby. 

In the end, I think this New Yorker cartoon sums it up best (and apologies for the shadows):

 

 

Stop by again in a couple weeks for Part Two.  Interesting times.

A Heart to Break

I'm in such a weird place right now: winding up the last book in a series that is so damned close to my heart that every time I go through a pdf (just finished the third pass, caught a few more mistakes, and so have stealed myself for the fourth pass), I end up crying all over again--and I KNOW WHAT HAPPENS!

And on the flip side, I'm doing copy-edits and revisions for WHITE SPACE, the first book of my new DARK PASSAGES series, and which, with every read-through, also reduces me to a puddle of goo--

AND I'm starting to outline the sequel, THE DICKENS MIRROR, and I'll tell you right now: writing is hard; writing these stories is gut-wrenchingly personal.

And this sequel--this series--is like nothing I've tried before.

So I've been a little worried, and scared.  More to the point, I've wondered what the hell I'm doing: not just that I may not succeed, but will I kill my career trying?

Now, of course, this is crazy--the career-killing part, that is.  There will be other books; I'll keep writing; this is why God invented pseudonyms.  As for not succeeding . . . well, hell, that's in the eye of the beholder, isn't it?  What doesn't work for one reader works for another.  Just think of all the books you've read that have gotten rave reviews but which you look at and think, Wuh?  As a good writer-friend of mine pointed out, no one book will make or break anyone.  Unless you outright plagiarize someone, no one book is the end-all and be-all of a career.  Hell, ask that guy who fibbed on Oprah, the hundred-zillion-gamillion pieces guy, and see if he isn't laughing all the way to the bank because, baby, scandal sells, too.

Except . . . 

These past two weeks have seen two fantastic, thought-provoking blog entries by Kristine Kathryn Rusch that you really need to read in their entirety: one on the stages writers, both indie and traditional, go through at certain points in their career and, a second, very personal story about the moment and series that made Kris nearly give up writing for good.  

Kris's second post has a lot of resonance, provokes a lot of emotion because I was kinda there when it happened.  In my comment to her, I mentioned that I remembered this whole episode--and I also agree with many other folks who've pointed out that while having a supportive S.O. means the world, the drive to write--to shake off disappointment and heartbreak and try again--must come from the writer.  

So read these blog entries and pay particular attention to Murder Most Foul because you need to ask yourself just how far you'd be willing to go.  I think that Kris shows remarkable honesty when she wonders if she should've taken her agent's advice.  She will never know, of course, and things sometimes have a way of working out as self-fulfilling prophesies, but is yanking a series from one publisher and going to another truly a death knell?  I admit: I don't know; I'm nowhere near as experienced to even attempt to answer this question; I wouldn't even know who to ask.  You could say that the agent might not have suggested this if the agent thought that move would fail because we are, after all, talking business, and the agent's got to eat, too.  But who knows?  Ask yourself how far you'd be willing to go to make a series fly--and whether, after having your heart broken, you'd have the will to drag yourself back up and try again.  Ask yourself if you really can divorce yourself and your book from "business;" if a book is truly a widget.  It's not to me; a book's got my blood on and in it.  Sending books out for people to shred takes a certain species of madness or courage . . . I haven't decided which, and I haven't yet met a writer who can truly separate herself from the widget, the finished product.  I know writers whose works have been savaged--in reviews, by bloggers, by snarky Twitterati--because this is both the blessing and the curse of social media: fans can find you, and you can go looking for trouble; you can sidle up to eavesdrop on a conversation that, really, you oughtn't and can do you nothing but harm.

But I can relate to what Kris says.  I think of all the times I've come close to giving up.  I think of the time when, after a couple years of no sales of any kind, I said to myself, one more story, and then that's it.  That's true, by the way; that really happened to me; that's what I'd decided: one more story, and then finis.  Happily, that story sold, and in a very big way, and that put enough wind beneath my wings to keep me going.  If it hadn't . . . I don't know.  Would I have quit?  I kind of think so . . . but then again, who will ever really know?

What Kris has done is, I think, very brave because she is the consummate pro and a strong woman, and stronger still by reminding us that we each have a breaking point, a place and time where and when we will shatter--because each of us has a heart to break.  

At the End of a Very Long, No-Good, and Very Bad Day

Ever have one of those days where NOTHING goes right?  Hello . . . I just suffered through one.  EVERYTHING, from the moment I spilled my coffee (sacrilege!) to the instant I realized that the lemon-blueberry bundt cake I LABORED over wasn't coming out of the bloody pan (note to self: next time, don't use the blueberries you froze last fall because they SINK to the bottom of the pan and STICK, no matter how much flour you coat those little suckers with)--to the bloody book that just doesn't feel quite right . . . yes, it's been that kind of day.

What I think about after a day like today is what makes me . . . afraid?  Worried?  Worried; I like that word better.  Afraid makes me sound like a wuss.  Worried. . . I'm only mildly anxious (even when I'm anything but).

Let me explain.

I'm doing this guest post for the Horror Writers of America blog, and so I get these questions.  Of course, one of the questions is about fear, and more specifically what frightens me now as an adult versus what might have frightened me as a kid.  I'll tell you what I told them: when I was a kid, I wasn't scared of very much except being alone, in a dark house, late at night.  I think it was the stillness that got to me.  So long as there was some kind of white noise—a fan, say, or some steady drone—I was fine.  But once it got ~~quiet~~, every bump and creak used to freak me out.   I hated windows without blinds or curtains; who the hell knew what was out there, looking in?  So, of course, when I babysat, I made sure every light was on and the TV just loud enough so that when the homicidal maniac came through the door, I wouldn't hear him until it was too late.  It was a wonder no one docked my pay to cover the electric bill.

One thing I didn't mention, though, was that I was afraid of disappointing my parents.  It was just this global amorphous concern, and it completely freaked me out.  When you're a kid, you work hard in school to tell the teacher what you know--and to please your parents.  So, not pleasing them, making them upset or not want to have anything more to do with me . . . scared me.  In my house, if you didn't please a parent, you got one of two things: either a very LOUD talking-to (accompanied by other very LOUD and UNPLEASANT things)--or you got the freeze-treatment.  It wasn't just that you were letting yourself down (in fact, YOU, as a kid, usually weren't in the equation).  No, no, you'd disappointed your parents.  You'd hurt them.  So you worked very hard at becoming competent; you studied harder, learned more, did more than other kids.

This may explain why, as an adult . . . I crave silence.  I like being alone.  My circle of friends is small.  I protect myself.  I love the dark.  So, go figure.

Still, honestly, nowadays, very little freaks me out.  I wasn't even all that worried for or about my kids, although I do remember turning all ninja-mom when some bozo spooked one of my girls.  Guy was lucky to leave that grocery story with his teeth.  (Another true story: big old wasp—we're talking something with BOEING written on the side—landed on my baby's shoulder?  I bare-handed that sucker, threw it down, ground it to paste.  My husband's eyeballs about fell out of their sockets.  Then we all went back to our burgers.)

In part, I think my tolerance for the horrific is because of my past life as a doc.  You know, hang around the emergency room or a psych ward or women's prison for a while, and you see some pretty terrible stuff.   Now, it's true: I really don’t want to be held up at gunpoint; I don't think I'd care much for, oh, drowning, being strangled, or knifed to death.  A stiletto pointing at my eyeball would be right up there on my freak-out-o’meter.  (Come to think of it, maybe all those times I put my poor characters in those life and death situations, I’m really trying to work through things.  You see, this is what comes of being a shrink.  You navel-gaze a lot. You think about the impact of your parents in your life.  Then you go see a friend or talk to your husband who tells you to get a grip.)

But, in reality, I guess there comes a point where, sure, you can be scared, but if you don’t do something, you’re dead.  So if I get scared, I work on getting competent.  A little anxiety is not a bad thing, by the way; anyone who doesn't doubt herself before trying to tell a story is a fool.

At this point, the things that freak me out all revolve around things that make me mad (and sad) because there’s no way I can become competent.  Climate change and mass extinction are right up there.  Scare the bejesus out of me because I know there’s very little I can do except scream at politicians and be as environmentally responsible as I can.

Today, though, I've felt a tad incompetent, and from the get-go.  The book's not coming together; the cake was a disaster (okay, not totally; it was scrumptious but not pretty); I can't, for the life of me, see how I'm going to pick myself up from this mess.  It does no good for my ever-tolerant, ever-patient husband to remind me that I am ALWAYS like this when I write a book; that I am ALWAYS convinced it is drek; that I ALWAYS flail.

For the moment--this instant, tonight--I feel incompetent, and that freaks me out.  There is no help for it; I'm not some movie star, like Gloria Swanson/Norma Desmond, who can watch old films of herself when she was once someone.

All I can do is remind myself that I have been competent; I know how to do this (this being write a decent story); and if things aren't coming together today, they either will tomorrow or the next day or at some point when I figure out why they're not.

Someone once asked me if there was ever a story that defeated me.  I've written a blog about that, actually; and the short answer is yes and no.  Of course, stories defeat me; they humble me all the time; they take me down a notch or two; and sometimes, they punch me in the nose and laugh as I stagger and bleed all over the keyboard because, to their mind, I've no business in the ring to begin with.

But the one thing I have always done is get back in the ring.  I have always fought back, and I have always learned new tricks to best this beast.  

There's this great mantra that Frank Herbert put in the mouth of Paul Atreides as he's being tested by the Bene Gesserit in a trial of mind over feeling, and it's worth repeating here:

I must not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration

I will face my fear.

I will permit it to pass over me and through me.

And when it has gone, I will the turn the inner eye to see its path.

Where the fear has gone, there will be nothing.

Only I will remain.

Wish I'd written that.  If that's too melodramatic for you--but, you writers out there, you know what I'm talking about; fear really will cripple you--then try this one for size.  It comes from an essay by Alexander Chee who wrote a fine piece about what he learned from Annie Dillard (a fabulous writer; her best work, to my mind, is An American Childhood, a book that still has the ability to make me cry): 

What I saw on the page was that the voice is in fact trapped, nervous, lazy. Even, and in my case, most especially, amnesiac. And that it had to be cut free.

So, I think . . . it's time: time to call it a day, time for a good night's sleep--and time to cut myself free and let my story find me . . . tomorrow.  Because I'm blessed with a tomorrow.

You Are a Writer

By Dan Haring

Raise your hand if you're an aspiring writer.

I'm sorry, but you're wrong. You're not an aspiring writer. You are a writer.

What does aspire mean? "To seek to attain or accomplish a particular goal. From Latin aspirare, literally, to breathe upon."

I see you over there, in the corner, breathing onto your laptop.

"Shhh...I'm aspiring over here."

No you're not. You're writing. 

If you have, at one point, put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and written something - a poem, a short story, a screenplay, the first chapter to the next great American novel, you are, in fact, a writer.

Now, if you haven't, if you're still just breathing on the paper, but not putting anything on it, then, I guess, technically you're an aspiring writer. But that's okay. The great thing about writing is all you need is that pen and paper or that keyboard. There should be very little, if anything, physically holding you back.

Now, you might say that I'm stupid for that whole breathing thing. You might be thinking "I really AM an aspiring writer. I want to write the next Harry Potter or Twilight or On the Road or Catcher in the Rye."

And that's great. It's great to have those goals. But let's go back to the definition of aspire. To seek to accomplish a particular goal. You are an aspiring best-selling author, which is something altogether different.

It means you're serious about this whole writing thing. It means that you're not just going to mess around, but that you're going to take your craft and make it into something people will pay you money to read.

And that's awesome. You need to have goals, whatever they may be. But that's just it, The goals are the finish line, and you're never going to reach them if you don't pick up that pen.

So just write.

Some of you might be rolling your eyes and saying "Ok, we get it, can you move on to the next visual?"

The answer is yes.

This is me and my two sons at the 2010 San Diego Comic Con. The lady we're with is comic book writer Gail Simone, who has written tons of comics, including characters such as Batman, Wonder Woman, Superman, Deadpool, etc. (My kids are obviously impressed) And this is right before I turned to her and asked if she had any advice for an aspiring comic book writer.

I'm pretty sure I even used those exact words.

I'm not even going to make an excuse for myself. The point is, the second you make that effort and start writing, You've changed into a writer, so don't sell yourself short.

The reason I'm spending so much time on this is I've heard so many times from friends. "Oh, that's cool you wrote a book. I wish I could." Like it's some magical fairytale thing that I somehow managed to do and that they'd never be able to.

But it's not magic, it's just a matter of working hard.

So stop aspiring. Start writing. And if you've already started, keep writing.

I promise it's not as scary as it sounds. 

Out of the Comfort Zone

I admit it -- I fit the stereotype of the introverted writer. I've learned to enjoy booksignings, schmoozing at writer conferences, speaking to groups and teaching workshops, but not without some significant effort. I'm much more comfortable tucked safely away in the confines of my familiar bubble -- alone with my characters (at least in my head) at home or at my favorite table at the neighborhood coffee shop.

That said, I believe strongly that I always benefit in some way from stepping out of my comfort zone and doing something that makes me a little bit nervous. For instance, for the first 30 or so years of my life, public speaking was my greatest fear and I avoided it at all costs. But after I published my first book, I was asked to speak to a writer's group, and even though the thought of doing so made me sick to my stomach, I knew I had to do it for the sake of my career -- and for my own personal growth. And so I wrote a speech and I practiced giving it. Again. And again. And again. I stood in my office when nobody was home and pretended I was in front of an audience. I spoke out loud. When I finished, I started over again, repeating the process until I could ad lib and my notes were just a crutch for me to rely on in case I stumbled.

On the day of the presentation, I arrived early to get a feel for the room. I pretended to be calm, but inside, I was screaming, "What have I done!" Fifteen minutes before I was "on," I went to the restroom, barricaded myself in a stall and did deep breathing exercises to steady my racing heart, telling myself "you can do this," assuring myself how great I was going to be, that what I said was bound to help at least one writer in the audience in some way and make all the angst I was suffering worthwhile. I'm happy to report that the talk went well. I enjoyed myself. The next time I was asked to give a presentation, I repeated the above process, but it was all a little easier, a little less terrifying and time consuming. And each successive time was easier still.

Today I absolutely love giving workshops, teaching writing and creativity classes, and talking to writers, readers and students. It enriches my life. I never would've known that and would've missed out on so much if I hadn't stepped out of my comfort zone back when I sold my first book!

The point of all this? Recently, when I was asked to do two squirm-inducing things that, in the past, I've tried to avoid like a visit to the dentist, I said, "Sure, why not?" The first was an interview for the blog radio show A Book and A Chat, with host, Barry Eva. (You can't practice for an interview. Who knows what the host will ask? Besides, my West Texas accent makes Reba McEntire sound like a Yankee.What if Barry Eva can't understand me, or me him? His English accent is as pronounced as my Texas one.) The second was a video of me talking about writing for the Texas Library Association's Spirit of Texas Reading Program. (I'm hyper-critical of myself on camera. I make funny, twitchy faces.) What the heck. I did the interview and the video anyway. And I had fun!

What's the moral of this story? Push yourself to do something uncomfortable from time-to-time. As long as it's something positive, you'll learn and grow. You'll feel a sense of accomplishment. You might help or inspire someone. Chances are you'll have a great time and find out that you love doing whatever it is that once made you break out in a cold, clammy sweat just thinking about it.

A Book and a Chat with Jennifer Archer 

Spirit of Texas Reading Program/Jennifer Archer



Jennifer Archer's next YA novel, The Shadow Girl, will be released from Harper Teen 4/9/2013 and is available now for pre-order. Her book on the creativity/happiness connection, Happiness Rehab: 8 Creative Steps to a More Joyful Life is available now on Amazon. Her Samhain Retro-Romance novella, Breaking the Rules, will be available this month (11/20) as an ebook. Visit Jennifer's websites http://www.jenniferarcher.com/ and http://www.happinessrehab.com for more information.